Page 55 of Such Sharp Teeth

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Scarlett says.

“Oh!” Mom says. “I didn’t . . . Oh, I’m sorry. Not like a bear.”

I hear her set my wineglass down. I pick my head up so I can chug it.

“I’m sorry, baby. I forgot about that,” she says. “You know, I only heard about it from your sister. I did call. And text. Many times. I wish you’d called me back. After something like that.”

I finish the wine and set the glass back down.

“More, please.”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re seeing someone,” Mom says, honoring my request for more wine. “Life isn’t meant to be lived alone.”

“It is,” I say. “By design.”

She makes a disapproving smacking noise with her mouth.

“And let me just say,” I start, continuing despite Scarlett’s eye roll. “One, I’m not really alone. I have Scarlett. I have a twin. I came in a set. Two, I don’t have a boyfriend. Ian Pedretti is not my boyfriend. It’s not happening.”

I lean back and pour the wine straight down my throat.

I should not have gotten out of bed.

“Why not?” Mom asks.

“Because,” I say, “I’m going back to the city in five months.”

“And what will you do there? What are you doing there?”

“My job. My career. Making damn good money. Experiencing everything the greatest city in the world has to offer. Going to museums. Seeing friends. Having casual fun with strangers I never have to see or think about ever again. I’m living the dream.”

“Going to museums,” Scarlett mutters under her breath.

“I always thought you’d make a great teacher,” Mom says, sipping her wine. “You’re generous but no-nonsense. And so smart.”

“I’m the youngest VP at my firm.”

“You could have a nice life here. With your sister. With Ian.”

I look at Scarlett for help, but she appears to be distracted by whatever’s in the large pot on the stove. She’s happy leaving me out to dry so long as Mom isn’t picking on her.

“I can’t have a life with Ian,” I say, throwing my hands up. “I can’t. It’s not happening. So why don’t we change the subject to something more pleasant, like—I don’t know—the death penalty? Where do we land on that?”

“Or an actress,” Mom says. “You could have been an actress. You’re pretty enough. You’ve always had that dramatic flair.”

“A woman dares present an opinion about anything and suddenly she’s dramatic.”

“It’s a shame you aren’t tall enough to model,” she says. “You’re too beautiful to be single. Both of you.”

I press my fingers into my eyes. “You know, if you really want to talk about my love life, I’m happy to discuss the time I gave a certain New York Yankee a hand job under the table at Soho House.”

“No, thank you,” Mom says.

“I’ve already heard that one,” Scarlett says.

“Moving on, then,” I say, raising my glass. “What are we eating?”

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