Dad follows up, “And all of these followers see the tags, and you get money on that how?”
I shake my head, though I’m impressed that he understands that clicks equal dollars. He’s getting better. “I don’t. She gets the click-through monies for her likes, but I get the exposure. It’s a free advertisement to a cultivated audience. That’s huge when we’re talking that many people looking at every detail of Claire’s wedding and wanting to copy it down to the flowers. I’m already getting more calls, and people are booking their weddings with me sight unseen, just wanting to reserve their dates.”
“All based on this Claire person’s recommendation?” Dad summarizes.
Mom lays a hand on his arm. “It’s like a personal recommendation for the social media age, honey.”
He lifts his glass again, understanding now. “As long as it’s good for my girl, I’m happy for you.” He takes another sip of scotch as our dinners arrive.
We eat in relative peace as Ross tells us about Carly’s sleep and poop schedule, since Vi’s at home with the baby, and talks about One Life Gym’s business. It’s nice that he can share that with Dad now. They spent a long time on opposite sides of the table, but moving to separate sandboxes has done them well. And Dad is truly proud of Ross’s success. Courtney jumps in, and she and Dad get to talking about work stuff, as always. They’re two peas in a pod and their brains are always at least half-focused on work.
I’m mindlessly zoned out as they talk about their latest project and I pick at my chicken. That zero-percent focus—my daydream tendency, as Mom calls it—causes me to miss the incoming bomb until it’s standing right beside me.
“Abi! Oh, my gosh, it’s so great to see you!” a voice exclaims happily.
I look up to see the absolute last person I want to lay eyes on. “Emily.”
“Can you believe it? We don’t see each other for years and then it’s like we can’t stop running into each other.” Emily laughs, looking around the table at Ross, Courtney, and my parents. “Emily Jones . . . oh, I mean Emily Daniels. It’s my new last name, so I’m still getting used to it. My Dougie is a VP at a mutual fund index company. Working late, you know?” she brags.
Slick, Emily. Way to throw in that you just got married without saying it outright, and tack on Doug’s title like we’ll be awed by that. Everyone at this table is a VP, CEO, or sits on a Board of Directors. Titles don’t impress. People do. Wisdom from my dad.
“Congratulations, Emily,” Mom says, ever polite even when some stranger interrupts our family dinner.
Courtney knows exactly who Emily is and mutters under her breath, “Working late hours after the market’s closed?”
Mom jumps in, covering Courtney’s snarkiness with a gracious smile. “May you and your new husband have a lifetime of happiness.”
Emily ignores Mom’s well wishes, her eyes locked in on me. “I guess you don’t have that problem, do you, Abi? Not since you kept your last name.”
Dad chokes on his bite of pasta, coughing into his napkin. “Kept? Your name?” Dad’s right eyebrow has climbed a solid inch up his forehead, and if I know anything about him, his calculating mind is putting together puzzle pieces faster than a Rubik’s cube champion can spin those colored blocks.
Ross and Courtney have my back, knowing exactly what’s going on and what Emily is playing at. Courtney jumps in first, on defense, “Forgive me for forgetting you, Emily, but how far behind Abi were you? In school, I mean.”
Ooh, she’s good. So damn good. I forget how skilled my sister is with her words, cutting like knives as she tells Emily to her face that she was utterly forgettable while making it sound like simple pleasantries.
Emily’s lips purse. “We were in the same class. But that was so long ago.” She forces a smile to her bright red lips, making her look like Pennywise, evil clown incarnate. “Imagine my surprise to see her in Aruba! And for both of us to be there on our honeymoons!”
Her voice has gotten loud, enough so that conversation at the tables surrounding us has all but stopped as people look our way. She’s a good strategist.
Even Mom loses any semblance of caring about her public face and screeches, “Honeymoon? Abi, what is she talking about?”
Thanks, Mom! If everyone wasn’t already looking, that would’ve gotten their attention for sure. And Emily is cunning enough to know she’s struck a nerve with a direct hit.
She feigns horror, her eyes wide and her hands covering her mouth, but she makes sure to drop them and enunciate so everyone hears her loud and clear. “Well, yeah. Abi’s husband, Lorenzo. She said they were on their honeymoon in Aruba last week too. Of course, I saw her working there one day and everyone saw the mention of her little flower shop, SweetPea Boutique, on Claire Johnson’s ’gram this morning, and I just thought it was the sweetest thing that Abi could piggyback her honeymoon on a work trip. Double dipping and all. Must’ve been cost effective to have Claire pay for your honeymoon, huh, Abi?” She lifts a shoulder at me, almost like she’s giving me a friendly nudge, but she’s a solid foot away and talking louder and louder, dropping names left and right to demolish me with every word.