Page 62 of The Deception: Hercules Valentine and I

Hercules rubs the back of his neck as he stretches it from side to side.

The silence between them lingers long enough to even make me feel awkward.

“What time are you planning on arriving tomorrow evening? There are people I want you to meet.”

He looks more confused. “Tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, darling. You don’t remember my party?”

He closes his eyes for a second to sigh contritely. “Shit. Yes, tomorrow night. Of course I’m coming,” he says with an earnest scowl. “You know I wouldn’t miss your birthday party.”

I’m shocked he said “shit”to his mother. I could never use that word in my mom’s presence.

“Are you bringing a plus-one?” she asks.

He glances at me, and I try not to look terrified at the thought of meeting his mother. Going to the party with him would be a mistake. His mother’s birthday party would be the worst place to be recognized as Paisley Grove.

“It depends,” he says.

I balance getting an eyeful of Hercules’s neighborhood and listening to every word spoken between mother and son. He lives on Billionaires’ Row, a few blocks away from Central Park.

“Depends on what?” she asks as he makes a right turn into the entrance of the parking garage of a building so tall clouds hover around its peak.

I clutch the handle as he speeds through the tight space.

“On whether you’re trying to set me up,” he says.

“We've tried that before, haven't we?”

Hercules sighs impatiently. I reflect on when I saw his ex-fiancée’s name on his cellphone after we had sex that day in Boston.If only I could accompany him to that party. But I can’t.

“Mother, it’s late. I’ll see you tomorrow. And if you try setting me up, I’m leaving.”

“Duly noted.”

“I mean it.”

“Good night, Hercules.” There’s a dismissiveness in her tone. I don’t even believe that she’s going to keep her word. “I’ll see you tomorrow, without a date.”

The call ends. A door finishes rolling up, and he drives into another garage. It’s all pretty fancy, actually, and I would remark about it, but I’m still rattled by his call with his mother.

He hasn’t asked for my hand back as the car is being lifted up. I’m in sensory overload. I’ve never been in an elevator for a car. My parents would never indulge themselves with this sort of contraption. But I like it.

“Tomorrow’s your mother’s birthday?” I ask, trying to gauge where he’s at emotionally.

“Yes,” he says with a sigh.

I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me to go with him. I would turn him down, but I thought at least he would ask me. He’s staring straight ahead.

“You don’t want to go?” I ask.

“Not really.”

“But you have to?”

He glances at me and, after a moment, smiles faintly. “Yeah.”

The car stops, and he fiddles with some controls. It’s so strange how fast his entire demeanor changed after a conversation with his mother. My mom doesn’t have that effect on Max. My brother and mother have their own special bond. When I was in high school, Max used to call my mom, and they’d be talking on the phone for hours about everything from the day’s news to how she should structure her next colloquium. A call from my mom never rattles Max. I think it’s because she doesn’t dig into his personal life.