I couldn’t be upset with Jon. He was trying, but he had no sway over what his parents chose to display in their own home. I had no right to expect them to sweep a lifelong family friendship under the rug—or coffee table—at a moment’s notice.

We moved toward the back of the house. As we left the living room en route to the dining room, voices wafted in from the adjoining kitchen.

“…let him get her out of his system and all will end well,” came a heavily accented woman’s voice.

I glanced at Jon, who flushed up his neck and onto his cheeks. He gave a loud cough then yelled, “Hello, we’re here!”

I shuddered and contemplated my lipstick shade. Harlot Red or Porn-Star Pink didn’t seem to be wise choices, nor did going natural.

“Gayle, are you about ready? We don’t wanna be late for the turkey carving.” Jon’s far-too-cheerful voice bled through my bathroom door.

Why was he so unaffected and happy? Didn’t he know they were probably going to hate me? In addition to not being Thalia, I was also responsible for getting him fired from the firm we both used to work for.