42. Hunter

We're all seated around the table.

A singular table in the middle of a ballroom.

Where we've been summoned to celebrate the upcoming nuptials of our parents.

My mother's to my left, but she hasn't so much as glanced at me since we've been seated.

Gary, a.k.a. Dr. Ferguson, a.k.a. my boyfriend's father, is sitting to her left and hasn't taken his eyes off her.

He has a friend on his other side. Phil, I think? His best friend from college, apparently. He flew in from Cleveland for the occasion. Two girls about my age, his daughters, are next. They're both wearing pretty dresses, and they've done their hair and makeup in a way that indicates they knew they were attending a special event tonight.

And then there's Greedy.

I can feel his eyes on me.

I can feel the longing rolling off him as I do everything in my power to avoid meeting his gaze.

Levi's between us.

I've never been more grateful to have Levi by my side.

He nudges my knee under the table when a question has been directed at me or when I should acknowledge a comment. He whispers soft reminders and quiet instructions throughout the meal.

Take a sip of water.

Pick up your salad fork.

Raise your glass for the toast.

My insides are twisted into a knot of physical and emotional pain. I have to remind myself to inhale, then to let the breath out a few seconds later. I'm shocked and overwhelmed, exhausted and woozy. I'm struggling in ways I didn't know were possible.

Layers of nausea have built up inside me, both for physical reasons and because my body is working to accept what my brain refuses to acknowledge.

My mom is getting married.

My mom is getting remarried.

My mom is going to marry the father of the boy I love.

"Breathe," Levi whispers again.

I blink.

Wait, no. That's not what he said.

I exhale.

There it is.

As the carbon dioxide whooshes from my body, another excruciating cramp takes over, and I swear I can feel blood pooling between my thighs. The pad should hold, but I've placed a napkin beneath me in case I bleed through all the layers and my dress. Wouldn't want to stain the cream upholstery, considering we'll be back here for the actual wedding.

Levi gently squeezes my thigh. Then he massages my kneecap.

"Look up and smile," he murmurs, pretending to glance over his shoulder and wave to somebody behind us in the process.

It's a ruse. He doesn't know anyone here aside from the people sitting around this table. He's wearing cargo shorts and a turquoise polo, though he's ditched his signature denim cap, the one he put on my head before I drifted off this afternoon.

Greedy clears his throat across the table. Again. No doubt trying to garner my attention.

I keep my focus fixed on the plate in front of me.

Using the tines of my fork, I create a crisscross pattern in the ranch dressing on top of each tomato. The dressing was served in a miniature silver gravy boat. Every person in the room has one in front of them.

Who has to wash each individual boat at the end of the night? It seems like a tedious task.

I'm dotting dressing on the last tomato on my plate when the conversation around me catches my attention.

"We can't wait to honeymoon in Europe," my mother says. Her voice is higher pitched than normal, with a honeyed drawl I've never heard her use before.

I snap my head to one side and stare at her. "You're going to Europe?"

It shouldn't surprise me that this is the first I'm hearing of it.

"Oh, Hunter," my mother says, using a sweet tone I haven't heard from her in years. "I've been meaning to tell you all the details. I've just been so swept up with the move, and you've been so busy getting ready for college."

I've been home alone more often than not this summer.

I didn't mind.

But our lack of quality time has nothing to do with me.

Her back-and-forth attitude toward me is giving me emotional whiplash. Usually I grin and bear it. It's easier that way. But as I sit here, detached and bleeding, desperate and dizzy with exhaustion, I can't do it. I'm done. I'm numb and I'm grieving and I want this nightmare of a night to be over.

That's the only explanation for what comes out of my mouth next.

"Does your husband know you'll be in Europe soon? Do you plan to meet up, since he's over there, too?"

"Hunter St. Clair," she hisses in a tone that turns my blood cold. "Manners." Her face pinches like she's squashing the impulse to put me in my place.

I shift back on instinct, though I doubt she'll physically grab me in front of an audience.

All eyes are on her now, which she realizes a few seconds too late. She straightens and clears her throat. Then her polished mask slips into place and her voice returns to that gratingly high octave.

"Yes, your father is aware of my impending nuptials." She smooths her hair, looking shyly toward Dr. Ferguson before setting her sights back on me. "I was willing to concede on some points of our mediation to keep the process moving. Everything will be finalized by next week."

This is news to me. My dad is the one who initially asked for the divorce. She was the one dragging it out, making it exceptionally difficult.

A lot of what they've argued about revolves around me.

My college fund will cover my tuition in full, and my dad's mother left me a small inheritance. My dad has been direct depositing money into a personal savings account for me all my life.

More recently, he's been giving me an additional monthly allowance. He doesn't want me to have to worry about working while I'm in school.

The issue is that my mom can't weaponize me against him, no matter how hard she tries. There's no custody to battle over, nor can she pad her requests for spousal support under the guise of raising a child.

Greedy clears his throat again. "When is all of this happening?" His voice is even, practiced. If I didn't know him the way I do, I would assume he was making casual conversation.

When I chance a quick look at him out of the corner of my eye, the muscles in his jaw are working overtime, jumping and reacting with each passing second.

It dawns on me then that he's just finding out all these details, too.

"We're getting married Labor Day weekend," Dr. Ferguson replies. "I checked the academic calendars for both your schools," he quickly assures us. Then he turns to me, sitting straight and wearing a look of pride. "Garrett is going to South Chapel University. He's been offered a student-athlete scholarship and a spot in the honors program."

Greedy offers his dad a tense smile. "How long will you be in Europe?"

"I'll only be gone a week or so. I'll be back in town before the first football game," he assures his son. "I plan to travel with Magnolia and get her settled, then I'll visit as my schedule allows."

"I've always dreamed of an extended vacation in Europe," my mom says dreamily.

"So you'll be gone for most of the fall?" I can't help but feel jilted by the total lack of consideration and communication around this charade.

"Don't worry," Dr. Ferguson says, clearly under the impression that I can be reassured in this moment. "We'll make sure everything's taken care of before we leave for Europe. I'll set up an account with our banker for you next week. Then I'll email you the details about how to access it. You'll have a credit card, of course. Your mother and I want you to be focused on school. Your mother tells me you want to be an accountant."

"She wants to be a lawyer," Greedy corrects.

All eyes land on him. That's not something he should know about me if we've only just met. Mercifully, southern manners and niceties prevail. No one asks Greedy how he knows I want to be a lawyer. In fact, our parents don't even pause long enough to give me an opportunity to confirm or deny my own future career path.

"Maybe Garrett can help you get things situated," Dr. Ferguson suggests. "I'd like you to get to know each other, spend a little time together before you go off to school."

Without my permission, my eyes flit up to Greedy's.

For the first time since we were seated, I let him see me. I let him really see me. As I look at him, I silently plead with him to see how sorry I am about all of it. How sorry I am about what has to happen next.

Because my heart's breaking as I sit here physically and metaphorically bleeding out.

This is a nightmare I never could have imagined possible.

This is hopeless. There's no way out; no way forward.

Everything I love leaves.

Greedy's expression doesn't reflect any of the same emotions I'm feeling. He looks angry. He also looks resolved.

Pressure accumulates behind my eyes as realization dawns on me.

We're not on the same page.

We're the farthest thing from it.

I'm trying to hold it together, mourning not one, but two losses today.

He's determined, relentless, tenacious.

I can see it in his eyes.

I can see it in his posture.

I know him too well.

He loves me too much.

Greedy thinks there's a solution to this.

He thinks we're going to figure this out.

He's wrong.

I was going to love him forever, only forever isn't an option anymore.

The tears well again.

I do my best to stop them, minimize them, will them away. I blink rapidly, fighting them back before they can leak out of my eyes and wreck the mascara clinging to the tips of my lashes.

"Excuse me," I breathe out. Then I stand and retreat slowly, desperate to get away from it all.