Free After Her by Amber Kay Page B

can't make a scene. That’s probably why she brought me here because she knew that I wouldn’t.
    “Okay,” I reply after a deep breath. “I won’t make a scene, but you need to tell me what you want.”
    Vivian flips to a specific page in her paperwork packet then writes something else onto her notepad.
    “Answer my questions and I will tell you whatever you want,” she says. I realize that she’s not willing to negotiate on that condition. She has the upper hand and I have nothing in return to coax any answers out of her. Either I give in or I'm never leaving this restaurant, not with my sanity intact.
    “Fine, I’ll answer your damn questions,” I say.

7
     
    Vivian orders dessert against my wishes.
    I don’t touch the red velvet cake the waitress places in front of me. I don’t even touch the fork. I gulp several glasses of water as Vivian continues busying herself with the mysterious paperwork she won’t let me see. The performers on stage transition to a jazzy rendition of At Last as I try to tune it out.
    “Vivian, just tell me what you want,” I say, my voice heavy with anxiety, thick with panic.
    She neatens the pile of paperwork and clears her throat.
    “I’d like more information about your outlook on life,” she says.
    “What?”
    “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”
    After a sip of water and a deep breath, I reply, “I’ve never stopped to think about life after college. I guess if I'm really honest, college began as a smokescreen to keep me from having to go back home.”
    “Is there something in Montana you’re avoiding?” she asks after jotting my previous answer onto her notepad.
    I glance at my half-empty glass, seeking another distraction. I can’t bring myself to face her. Instead, I rub my fingers against the glass, tracing sporadic patterns of pentagonal shapes in the condensation. “I don’t really feel like talking about this.”
    “Ah, then it’s not a some thing ,” she says with a delightful spark in her eye. “It’s a some one .”
    “Vivian—”
    “Who is it? An ex-boyfriend? Your father? Or…is it your mother?”
    “You know what?” I blurt out in agitation. “Enough about me. I have been a good girl. I’ve answered your questions. I'm allowed to ask you another question.” She says nothing, but I ask anyway, “Where are you from?”
    “Me? I'm from Santa Barbara,” she says. “I’ve lived in California my entire life.”
    “And your parents?”
    “Never married.”
    “Why?” I ask, wanting to force the same invasive interrogation on her. See how she likes it for once.
    She shrugs then says, “Because my father was already married when he met my mother.”
    My mouth falls open, speechless. Vivian clears her throat and proceeds, “Now, back to you. Do you want children?”
    “I’ve…uh never really been the maternal type,” I say as the words stick to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. I gulp another mouthful of water to alleviate the sticky goo sensation coating the pallet of my tongue, but Vivian’s previous confession leaves me in a verbal stupor.
    “I could never even keep a goldfish alive,” I add.
    She writes this down as well.  “So you are on birth control?”
    Heat permeates my cheeks. Angry heat.
    “Where the hell did that question come from?” I reply through clenched teeth.
    “It’s a simple question, Cassandra. Are you on birth control…or not?”
    “I’m not answering that question.”
    She writes this down too.
    “Okay, then what about your bra cup size?” she asks.
    “ What! ”
    Her eyes drift to my chest with an appraising smile.
    “You look like a B, but these things are so indefinite with push-up bras on the market,” she says. “You could be an A.”
    I glare at her, hoping to find the right words to shut her up, but I feel an egotistical need to defend my breasts.
    “32B,” I say. “And why are we discussing my breasts, anyway? You don’t hear me making quips about