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2 7
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Shredding my father’s dress had gotten easier as the days went on, and
somehow I’d let my confidence with it build up enough to wear it. But as
dinner went on with Selma Quintero to my right and Logan on my left, I
felt as if I’d brought Basile Papillion along for a ride into failure. Then it
got worse.
“Logan tells me you’re an artist,” Selma said to me as the plates were
being cleared.
“Not… no.” I heard my nervous laugh as if I were a separate person,
cringing at the high pitch of my insecurity. “I just tinker around.”
“Oh, dearie,” Mandy said with a sway and a slur. She’d been at the
martinis since we sat down. “She’s Basile’s daughter, so you know—”
Mandy waved at me as if she was about to mention what everyone could
see. “There’s some talent under the hood.”
No pressure.
Mandy was trying to be nice, and I appreciated it, but I also wanted her
to shut the fuck up.
“I was so sorry when I heard about your father.” Selma put her hand
over mine.
I believed she was being completely sincere, but I also didn’t want to
talk about Daddy while I wore his destroyed dress.
“Thank you.” I searched for a change of subject, but everything led to
my father.
Logan must have been reading my mind. He draped his arm around the
back of my chair and leaned toward Mike, cutting the line of the
conversation across the one that was making me so uncomfortable.