My Grumpy Billionaire

–Noah: The person who first announces it gets to do it.

–Me: Says who?

There is a pause.

–Noah: Newton. He published calculus first, so he got to claim it was a thing.

–Me: Leibniz published first. The Royal Society said he stole it from Newton, but only because the investigation was directed by Newton.

–Noah: Close enough!

–Huxley: Enough pointless academic argument. Why don’t you get over here and see if something can mellow you out? Like this amazing scotch.

Dad is an ass, but he knows his liquor.

–Me: Fine.

I put the phone away and start toward the drink table. The layout for these parties is always the same.

“Can you just imagine?” comes a familiar voice, half cracking with tears, half pleading for sympathy.

Oh crap.

I expected her to be here, but was hoping to avoid her. We’ve spent enough time together recently.

Retreat quietly before she notices.

“That’s awful,” comes another voice, egging Mom on.

“I just… It’s just so difficult.” Mom sniffs delicately.

That’s a sign she’s about to start another round of drama. I don’t know how long she’s kept the other woman so she could have an audience for her show. I should escape, but I don’t want to, not when she could be saying something that would come back to bite me in the ass in triple humiliation. It’s one thing if she exercises her theatrical freedom in another city—or, preferably, another continent—but it’s another when she’s right here.

Damn it. I pull out my phone and text.

–Me: Got something to deal with first. I’ll be late.

–Huxley: Fine. Come when you’re done.

I put the phone away, arrange my face to show nothing and step forward.

“Mother,” I say. She’s sitting on a bench with another woman.

Mom is in a blue bikini and posed casually. But I know for a fact that she’s rehearsed for hours in front of a mirror to make sure she looks absolutely fantastic from every angle. Mom understands the visual impact her physical presence can have. No sunglasses, either; she knows what she can do with her eyes.

The woman with her is young—maybe in her late twenties. She doesn’t have the practiced polish Mom has, but still looks gorgeous in a pink kimono, a pair of huge sunglasses and a giant, droopy hat that hides most of her face. She’s crossed her shapely legs, and the way she’s angled her body shows she’s giving Mom all the sympathy and attention she craves.

When she looks up at me, my skin prickles. If Mom weren’t around, I might assume it’s from sexual awareness. But it has to be dread: what drama has Mom picked to stage a scene this time? Dad’s birthday party doesn’t make for the best backdrop, but she has endless varieties in her arsenal and knows how to squeeze whatever effect she wants out of what’s available.

“Griff,” she says with a wobbly smile, a subtle hint that I’m supposed to give her filial love. “This is my son,” she announces to the other woman.

Never waste an opportunity to ensure maximum embarrassment. Now that she’s established a connection, she’s going to warm up to her act.

“What’s the problem this time?” I ask without smiling.

She sighs. “Oh… I had a little spat with Calvin.”

“She needed some emotional support,” the other woman says. “Some men are awfully exploitative, you know.”