Written in the Stars(52)
Marcus shook his head, a contrite smile crossing his face. “Sorry. I’ve got a thing with cilantro. Tastes weird to me. No offense.”
Mom waved him off. “You’re fine, Marcus. I’ll remember that for next time.”
Lydia took a bite of her turkey and then hummed, eyes flaring. She finished chewing and smiled broadly. “You know, Elle, you’re a little like cilantro.”
Elle set her fork down. She didn’t want to put the cart in front of the horse, but she had a sneaking suspicion Lydia hadn’t said that because of Elle’s ability to add flavor to a meal. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A pucker appeared between Lydia’s brows. “You know. People tend to either love cilantro or . . .” She winced. “It was supposed to be a joke because you’re . . .” She wiggled her head. “Never mind.”
The bitter taste in the back of Elle’s mouth returned with a vengeance. “Because I’m what, Lydia?”
“Relax, Elle,” Mom chided from the head of the table. “I think what your sister was trying to say is that your interests tend to be a tad peculiar is all.”
“Quirky.” Lydia nodded, smiling placidly like she hadn’t just called her a fucking weirdo.
Elle tossed her napkin beside her plate. She didn’t have much of an appetite. “What exactly is peculiar about my interests?”
“All I was trying to say is, your interests are unique. For people who aren’t used to your . . . new age philosophy, it can take some time to get used to. Crystals and chakras and relying on advice that might as well be printed in the Farmer’s Almanac. Elle. You’re—they’re—an acquired taste. I think that’s all your sister meant.”
An acquired taste.
All Elle could hear was hard to swallow and unpalatable.
She could sign all the book deals and consulting contracts with Fortune 500 companies, have all her ducks in order, but because she didn’t live her life exactly the way Mom wanted, take the right jobs, date the people Mom set her up with, settle for safe, she’d always fall short.
“An acquired taste.” Elle sucked her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from doing something stupid like quivering. “Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough, is it?”
Dad’s fork clattered against his plate and Jane gasped, the final noise before a collective hush descended over the room.
“Elizabeth,” Mom stage-whispered. “What on earth—”
“Come on, Mom. It’s not even an elephant in the room anymore, it’s . . . it’s writing on the wall. Because I don’t have your job or Dad’s, follow in your footsteps, do everything exactly the way you want, everything according to your plan, your schedule, I’m peculiar.”
Dad coughed into his fist. “Elle-belle, no one ever said you had to have the same job as me or your mother. Look at Jane, she’s—”
“Perfect.” Elle nodded. “And can do no wrong. Old news. I wasn’t being literal; I meant the sort of job you have. In an office or a hospital, somewhere I report to a manager and put family photos up in a cubicle and drink tepid coffee in a breakroom and make insignificant small talk with coworkers who probably also hate their jobs. You want me to fit myself in a box and I just . . . I don’t. I’m not like that.”
Mom stared from the head of the table, hands clenched around her cutlery. One deep breath later, she said, “Only because you don’t try. Six years of college and grad school and you threw it all away—all that effort, all that money, all that time—so you could have fun becoming a social media sensation? What’s going to happen to you when the next big thing comes along, Elle? When Instagram and Twitter are obsolete and people have moved on from this pseudoscientific astrology fad to something else? You could’ve been a chemical engineer or a climatologist or worked for NASA had you wanted, but—”
“But I didn’t!” Elle’s eyelids were hot and a sour knot had formed inside her throat, bile and bitter indignation creeping up her esophagus, the resentment she’d buried for years beneath layers of defensive humor and nonchalance clawing its way to the surface. “That’s my point. That wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t happy.”
Mom pressed her fingers to the space between her eyes and gave a weary sigh. “It’s Thanksgiving. The whole family is together. Your sister just announced her engagement. Could we not make a scene?” Her gaze darted to Darcy who was looking at Elle, eyes wide and jaw clenched.
Inside her head, Elle’s pulse beat too loud.
A scene. Of course. Adding insult to injury, she was also a train wreck. A mess. Darcy wasn’t looking for a relationship, but if she were? What did Elle even have to offer? Not even her own family thought she was good enough.
Her face was hot and her legs weak and her thoughts went disjointed, a scattershot inside her brain of colors and isolated words, desires and aches. She swallowed twice, her tongue thick, curling strangely around her words as she stood, arms hanging limply at her sides, fingertips tingling as the fight drained from her, replaced with bone-deep lethargy. “I’m going to get another drink and take a minute. So I don’t, you know, make another scene.”
“Elle,” Darcy called out, but Elle kept moving.
Left foot. Right foot. One foot in front of the other until she escaped down the hall to the kitchen with its clean counters and bright white cabinets. Elle ducked her chin and ran her fingers over the jingle bells affixed to her sweater. Blues and reds and greens. Orange and pink planets set against a starry sky. It looked like a box of crayons threw up on her and she loved this sweater but no one else did. She’d discovered it in the bottom of a half-off bin at a thrift store in the middle of April, someone having cleared out their closet and tossed it. Deemed it unworthy.