Moving toward the door, she calls out, “And Siobhan. . .” I stop, looking back at her over my shoulder. Her eyes stay fixed on the Hudson as she speaks. “You'll wear your yellow Carolina Herrera dress tomorrow, too.”
I'm not a god damn doll! I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but I don't. I do what I always do and hold it in. Maybe it's my fault she treats me this way. Maybe I should have stood up to her more as a child. Told her no more. Expressed myself louder and more fiercely.
It's too late now for anything to change. All I'll ever be to her is a porcelain doll she gets to dress and manipulate however she wants. Who cares what I want? Right?
Without a word to her, I walk down the hall, through our living room and down another long hallway to my bedroom. Most people might think of the city as knit up tight like a sweater. Layer on top of layer, all squished together like a colony of ants. But not us, not our family with our four thousand square foot penthouse on the upper West Side. One whole side of our home is a wall of windows, and everything is so damn white. My mother loves sleek and clean.
White furniture, white rugs, white cabinets and counters, it's too much. She adds her pops of color with flowers and huge abstract statues she picks up at expensive auctions for the elite. Most come from someone's personal collection, and probably belong in a museum.
The sad part is she doesn't even know who any of the artists are. Her purchases are for status, and the higher the cost, the better it must be.
Closing the door behind me as I enter my room, I exhale a heavy breath and fall on my bed. Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I check it to see if Mark tried to call or text me.
He hasn't, and it saddens me. I haven't heard from him at all today, and after how long we talked last night, I kind of thought I would have by now. When I woke up with a dead phone on my bed, I kept thinking he would call me the second he got up.
It's already eleven in the morning, and nothing. Setting the phone back down, I lay my hands over my face and close my eyes. Mark's face emerges easily with that sweet little smile of his, and his bold brown eyes. So dark, so dirty, so easy to get lost in.
My hands flutter down my throat, softly touching, caressing, reminding me of how much I enjoyed when he touched me with his rough farm hands. Calloused and stained, with cracks in his skin and sandpaper texture, his tenderness was surprising.
The intercom from front lobby buzzes, causing me to jump out of bed and sprint down the hall. Calling out into the empty house, I yell, “I'll get it!” I press the button and speak. “Yes?”
“Ms. Andrews, there's someone here to see you.”
“Me?” I ask.
“Yes, Ms. Andrews. He says his name is Mark. I've never seen him before, but he claims he knows you. I tried to send him away, but he's pretty adamant you two know each other.”
Mark? Is he really here?
“Ms. Andrews?”
I'm in shock, excited, over the moon, type of shock. Smiling to myself, I feel giddy all over that he's here.
“Hello? Ms. Andrews? Do you want me to send him away?”
“No, no, send him up,” I answer quickly before the doorman gives him the boot. He will, too. He doesn't take shit from anyone. Cross him and you'll be speaking through a wired jaw, drinking liquid dinners.
“All right, he's on his way.”
My palms are sweaty, and my heart is ready to jump out of my chest. Pacing in a small circle, I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. Shaking my hands at my sides, I swallow hard.
There's a knock on the door, and I don't even wait until the last tap before I'm tearing it open. A big smile spreads across my face as I see him standing there. In a button-up shirt and dark jeans, his hair is loose, covering his eyes as it falls into his face.
“Hey,” he says, running his hand across the back of his neck.
I want to jump in his arms and kiss him, and I'm about to as my muscles tremble, eager to shoot forward. My fingers itch at my sides, desperately begging to tangle in his hair.
“Hi.” The single word fumbles out from me, breathy and fast.
We're staring at each other, eyes frozen. Licking my lips, I take one step forward, ready to show him how happy I am that he's here, but I'm quickly stopped in my tracks.
“Siobhan, who's at the door?” My mother rounds the corner, stopping behind me and folding stiff arms over her chest. “And why does he have a suitcase? What's going on here?”
“Oh, um, well. . . Mom, this is Mark. Mark, this is my mother, Bernadette Andrews.”
“Dr. Bernadette Andrews,” she says, correcting me.
“Nice to meet you, Ma'am.” He tips his head respectively, but she barely bats an eye. It doesn't matter how polite he is, I already know what's running through her head.
Her eyes roll up and down his body, evaluating where he stands in society. Is he rich, poor, somewhere in the middle? Is he a man who's been bred with regal influences? Or is he just a boy pretending to be someone important?
She studies how he's holding himself, her gaze shifting to his hands and feet. His back should be straight, his smile neutral, but pleasant. His hair should be cut and combed appropriately, and he should have the aroma of expensive cologne radiating from his body.
Mark has none of what she's looking for, and I see the realization and disappointment in her face as her lips fold down into a thick scowl, and her eyes narrow with repulsion.
“He's a friend of Jenna's husband, his best friend, actually. Jenna's known him for years, they all grew up together.”
“Jenna. . .” Her voice is cold and harsh. “Jenna, the girl who abandoned her family for the hicks, that Jenna? I told you I didn't want you going to her wedding, but did you listen to me? No. Now there's some man at our door. See what happens when you mingle with those people?”
Those people? How can she say such terrible, degrading things to someone she doesn't even know?
My eyes expand wide, and my brain is rushing to come up with an explanation she'll accept. “No, Mom, you're seeing this all wrong. Mark owns his own business and was coming to the city for a few meetings with his business partners. He's always done his business meetings virtually; he's never had the chance to come to the city until now. So, I thought it would only be gracious for us to open our home to him and show him around a little. I'm sorry, I meant to tell you but you I forgot.”
“You forgot,” she says, leaning her head to one side. “It just slipped your mind to let me know that you invited some man to stay with us?”
“I'm sorry, I really am. But with school and all the obligations we've had lately, it completely slipped my mind.”
My mother grumbles as she rolls her eyes, fanning her hand for him to come inside. “You know, I'd really appreciate it if you don't forget to tell me these things. You know we have a tight schedule as is, and entertaining a house guest isn't something you just spring on us.” She walks through the living room, talking to Mark with her head set forward. “What is it you do, Mark?”
Glancing at Mark, he gives me wide eyes. But he doesn't say anything to contradict the story I gave my mother, instead he helps fuel the lie. “I'm a mechanical engineer, Ma'am.”