Hunter had fervently assured her that the dinner was casual, insisting her sweatshirt and jeans would blend in seamlessly. Juliette, however, remained skeptical. The prospect of dining with Mrs. Rosewood demanded a touch of formality in Juliette's mind, and she feared an overly casual ensemble might strike a dissonant chord from the outset. She wasn't particularly concerned about the impressions of Hunter's mother, but she relished the thought of surpassing some of her meager expectations, or at least flaunting her triumphs without any wardrobe missteps stealing the show. In Mrs. Rosewood's eyes, Hunter was leagues above associating with Juliette or any of her kin—a sentiment Juliette aimed to challenge as the lone champion of her family's reputation.
Gazing at her own reflection in the mirror adorning Hunter's closet door, Juliette tugged at her hoodie's dangling drawstrings. "Are you certain I shouldn't change?" she questioned for what seemed like the umpteenth time. "Maybe apply some makeup?"
Hunter's fingers had been waltzing idly over his piano keys—his telltale sign of boredom or impatience; at present he was afflicted by both. The mere idea of Juliette contemplating makeup caused him to halt mid-melody and cast an astounded glance in her direction. "Do you even have makeup with you?"
Makeup was not standard fare for Juliette; only pivotal events could coax her into even basic mascara and concealer usage—like at prom, where she captivated many admirers despite minimal effort. Her beauty came as naturally as breathing, inherited from her mother.
Clearly amused by the notion, Juliette retorted with a derisive laugh, "Not in a million years—just contemplating aloud."
Hunter reiterated his prior assertion steadfastly. "Juliette, it's low-key. I'm not suiting up every time my mom invites me for a meal."
"Oh really?" she countered perceptively. "When's the last time that happened?"
With an acknowledging nod, Hunter conceded, "Fair point—I might actually."
"I'll be back in something more fitting."
Juliette moved towards her duffle bag poised at the edge of his bed; Hunter quickly reclined on it to thwart any wardrobe changes.
"Get off," she demanded sternly, arms folded.
Unmoved by her command, Hunter lay there defiantly proclaiming, "My mother isn't someone you need to impress."
Her jaw dropped slightly in protest before she rebutted with passion. "It's not about impressing! It's about avoiding unnecessary conflict."
A snort escaped Hunter as he teased, "Since when are you one to avoid stirring things up?"
Swiftly distinguishing between intention and nature, she clarified with resolve, "I don't seek out trouble; it just seems drawn to me." Juliette had never been one to mute her opinions; they were frequently shared unabashedly and considered only retrospectively when they occasionally sparked unintended consequences.
"Look, she'll be annoyed regardless of what you do, so why worry?" Juliette reached for a pillow and playfully whacked Hunter on the head. "Real supportive," she said dryly.
Hunter tried to reassure her. "Trust me, Juliette, it's her who should be making the impression on you," he said with a hint of mortification. "And for the record, I'm already feeling quite sheepish."
"That's deserved," Juliette tossed back with a smirk, not quite ready to let go of the earlier embarrassment Hunter had caused her. "But why does she care so much?" She was still clueless about Mrs. Rosewood's motives or what exactly she was trying to achieve.
Hunter shrugged dismissively. "She either wants to get under my skin or vie with my father."
It was an aimless pursuit — a fact well-known to both of them. Juliette couldn't help but chuckle briefly at the notion. "But you're virtually your father's double, whereas she's—"
"An insufferable snob," Hunter interjected. "Exactly."
Throughout the years, Juliette and her sisters had shared their fair share of sharp remarks about Mrs. Rosewood, some with Hunter in earshot and some without. However, there was something noticeably harsher about his tone this time around. It was the first instance Juliette had heard him refer to his mother in such biting terms.
Hunter chose not to dwell on it further, switching gears towards discussing Juliette's attire for the evening meal instead. "Anyway, she's aware you prefer more casual dress; I've made sure of that."
"You've discussed my wardrobe choices with your mother?" Juliette balked at the notion.
Hunter clarified quickly. "Just that you're not one for fancy dresses is all."
Comforted by his response, Juliette resolved to stick with her usual style.
Their descent down the stairs came with an unspoken understanding between them — less strained than before — as they anticipated the upcoming, somewhat uneasy dinner engagement. United by an impending hour of civil conversation with Mrs. Rosewood, they silently acknowledged her as their mutual adversary.
Entering the grandiose dining hall — a term more befitting than dining room — they found Mrs. Rosewood gazing out a window at its far end. A memory flashed through Juliette's mind: parading down this very hall during Hunter's eleventh birthday party alongside her sisters, her soggy shoes squelching with every step adding layers of dread about meeting Hunter's mother for the first time.
As Juliette and Hunter approached Mrs. Rosewood, it became evident that she was engaged in a rather heated conversation on her phone, her words sharp and impatient. "Regardless of his desires, I will manage the situation as I deem appropriate. He has no say—"
"Mother, are you ready?" Hunter interjected softly, making their presence known to his mother unexpectedly before Juliette could brace herself for another round of eye contact with Mrs. Rosewood.
She turned brusquely, flashing an irritable finger at them, barely acknowledging Juliette's presence with a passing glance. Juliette couldn't shake the feeling that Mrs. Rosewood shared her discomfort in this tense moment.
"I must go; my son has arrived. Inform him to sign the document or he will face litigation," Mrs. Rosewood snapped into her phone before swiftly pocketing it within her crisply white blazer.
"I apologize," she said insincerely to Juliette, who was skeptical of her remorse. "You're Juliette, if I'm not mistaken?"
Mrs. Rosewood's deliberate attempt at getting Juliette's name right seemed to be compensation for previous mix-ups with another name—Celine. With barely enough time for a nod in confirmation from Juliette, Mrs. Rosewood was already moving on.
"The dining table awaits; please, let's proceed." Without waiting for an acquiescence, she led the way.
"After you," Juliette gestured to Hunter with a polite hand motion. Despite his wry facial expression, Hunter took his seat; it was only proper since Mrs. Rosewood was his mother.
The table settings greeted them in preparation—a notably disproportionate arrangement for three individuals at an extended table where Mrs. Rosewood chose the right hand of the head seat adjoined by Hunter directly opposite her had left Juliette facing Mrs. Rosewood head-on—an arrangement rife with discomfort, leaving little choice but to confront the awkwardness courageously and mind her etiquette meticulously.
Mrs. Rosewood had already indulged herself with a rather liberal pour of red wine before offering some to Juliette whose hand paused midway to serving up the mashed potatoes on her plate—was this a ploy? "Water will suffice for me," replied Juliette cautiously before returning to her serving task.
A silence settled among them only broken by the clinking of cutlery and dishware as everyone quietly attended to their plates until finally they began their meal in mute companionship save for the occasional knowing glances exchanged between Hunter and Juliette—an act which would have been comical under different circumstances.
Resolving that the quiet had become more oppressive than any potential dialogue might prove, even though Juliette and Hunter might disagree on this point, Mrs. Rosewood broke the ice.
"Soon you'll be graduating; tell me how you feel about that?"
This was familiar territory for Juliette who had been drilled by adults on this topic so frequently she could recite an answer even half-asleep—consistent to a tee every single time.
"Senioritis has been my companion since my first year of high school," Juliette confessed, her eyes alight with a hunger for new experiences. "I'm yearning for a change—a burst of excitement."
"And which institution has won the honor of your attendance?"
"The University of Southern California."
"USC? That's in California? My, that is a surprise," Mrs. Rosewood's voice echoed with astonishment. "You're heading quite a distance from your close-knit family, aren't you?"
Juliette's assurance, "I'll manage," was tinged with coldness. Was the undertone of doubt in Mrs. Rosewood's words purposeful, or was it a shadow cast by Juliette's perception? Uncertain, she still let no warmth enter her tone.
Mrs. Rosewood responded with equal chilliness, patting her lips with her napkin before neatly sliding it under her plate, "I must confess, this is unexpected." She pinned Hunter with her gaze. "Why was I not informed Juliette was venturing so far? You withhold too much from me."
"You never inquire," Hunter retorted, his voice veiled by the rim of his water glass before he placed it down solidly.
The stern look Mrs. Rosewood delivered to Hunter would have quelled anyone else; she then swiveled back to Juliette. "My sole visit to Los Angeles left much to be desired—surprising, given its reputation for glamour. Such a place doesn't strike me as livable."
Hunter distractedly assaulted his chicken dish without making any real headway in carving it, clearly uncomfortable as his mother again projected their social stature into the dialogue.
"I suspect the climate might be quite inviting," Juliette offered, her smile straining against the tension.
"The engineering department at USC is top-tier," Hunter chimed in, having finally triumphed over a morsel of poultry. "It's a prestigious establishment, Mother."
"I am well aware," replied Mrs. Rosewood coldly amidst large sips of wine. Her inquiry followed swiftly, "And engineering is your aspiration?"
With confidence and fervor in her eyes, Juliette nodded affirmatively. "Aerospace engineering is my calling."
"How thrilling," praised Mrs. Rosewood—though with an undercurrent suggesting those 'thrilling' ambitions were fragile whims waiting to expire.
Juliette maintained composure despite the sting of cynicism nestled in that single word—"Yet." It implied an anticipation for failure that burned beneath Juliette's skin. Yet she chose diplomacy over confrontation: "I consider them targets rather than mere whimsies. My aims are set skywards."
Mrs. Rosewood fondly remembered aloud, "I recognized that ambition when we first met—unlike the Grier women who seek fame on the runway."
Hunter stifled a chuckle, whispering "iconic" with a hint of derision. As he attempted to conceal his growing smirk behind his hand, his mother's scathing glare darted in his direction.
The scene's dark comedy was not lost on Juliette, who noted the sour turn in the dynamics between mother and son. Hunter's tone had adopted an edgier undertone, indicating a dwindling regard for cordiality with Mrs. Rosewood. Juliette doubted such a fraying relationship would endear her, or any of the Grier's, to Mrs. Rosewood, who already deemed them a negative influence on her son.
Breaking the mounting tension, Juliette inquired about Derick, or rather Mr. Staples. He was the one who had once recommended a fashion modeling career for Rachelle—a suggestion Juliette had found dismissive of her sister's intelligence. "Hasn't he been longing to catch up? I'd wager he's missed me nearly as much as you have," she said teasingly to Mrs. Rosewood.
The atmosphere turned icy in an instant, tangible tension enveloping the room. Hunter's face went ashen, making his freckles stand out like stars against the twilight sky. Mrs. Rosewood tensed up so severely she seemed brittle enough to fracture at a touch. Her gaze bore into Hunter, expectant of something left unsaid. When he remained silent, she briskly filled her wine glass and stood up with such poise that she defied her own rigidity.
Her gaze then transferred to Juliette, lips parting as if she stood on the precipice of revelation before retreating into silence once more.
"Excuse me," Mrs. Rosewood interjected with a sharpness that barely concealed an undertow of complex emotions that Juliette couldn't quite decipher. With a swift exit and the wine bottle in tow, her departure left more questions than answers.
In the echoing stillness after Mrs. Rosewood's heels faded away, a perplexed Juliette turned to Hunter and confessed, "What exactly did I say? It's hardly a secret that she despises me and surely I've uttered harsher words before."