“Oh.” She blinks away the last hint of emotion from her eyes. “Nice.”
Nice?
She turns her attention to Nana Rosie. “Nana, Mom and Dad want to have drinks by the firepit while we wait to eat.”
Nana Rosie groans. “I guess it won’t really matter if I have to take my medication late. What do doctors know about blood sugar anyway?”
“First, why do we have to wait? Smith’s across the street. He’ll be here any minute. And two, did you completely miss the part where I just told you that I’m engaged?”
“I’m going to excuse myself to the kitchen, girls,” Nana Rosie says. “Maybe there’s a garnish or two back there that Marie forgot to use that can stave off my diabetic coma.”
She saunters off to the kitchen like a cat ready to dip its paw into a bucket of cream.
“Since when did Nana Rosie become diabetic?” I ask.
“She’s not.” Phoebe tucks a short lock of blond hair behind her ear. “She’s just dramatic.”
I wait for Phoebe to acknowledge my questions, but she doesn’t. Instead she busies herself with rolled silverware on the buffet table, unrolling perfectly fine rolls only to reroll them again. My frustration grows with every second that goes by and with each rolling and unrolling of cutlery. Why is she being so weird about this? Scratch that. Why is she being so rude? She likes Smith. He’s a great guy, and he makes me happy. After the hell I went through at Princeton and with disappointing Mom and Dad, she of all people should want me to be happy.
When she starts rearranging the flowers, my anger moves from a simmer to a full-out boil. “Phoebe, did my engagement ring do something to piss you off?”
“Great. More drama,” she deadpans. “No, Penny. I’m not mad that you’re getting engaged.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Phoebe plucks a dying chrysanthemum from the arrangement. She eyes the dead flower in her hand, as if she’s deep in thought and carefully considering her words. It’s like she’s not sure whether she wants to tell me what’s gotten her so worked up, and it’s in that moment that I realize exactly how far apart we’ve grown.
“Just say it, Phoebe.” I rest my hand on top of hers and the dead flower. “I don’t want to spend this weekend fighting.”
“I invited a friend.” She clears her throat, eyes still focused on the flower. “A colleague, actually.”
“A colleague?” I waggle my eyebrows. “Oh my god, are you dating someone? Why didn’t you tell me? Is it serious? Who is she? Tell me—”
“Penny, stop!” she snaps at me. It catches me off guard. Phoebe’s plenty moody, but she’s not the type to raise her voice without reason. “It’s a colleague, OK. I don’t have time to date or look for a relationship. I’ve got a career and a life that I’m trying to build for myself, and I don’t need you causing a scene at another Thanksgiving that will derail all of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The woman I’ve invited over is Caroline Winston. She’s the dean of admissions of one of the most exclusive business cohorts and master’s programs at Oxford.”
Now it’s my turn to stare blankly. “So?”
“So, you have to be invited to join the program, and I want to make a good impression on her.” She sighs in exasperation. “Dad didn’t set this up for me. I did. I’m the one who found out she’d be doing a lecture series at UCLA in November, and I’m the one who invited her over when I realized she wasn’t flying out until Friday. Everything that happens at this dinner table today is a reflection of me, not Dad.”
My blood has moved from boiling to scorched earth. “And you think that me getting engaged will make you look bad?”
“No.” She pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to stave off the giant headache that this conversation is bound to give her. “I’m just saying it’s very likely that Mom and Dad are going to say something about your engagement that will upset you, even if they don’t mean to. You’ll overreact, which will inevitably lead to an argument. You’ll storm out like you always do, and the rest of the meal will be painfully awkward, which is going to be the lasting impression Caroline Winston has of me.”
I don’t know what to say, and I don’t think I’ve ever been speechless with Phoebe. She’s embarrassed of me. Me. Not Dad and his obsession with business and status. Not Mom and her unrelenting need to play matchmaker. Hell, I don’t even think Nana Rosie’s naked moon dancing would embarrass Phoebe the way she’s worried I will.