love with Zeus here? Because, while we do share a bed on occasion, his rank morning breath doesn’t do it for me.” I give her a sarcastic smile.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Weston,” she chides.
I lean toward her. “What’s ridiculous is your friends and their unusual occupation with my social life. It’s completely normal for a man over the age of thirty to be single. Hell, I don’t know if I even want to be married.”
She looks at me, aghast. “Why wouldn’t you want to get married?”
“Because you and Dad are so happy?” I shoot back. “Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the two of you never exactly set a shining example of a happy marriage. You’re more like a walking advertisement for why you shouldn’t get married.”
She blinks repeatedly, incensed at the idea of anyone questioning her. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
She hesitates, pinching her thin, pink lips together, debating her next statement. “Well, if you must know, Helena Beaumont said something this morning that caught my attention.”
“I’m sure this will be life-changing.”
“She mentioned she saw you at the art museum yesterday.”
My face heats, my expression falling. I have a feeling I know where this conversation is headed, and I don’t like it. “That sounds right,” I respond evenly. “I was there.”
She edges closer, her voice low. “She also said you were with a woman. A negro.”
I narrow my gaze on her, my stare turning icy. “Mother, I’m fairly certain that term went out of style four or five decades ago. And that negro, as you put it, is a wonderful woman named Londyn. I’d appreciate it if you used her name.”
Her eyes widen, face blanching. “So you’re not denying it then?”
“Denying what?” I lean against the island, acting as cavalier as possible, knowing it will piss her off even more.
“Are you carrying on with her?” she whispers, as if the mere idea makes it difficult for her to speak.
With a smirk, I grab one of the coffee mugs and bring it to my lips. “Define carrying on.”
“Did you get lost?” a soft voice interrupts.
My mother and I simultaneously dart our attention toward the hallway, the padding of delicate footsteps growing closer.
“We were supposed to spend all day in bed together. You’re really cutting into our naked—”
As Londyn rounds the corner and sees I’m not alone, she comes to an abrupt stop, inhaling sharply. At least she had the wherewithal to grab one of my button-down shirts and slipped it on. Otherwise, this probably would have been more awkward than it already is. But I don’t care about making my mother comfortable. I’m no longer interested in putting her happiness above my own. That ship has sailed.
Giving Londyn a reassuring smile, I grab her coffee and hand it to her. A dozen questions swirl in her eyes, but the last thing I want is for her to doubt the promises I made last night.
I place a kiss on her forehead, then wrap an arm around her and pull her close, much to my mother’s astonishment.
“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Londyn Bennett. She’s the interior designer I hired to restore Gampy and Meemaw’s ‘shack’, as you call it, although I’d be hard-pressed to call the place of so many wonderful memories a ‘shack’. She’s also my girlfriend.”
I take a sip of coffee, gauging both Londyn’s and my mother’s reaction. I’m more concerned with Londyn’s, though, considering we haven’t exactly discussed any labels.
“Your…girlfriend?” My mother grimaces, as if the word leaves a sour taste on her tongue.
“Yes. Although, if I’m being honest, the term feels woefully inadequate to properly convey what Londyn has become to me.” I smile down at her, ignoring the heated stare coming from a few feet away.
“But what will people think, Weston?” my mother hisses, forcing my attention back to her. “Think about the firm.”
“The firm?” I ask, unsure I heard her correctly.
“What will some of our clients think if they learned you’re dating a…a…”
Muscles tensing, I tighten my grip on Londyn when she attempts to slink away. I knew I’d eventually have to face this. After all, the family my mother married into has never exactly been accepting of anyone who isn’t white. Some of them probably wouldn’t object if we re-instituted slavery. But I’d hoped she would wait to voice her ill-placed concerns until we were in private. Then again, nothing should surprise me with her anymore.
“A what, Mother? A beautiful, smart, kind, compassionate, amazing woman?”