Fox Den

One

Lyssandra

You have got to be fucking kidding me. It was the only thing Lyssandra could think as she watched her mom cuddle up into the side of the, well, older, gentleman sat beside her. It could be that her mom just looked young for her age, or it could be because the older white man placed at her side had aged like a raisin in the sun compared to her mom's pristine darker complexion. It wasn't even the old man, or the fact her mom looked like she was plastered in expensive clothing she'd never once seen her mom wear, no. It was the big, fat, diamond engagement and wedding band glittering on her mom's finger that had her mouth nearly dropping open with disbelief. When her mom had suggested meeting up for lunch she'd been surprised. Last she'd heard she was off in Florida for the summer, after the divorce she'd gone through a 'find herself' period where she moved around seeking somewhere that felt right to her. Now here she was, looking better than ever, and fucking married.

"Lyssandra," her mom drew out sweetly. Her excitement was palpable as she shifted in her seat, hand tight around her new husband's arm. The man looked nervous, eyes shifting between the two women before looking around as if somehow someone could save him from the evident tension in the small space. "This is Harold, my new husband."

She had assumed as much but hearing it aloud had a symphony of emotions swelling inside of her chest. Disbelief, betrayal, annoyance, but most of all irritation. It settled over her skin like bee's pricking at her nerve endings. Questions swarmed to the fore front of her mind but lay dead on her tongue as she swallowed around them. Lyssandra hadn't even fully settled into her seat before her mom had spoken, her bag was still hooked around her shoulders and her butt had barely made it into the metal chair. The man, Harold, cracked a small smile his thin lips pulling away from perfect teeth as he cleared his throat. Silently she appraised him, he really wasn't horrible looking. Well groomed, graying mostly around the temples with streaks of white going through it, he seemed fit. No beer belly or baggy clothing, and thankfully he wasn't in a suit. In fact, the two of them did look like they'd just gotten back from vacation, he was pale but red around the nose and cheeks, his skin sagged around his neck, but most men didn't take care of their physical looks like women did. He was wearing a soft pink button up, sleeves rolled to just above his elbow the top two buttons undone and soft khaki shorts with tall white socks and white tennis shoes. It was the watch that gave him away. She was no designer girl, but she knew from her older brother that watches could run expensive. Especially when they sported the Cartier brand name on the face of it.

Shields up she slowly set her bag onto the back of the chair and nodded. Mind reeling with questions, chest expanding with air as she fought through the torrid of emotions running through her before she folded her hands in front of her and leveled them with an uneasy look. Her mom seemed none the wiser as the waitress came scurrying over quickly to take their drink orders and give them todays specials, but Harold paled a bit more when her eyes narrowed with her inspection of him.

"Harold and I met in Miami," her mom started up again. A pang of guilt passed through Lyssandra when she noted her mom's exuberant tone, the way she seemed to almost vibrate with excitement at the memory. "He was the sweetest thing-."

"How long have the two of you known one another?" Cutting off her mother would have gotten her scolded in the past, hell, if Harold didn't place his hand over her mom's she sure she would have with how quickly her lips thinned in disapproval.

Eyes narrowing at the movement, suspicion prickled at the back of Lyssandra's mind as she frowned. She wasn't a fan of that, the way he seemed so comfortable just touching her, silently demanding she calm down as he readjusted and got ready to speak. Growing up as a woman, especially one of color, had always made her distrustful of most men but rich white men always rubbed her the wrong way. No, she was not delusional for thinking this, even her friends felt the same way, but they were much more vocal about their distaste of men than she was.