Page 84 of The Temporary Fiancée
“Isn’t that Reed Eastwood?
“Like, the hotel chain?”
“From the magazines?”
I do my best to ignore the stares. Reed greets the host, who graciously invites us inside. The main dining room of this place—Reza’s,an upscale place I’ve never even heard of—looks to me like a vast ballroom, dotted with round tables.
As I suspected, Reed’s family is already here; we’re the last ones to arrive, which doesn’t bode well. They’re at a table in the center of the restaurant, directly beneath a crystal chandelier that glints in the low light.
Around the table, aged from the faces I remember, are Reed’s mother, Cecily; his father, Lionel; and his brother, Shane, who I wasn’t expecting to see. Lionel’s gaze slides over me, his eyes narrowed analytically.
“Hi,” I say nervously, lifting my hand to give a tiny wave.
Cecily sniffs, looking at Reed. “You’re late.”
“Sorry about that,” he says, taking the seat beside his brother. “We got held up. Hope we didn’t miss anything too exciting.”
It’s clearly a joke, meant to lighten the mood—a Reed Eastwood special. But it falls flat amidst the tension at this table. Both Cecily and Lionel ignore Reed, as if he didn’t even speak. Shane makes eye contact with his brother briefly, his handsome jaw taut.
I sit down beside Reed, already uncomfortable. When Reed pitched this to me as a “family dinner,” I pictured something waydifferent. A cheerful, boisterous evening. I should’ve factored in the Eastwoods—then I would’ve known what to expect.
“So you’re the fiancé,” says Cecily, without looking at me—she’s busy perusing the menu instead, her sharp fingernails sliding between the pages.
“Um. Yes,” I reply. “That’s me. You might remember me—Reed and I actually knew each other when?—”
Lionel cuts me off. “We know.” His voice is cold.
I feel Reed’s hand resting on my thigh under the table. He gives my leg a reassuring squeeze, like he’s trying to let me know I’m not alone.
Bolstered by his presence, I swallow and say, “That’s—that’s great.”
“So,” Reed says amicably, trying to get the conversation rolling, “how was everyone’s week?”
Cecily speaks first, cutting across Shane. “Abysmal,” she says, closing the menu with a snap. “I learned that Sasha Wainwright—you know, that car CEO’s wife—is throwing a party out in the Hamptons, andIwasn’t invited.”
“Mom, do you even know her?” Reed asks, exasperation tinging his voice. “Maybe she didn’t invite you because it was a private thing.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Cecily scoffs. “These things are never private. I suspect that I wasn’t invited because I wore that gown to that Brooklyn charity event—do you remember that, Lionel?”
“Yes,” says Lionel, who is clearly not paying attention. He alternates between glancing down at the menu and glaring up at me. I fidget in my seat, uncomfortable with his scrutiny.
“She was furious. I upstaged her so thoroughly, in front of so many people.” Cecily sighs deeply, and I have to resist the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust. “But it happens, you know? I don’t see why she’s holding it against me.”
“Sure, Mom,” Reed says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say.”
She doesn’t notice his expression, because she’s still not looking at him.
It strikes me how different this is from any other family dinner. The Eastwoods have never been particularly close to each other, but they’re nothing like my own family; this dinner has none of the warmth and love that our dinners always have.
These four people may be family, but they don’t feel like it in any way I recognize.
Mercifully, the waiter appears to take our orders before we have to sit much longer. Unfortunately, Lionel orders for the entire table, and he does so from the prix-fixe menu—which means that this meal is going to consist of three courses. We’ll be here late into the night.
It rubs me the wrong way that Lionel takes charge like that, too. He makes the decisions for everyone, and nobody challenges him, as if they all expect him to do it and know better than to push back.
I’m already antsy after spending five minutes with the Eastwoods. I’m certainly not looking forward to the rest of the evening.
I wish I could relax a little—this restaurant is beautiful and exclusive, and I can smell the delicious scents wafting from the kitchen, so I know the food is going to be delicious. Lionel got us all the fresh fish entree, which I have to admit sounds amazing; he also ordered two bottles of vintage red wine that I could never hope to afford.
