Page 69 of Vows We Never Made

With her mom talking the ear off of mine, though, it doesn’t look like there’s any way I’ll make her relax anytime soon.

“She just bombarded me with a bunch of questions. I didn’t know how to answer anything. I’m not a great liar, Ethan.” She looks down at her lap, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt. “Then I got flustered because—what am I supposed to tell her? I let it slip that I was meeting your parents, and now we’re here.”

“You’re not telling her the truth?” I ask too harshly.

“No way,” she says too quickly. “Definitely not. She’d eat me alive.”

“Good,” I growl. “As long as we have an understanding and maintain total opsec.”

The hate she smiles back almost makes me laugh.

I remember it’s not just my parents we need to convince, but Julia barely notices us, already looking like she’s made herself at home.

Later, we find out she drove down from Portland ahead of us. There’s damn near nothing that would’ve stopped her from being here.

Hattie’s her only daughter, don’t you know.

Dad makes himself useful today, keeping the drinks flowing throughout this torture session. I grab the bottle on our end of the table and fill Hattie’s wineglass to the brim.

She grabs the stem like it’s a lifeline and sucks it down so fast I almost laugh.

“If you want the full medicinal effect, you have to pace yourself,” I mutter.

Ares, finally bored from Mom’s needy scratches, waddles over and collapses at my feet with a loud groan.

I give him a knowing look. He’s perfectly positioned for table scraps.

Pretty sure this bottomless pit with ears that reach the floor has chowed down on more fine food in his lifetime than eighty percent of the human population.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Hattie whispers, shaking her head.

“Be glad they’re not looking at us.” I nod at our parents, lost in conversation. Mom leaves Julia awed, talking about their last trip to Greece.

The chef emerges soon with his creations, laying them out on the table. All the classics are here and I can’t complain—gyoza, milk bread, and hibachi fried rice with a half dozen fresh sushi rolls and neatly arranged sashimi. Piles of tempura, golden brown and cooked to perfection. Hot rocks waiting for small cuts of A5 wagyu on demand.

Julia dominates the conversation, even when she’s gushing about my parents’ travels and their recent charity work in rainforest preservation.

Charity.

It’s obvious she hasn’t done her research if she’s this easily impressed—my parents love to pretend they’re fighters for a cause, campaigning for the end of deforestation or whatever it is this time, but really, it’s just another excuse to travel without other rich people nagging about their carbon footprint.

This time, it was a glorified glamping trip to Thailand and Vietnam.

Hattie lingers beside me, mostly silent. I’m content to keep quiet too, enjoying the feast and feeding Ares’ greedy mouth small scraps under the table.

His tail thumps the floor like a drumstick.

The old beast is the happiest one here by far, easily satisfied.

He’s not so bad when he’s fed, though. I could’ve inherited a far worse dog.

I ignore the way Mom’s eyes stab me every time Julia Sage stops talking to inhale more rice and wine. Someone could care less about her carb intake today.

I also notice the way Julia kicks Hattie’s leg under the table.

She leans over and mouths a few hurried words, looking pointedly at Hattie’s half-full plate, and it only takes me a second to figure out what she’s signaling.

Watch your portion.