The Paradise Problem (47)

“Well.” I look around the room, grateful that Jamie has fully disappeared into the crowd. “He didn’t need to comment on your skill with your hands.”

“Maybe he just meant I made good coffee mugs in pottery class.”

“Do you think that’s what he meant?”

She laughs, lifting her drink to her lips. Her voice echoes a little when she says, “No, probably not. I do make a great clay mug, though.”

“Liam!” my mother crows, approaching with two glasses of champagne. “I have been trying to make my way across the room for ages!” She hands me a flute and I expect her to hand the other to Anna, but instead she lifts it to toast only me. “To your anniversary!”

Pointedly, I hand the flute to Anna, who I realize is unfortunately now double-fisting it with her mostly full vodka tonic. With an annoyed glance at me, Mom passes me her flute, and snags one off the tray of a passing caterer.

“I’d forgotten the date, since we never see you together,” Mom says, “and when Charlie reminded us tonight, I just thought, ‘Oh, we must have a party!’?”

“We have a trip planned,” I lie. “Anna and I will make a big deal out of it together, but we don’t need anything else, truly.”

“It would mean a lot to your father and me. He insisted we add something to the wedding itinerary.”

I laugh. “Mom, it’s already packed.”

“We can squeeze in another party.”

“There’s no—”

Anna cuts me off. “Janet, that would be amazing. Thank you. There are never enough celebrations in life, isn’t that right?”

My mom turns her eyes on Anna as if she’d forgotten she was here. “Especially on someone else’s dime, I suppose!”

Ice-cold mortification washes me out. “Mom.”

She lightly smacks my arm. “I’m just teasing her. I mean, truly, why not fold it into the wedding festivities? It’s a great idea, and Charlie wouldn’t mind sharing the spotlight.”

Anna is flushed red, visibly humiliated.

“Mom,” I say, “you suggested it. She’s just agre—”

“Liam,” my dad cuts in, suddenly appearing at my side. “Son, I need you for a minute. I’ve got the senior editor of Forbes over there—”

“Ray, honey,” Mom says quietly. “Do we have to do this tonight? It’s a party.”

“I’m holding a glass of champagne,” my father says irritably. “What the hell else do you need me to do?”

“That’s my husband, always working. Even at his only daughter’s wedding…”

I smile with false warmth at my father, but my pulse is still thundering over what my mother did. “We were just talking about the anniversary party you want to throw us.”

Dad squints. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Mom threads her arm through his. “Raymond. Didn’t you hear Charlie just now? Liam and Anna are coming up on five years married.”

My dad snorts into his champagne glass. “Call me at twenty. If you’re still sharing a bed, then we’ll throw you a party.”

“Oh God,” Anna exhales. Against me, she’s shaking from the tension.

Mom does a double take when a catering cart passes, full of some non–Weston brand soft drinks. “Mystic Cooler? Not on my fucking watch,” she growls, stalking off after it.

“Liam.” Dad claps a hand on my back. “Follow me.”

He turns without waiting and I look down at Anna and her thousand-yard stare.

I reach for her chin, tilting her face to mine. “Hey. You okay?”

Our eyes meet and when she nods, I see how this must be for her. Raised alone by her father, who, I can tell from the way she talks about him, wouldn’t dream of answering even the stupidest of her questions with “The fuck are you talking about?” Would never in his life gaslight her the way my mother just did.

But then, her eyes clear, she straightens, and puts on a brave smile. “I’ll be fine. I’ll go find Blaire or Jake.” She sends her hand down my arm, squeezing my fingers. “Go.”

Without thinking about it, I bend, giving her a soft, brief kiss on the lips. Before she can react, I speak into her ear: “You’re pretty good at this, too.”

Her breath shakes on my neck. “At what?”

“All of it.”





Sixteen


LIAM


There he is,” Dad says by way of greeting. “My middle son, Liam, the future CEO of Weston Foods.”

My heart comes to a sudden, lurching stop, and I’m unsure how to respond in front of the senior editor of Forbes, Ellis Sikora. Throughout my life, Dad has said this to me a hundred times, but given that we haven’t spoken in five years—after the fight about my return to school rather than my return to the family company—any rational person would have assumed he’d have given up on me succeeding him at the top. It’s one thing to hope I’ll come back to Weston Foods; it’s another thing entirely to think I’d ever step into his corrupt shoes.

But of course, most people don’t know my father the way I do.

In the handful of seconds that follow, my brain cycles through a dozen different responses, trying to estimate the public fallout as well as my dad’s reaction to each one. A yes would be binding; a no would make the family gossip fodder and send the stock tanking, not to mention sending my father into a rage in private later. He’s daring me to choose which way I want to drag the razor blade across my throat.