concerned warmth caressed my suddenly icy skin, and the even rise and fall of his chest steadied some of my nerves.
I’d thought his presence at dinner would throw me off-kilter, but it was doing the exact opposite.
I couldn’t say the same for my parents, though. My father’s skin had leached of color, and my mother’s mouth formed a surprised red O. It took a lot to surprise Jarvis and Mika Alonso, and a crazy, inane part of me wanted to whip out my phone and record the moment for posterity. “I told them it must be a mistake.” Natalia’s eyes pinned me like a bug to the ground. “There’s no way you got fired and didn’t tell us. Right, Stella?” Regret coated the back of my tongue in the form of bile. The urge to lie again was so great it almost dragged me under its spell, but I couldn’t keep up the charade forever. Eventually, they’d discover the truth. It was time to stop hiding and own up to what happened. “It wasn’t a mistake. I’m not working at D.C. Style anymore.” Every syllable scraped my throat on its way out. “I got fired in mid-February.” Silence clung to the room for another beat before it exploded into curses and shouts. “Mid-February!
How could you keep this from us for so long?” my mother demanded in Japanese. She grew up in Kyoto and reverted to her first language whenever she was upset. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” I answered in English. I hadn’t practiced Japanese in years, but its lilt was so familiar I felt like I was sitting in weekend school again. My parents had been too busy to teach me and Natalia the formalities, so they’d enrolled us in Spanish, German, and Japanese classes when we were children. They said it was to help us connect with our mixed heritage, but I suspected it had more to do with the fact foreign language proficiency looked good on college applications. “And what have you been doing all this time?” The quiet rumble of my father’s anger seeped into every corner of the room. “You haven’t found a new job in two months?” I twisted my necklace around my finger until it cut off my circulation. Cool, calm, collected. “I haven’t applied for another office job. I earn a lot of money from my blog, and I just signed a campaign deal with a big brand. Six figures. I’m earning a full-time income.”
“Perhaps, but it’s not a stable income.” Jarvis pressed his lips so tightly together they were nothing but a slash of white against his brown skin. “What happens when the deals dry up? Or if you lose your account? What about an emergency fund? How much do you have in savings?”
He fired the questions like bullets. “I…” I glanced at Christian, who tipped his chin in a silent show of support. His expression was placid, but something turbulent lurked beneath his eyes. A shiver scampered down my spine before I faced the firing squad again. “I don’t plan on becoming a full-time influencer. I actually…” Just say it. “I’m going to create my own designs.
For a fashion line. And I have a bit of savings left, but I’ll replenish it once I get my next payment for the Delamonte campaign.” A guillotine of silence hung suspended over the table before it sliced through the air and triggered another explosion. “You cannot be serious!” Mika gripped her fork with a white-knuckled hand. “A fashion designer? Stella, you graduated from Thayer.
You can be anything! Why in the world would you choose design?” My father was stuck on the other part of my bombshell. “What do you mean, you have a bit of savings left? Where did the rest of it go?” Sweat dampened the nape of my neck. Go big or go home. My parents were already pissed at me. I might as well rip the Band-Aid off my other secret and deal with the consequences all at once. “I’ve been paying for Maura’s care at an assisted living facility.” I released my necklace and tucked my hands beneath my thighs to prevent them from shaking,
but my right knee bounced with nerves. It was a good thing my mom couldn’t see, or she’d yell at me for that too. According to Japanese superstitions, shaking one’s leg invited the ghosts of poverty or something like that. It was one of my mother’s biggest pet peeves. “She has Alzheimer’s,” I continued. My hand curled around the edge of the chair for support. “I’ve been paying her room and board for the past few years. That’s where most of my money has gone.”
This time, the silence wasn’t a blade; it was a boa constrictor wrapping itself around my limbs and strangling me until my breaths puffed out in tiny bursts of air. My mother paled until she resembled a paper cutout of herself.
“Why would you do that?” “Because she has no one else, Mom. She took care of me—” “She is not family,” Mika bit out. “We’re grateful for the years she spent with you girls, and I understand why you have an attachment to her. But she hasn’t been your nanny in more than a decade, and you aren’t swimming in money, Stella. You’re unemployed, for Christ’s sake. Even when you worked at D.C. Style, your salary was pitiful. Spending tens of thousands of dollars a year caring for a former family employee when you’re not financially stable is the most irresponsible, foolish—” Anger lit a match in my stomach and eradicated every ounce of guilt over my lies. I hated how my parents dismissed Maura as a mere former family employee when she’d been so much more. She’d sung me to sleep as a child, guided me through the turbulent years of puberty, and weathered the storm of my early high school angst with remarkable patience.
She’d been there for every skinned knee and every teenage heartbreak, and she deserved more than a passing acknowledgment for all she’d done. Without her, my parents wouldn’t be where they are today. She’d kept the household together while they built their careers into legends. “Maura is family. She was more of a mother to me than you ever were!” The words burst forth before I could stop them. Natalia’s gasp drowned out the clatter of her fork against her plate. She hadn’t said a word since she outed my firing from D.C. Style, but her eyes were the size of saucers as she gaped at me. Neither of us had talked back to our parents since our rebellious teenage years. Even then, our rebellion had been mild—a snarky comment here, a night of sneaking out to a friend’s party there. We weren’t the poster children for bad behavior, but I…oh God. I’d basically told my mother she was a shitty mom. In front of a guest and the rest of our family. At dinner. The pasta I ate earlier churned in my stomach, and I faced the very real possibility that I might throw up all over Mika’s favorite Wedgwood set. My mother reeled like I’d just backhanded her. If she’d been pale before, she was a ghost now, her cheeks completely blanched of color like someone had sucked the life out of her.
For once, Mika Alonso, one of the most feared attorneys in the city, the woman who had an answer for every question and a rebuttal for every argument, was speechless. I wished I felt good about it, but all I felt was nausea. I didn’t want to hurt her. I hadn’t expected my words to hurt her because they’d been so obvious. My mother had never been around when I was a child. She’d once joked herself that Maura was our surrogate mother. But there was no denying the hurt filling her eyes and twisting her face into an unrecognizable version of itself. Beside her, my father’s face was unrecognizable as well, except his was dark with barely leashed fury.