Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
But I’m not a naïve little girl anymore. I know all my mother’s tricks and what tactic is required to deal with each one.
So when she says, “I’m hurt, sweetie! Why has it been three days since I’ve heard your lovely voice?” in that light, teasing tone, I know it’s a trap. She’s not hurt, she’s pissed. And she’s not teasing, which means I can’t counter with a joking response.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, with just the proper amount of grovel in my voice. Too apologetic and she becomes suspicious. “You’re right. I should have called sooner. It’s been chaotic here.”
My strategy works. Nothing elates my mother more than hearing those two words: You’re right.
“I suppose your grandmother is keeping you very busy,” she says, which is her way of “forgiving” me for my sin.
And although it’s clearly an opening to shift the blame from me to her own mother, I’m not going to throw Grandma under the bus.
“Not really. We went shopping on the weekend, but mostly I’ve been catching up with Joy. How’s Boston?”
“The whole city? What kind of question is that?”
I smother a sigh and quickly switch tacks, letting out a fake laugh. “Ha, ha, you’re right, that was a stupid question. I’m so dumb sometimes. I just meant, how are you doing? Are you enjoying the city or are you looking forward to coming down—”
Abort!
I rue the question the second it slips out. Shit, maybe I’m off my game.
Sometimes it’s so hard to forget you’re not dealing with a normal human. Narcissists are a whole other breed.
Her bitterness practically permeates the line. “There is nothing I’d like to do less than spend time in that town.” She snorts humorlessly. “But we owe a duty to our family.”
It infuriates her that she can’t back out, I know that. But my two uncles and my aunt committed to making the trip to say goodbye to the Beacon, and if there’s one thing my mother can’t allow, it’s looking like the bad guy.
The ingratitude, though, is kind of incredible. The Beacon belonged to our family for decades. It’s the reason for all that wealth my mother sure enjoys taking advantage of. The least she can do is give it a proper farewell. It’s the Tanner family’s final hurrah. Like giving away a treasured ship and watching the new owners christen it with a champagne bottle before they sail away forever.
“I’m actually at the hotel right now,” I say, hoping to mollify her with one of her favorite topics: money. “The new owner poured buckets of money into it, and it has absolutely paid off. It’s gorgeous. I swear, you’re going to love it. We just finished the tour of the spa—all the products there were custom-made in Italy. An exclusive brand just for the Beacon.”
That piques her interest. “Well, that sounds promising!”
“Right?” Then, although I’d rather gnaw my own tongue off than speak the words, I know the script and force myself to speak it. “We should do a mother/daughter spa day,” I suggest, injecting as much fake enthusiasm into my voice as possible.
The silver lining when talking to narcissists is they assume everyone adores them and is dying to spend time with them, which means they rarely stop to wonder if you’re being disingenuous. In their minds, of course we want to hang out with them. Because they’re perfect and remarkable and a credit to all of humanity.
The worst part is, most people don’t see through their bullshit. At least not at first. I can’t even count how many times over the years I’d been told how wonderful my mother is. Or accused of being “too sensitive.” Of reading too much into her veiled—and sometimes not at all veiled—barbs. Oh, that Cassie, so insecure that she imagines disparaging subtext with every word.
Eventually, though, most people see the light. I still remember the first time Peyton had her epiphany after my mother took us out to dinner during a sleepover. We were thirteen and, wide-eyed and shaking her head, she announced, “I just realized—your mom is a real bitch.”
There is nothing more liberating than having your traumatic experiences validated like that.
“What a lovely idea!” Mom says in response to my suggestion. “Also, I just thought of it, but while you’re there you should ask for a tour of the fitness center too.”
My jaw tightens. I know where this is going.
“Yeah, we peeked into it,” I answer carefully. “It’s attached to the spa, but it’s closed off because none of the equipment has been delivered yet.”
“You should use the gym at the club, then. I saw on Joy’s Instagram that she’s been going there every morning. She’s looking very fit these days.”
I smother an inward scream. I hate that Mom follows my friends on social media. Joy even has a private account, but she confessed she would’ve felt like an asshole if she hadn’t accepted my mother’s request.