Rhinestoned Regrets...I Have None

     My name is Vita Valentino, and if you think your family is dysfunctional, you should meet mine. We’re like a chandelier that’s been through an earthquake; cracked, crooked, but still sparkling under the right light.

​

     There’s Asher, my beautiful grandson, who shares his head with Beatrice — an alter ego so sharp she could slice bread just by glaring at it. Sometimes I question if it’s the voice of the gay man or the bitter old granny that’s coming through. Then there’s Jolie, my granddaughter, who’s breathtaking in that way rare diamonds are: brilliant, expensive, and always on the verge of being stolen. My oldest friend Florence believes she’s my moral compass, though her needle’s always quivering in distress. Nadine, my daughter, drifts in and out like a stray cat, usually with the scent of gin and regret.

As for me? I’m the ringmaster, the glittering general of this bedazzled battalion. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Here is a little glimpse into the calamity I call family values.

​

     Vita sat regally on her hot pink velvet chaise, a rhinestone-studded robe draped over her shoulders like a queen’s mantle. A feather boa the color of an exquisite sunset trailed after her every move. Her hands, nails long and crimson, thumbed through the latest issue of Trash! Magazine.

​

     Peace—if such a word could ever apply here—lasted precisely three minutes.

​

     “Asher, would you STOP talking to yourself?” Jolie shrieked from the doorway. She clutched her new white handbag like a holy relic. “It’s creepy.”

​

     Asher, lanky, with an awkward slouch, stood by the window muttering. Then his shoulders squared, his expression twisted into a pinched scowl, and a voice that was unmistakably not his own snapped, “If by creepy you mean insightful, then thank you, darling. Because this purse? Looks like something a divorcee buys in Boca after losing half her assets.”

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     Jolie’s mouth dropped open. “BEATRICE! Shut up!”

​

     Vita lifted her head, cocked one penciled brow, and drawled, “Beatrice, dear, remember our truce? Only savage Jolie if she starts it.”

​

     “Your truce is as flimsy as Jolie’s future prenup,” Beatrice retorted through Asher’s lips.

​

      Vita snorted. “Fair point.”

​

     “Darling, if you keep staring at that tiny screen, your face will freeze that way. Then you’ll be stuck looking confused and slightly hungry forever,” Vita drawled.

​

     Jolie didn’t even glance up. “It’s called Instagram, Nana. I’m keeping my brand alive.”

​

     “Your brand?” Vita laughed, tipping her glass. “I thought your brand was chasing after trust funds with more zeroes than sense.”

​

     Asher giggled, then Beatrice slid into his expression, a smirk painted wide. “You’re only jealous, Vita. Jolie still gets men to buy her small islands. Your last conquest offered you a fruit basket.”

​

     “Only because I turned down his marriage proposal,” Vita sniffed.

​

     Jolie let out an offended squeal. “Excuse me! I don’t just chase trust funds. Corbin is sweet, attentive, and probably planning to buy me a yacht. Who could say no to that?”

​

     “Anyone with a sailing license,” Beatrice muttered.

​

     The door burst open, and Florence swept in like a storm in sensible shoes, clutching a lemon loaf to her chest.

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     “For God’s sake, Vita, what have you done to this place? It looks like Liberace threw up and called it interior design.”

​

     “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Vita beamed, taking the loaf. “And I’ll have you know, Liberace is my style spirit animal.”

​

     “Liberace had taste. This is more like Dolly Parton decorated a drag queen’s diary,” Beatrice chimed in. Then Asher flinched, shaking his head as if trying to wrestle his alter ego back into its cage.

​

     Florence clicked her tongue. “Honestly, Vita, you invite chaos.”

​

     Vita smiled sweetly. “Darling, chaos keeps the wrinkles away. Botox takes care of the rest.”

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     Florence eyed her skeptically, then looked at Jolie. “Is that child ever going to put down her phone?”

​

     “Doubtful,” Vita sighed. “Unless it dies. Or she does.”

​

     Jolie stuck her tongue out without even looking up.

​

     Florence lowered herself into an overstuffed chair. “I brought you something semi-healthy, which you will ignore in favor of martinis.”

​

     “And you brought me judgment, which I will also ignore. It’s our love language, dear.” Vita retorted.

​

          Later that afternoon, Asher pulled Vita aside in the kitchen, where a vintage pink fridge hummed like a contented cat.

 

     ​“Nana, I think Jolie’s boyfriend Corbin is gay.”

​

     Vita sighed, spooning sugar into her coffee. “Asher, you think every man is gay. You tried to prove Father O’Malley was at your first communion.”

​

     “He hugged me for too long,” Asher hissed. “But no,this is different. Corbin’s hands are too moisturized. He said my scarf was ‘delightfully daring.’ Straight men don’t say that.”

​

     With a twitch of his head, Beatrice burst out. “And his jeans were tighter than your trust issues.”

​

     Vita playfully patted her grandson’s shoulder. “Get a hobby, darling. One that doesn’t involve your sister’s love life.”

​

     During this all too usual exchange between Vita and Asher, Florence sat at the kitchen table stirring her tea with nothing but judgment. 

​

     Asher cleared his throat. “I’m serious about Corbin… Nana, Florence, I’ve been watching him. He’s got a tell.”

   

      Florence went rigid. “A tell? This isn’t poker, Asher.”

​

     “No, but if it were, he’d be all hearts. And maybe not just for Jolie.”   Beatrice leaned in, eyes glittering. “He practically drooled over Asher’s new swim trunks. The ones that leave little to the imagination.”

​

     “Beatrice,” Vita warned, half-laughing. “Must you?”

​

     “Always.” Beatrice cooed.

​

     Asher shrugged. “I think Corbin might be at least bi-curious. And I’m curious enough for the both of us. So I propose a family dinner. I’ll turn on the charm, we’ll see if he takes the bait.”

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     Florence looked horrified. “That is immoral.”

​

     Vita just grinned. “Oh, relax, Florence. It’s only immoral if there’s no hors d’oeuvres. We’ll make sure there are plenty.”

     

     “It’s terrible!”, Florence just couldn’t let it go.

​

     Vita took a sip of her drink, eyes twinkling. “It’s also highly entertaining. Proceed, Asher darling! Just don’t bankrupt him in the process, your sister has plans for those pockets.” 

​

     As evening crept upon them, Vita and Florence sat on the patio, Florence fussing with her rosary like it might spontaneously grant her patience.

​

     “This is madness,” Florence whispered. “Encouraging your grandson to seduce his sister’s suitor? Have you no shame?”

     “Not since 1987, darling. Left it in Ibiza. Besides, Asher needs a little fun. Jolie needs a reality check. And I need to refill my martini.”

​

     Florence let out a loving scoff. “You’re a bad influence.”

​

     Vita topped off her glass. “And yet you’re still here, every day, soaking in my badness. Cheers to codependency. Seduction please! It’s hardly a seduction if the door’s already cracked open. Besides, I’ll be supervising in my own loose hands-off way.”

​

     “You’re a scandal wrapped in sequins.” Florence said with an ever-so-slight giggle. 

​

     On a clear Tuesday evening as the summer sun set, chaos was on the rise in Vita’s dining room. The table glittered with crystal and gold.  A setting as outrageous as the family. Vita held court at one end, Corbin at the other, sandwiched between an oblivious Jolie and a prowling Asher.

​

     Asher leaned close, voice velvet. “So Corbin… you ever go dancing? Somewhere loud, dark, sweaty?”

​

     Florence nearly choked on her water. Vita reached over to pat her back, eyes gleaming.

​

     Corbin cleared his throat, cheeks pink. “I uh, not really, but, I might be open to trying.”

​

     Beatrice slipped out with a lazy grin. “Try? Darling, we’ll make you a convert by midnight.”

​

     Jolie giggled, clueless. “Isn’t Asher so funny? Always joking around. Corbin, you’d look so hot in Miami. Maybe we should move.”

​

     The clink of crystal filled the dining room as Jolie raised her glass high. “To Corbin,” she said with a glint in her eye, “whose stocks went up and who bought me a bracelet from Tiffany’s in the same week.”

​

     Vita, seated beside Florence, muttered under her breath, “May the bracelet outlast the relationship.”

     

     Florence cleared her throat with a disapproving look, which Vita ignored entirely.

 

     Asher leaned in toward Corbin, his tone purring with suggestion. “I couldn’t help but notice your cufflinks, Corbin. Platinum? Or just... obscenely reflective?”

​

     Corbin gave a half-smile, admiring his wrist. “Custom. From Milan.”

​

     “Mmm,” Asher said, his voice dipping low. “That’s a city that knows how to handle… rich textures.”

​

     Vita didn’t even look up from her plate. “Asher, you’re purring. He’s not a bowl of cream.”

​

     Suddenly, Asher blinked rapidly, and his posture shifted. The voice that came next was lower, older, and twice as brash.

 “Listen, sugarbutton,” Beatrice said, fixing Corbin with a hard stare, “men like you are the reason therapists get to buy yachts.”

​

     Corbin blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

​

     “Oh no,” Jolie groaned. “Not Beatrice again.”

​

     Asher leaned closer to Corbin, reaching up to gently wipe something imaginary off his lapel. “You’ve got a crumb,” he murmured, even though there was nothing there. “Let me get that. You can’t have debris on such a… commanding chest.”

​

     Corbin laughed, shaking his head. “You’re funny, man. You always say the wildest stuff.”

​

     Jolie nodded dreamily. “Isn’t he just so charming? I love it when you two bond. It’s like watching bromance, but richer.”

​

     Asher’s eyes flashed for a second, and then they narrowed—a shift. Beatrice peeked through. Her voice slid in, low and silky. “Darlin’, if that man gets any denser, you could use him as a doorstop.”

​

     Florence gasped, but before she could say a word, Vita cut in again. “Oh, relax, Florence. It’s just Beatrice. She adds flavor. Like paprika. On a scandal.”

​

     Asher, fork in hand, pointed vaguely at Corbin’s plate. “You like duck?” 

​

     Florence blushed and groaned in disapproval, thinking she heard something else.

​

     “I love it,” Corbin replied, chewing with enthusiasm. “This is incredible.”

​

     “Mmm. It’s tender,” Asher said, eyes locked on him. “Practically falls apart when you touch it just right.”

​

     Jolie giggled and dabbed her lips with her napkin. “Asher’s always so poetic. He used to write haikus about our pool boy.”

​

     Florence stiffened. “This is—”

​

     “Shush, Florence,” Vita barked, again, not even looking up from her plate. “Let the tension marinate.”

​

     Asher’s posture shifted slightly, his neck tilting in that oddly deliberate way. He blinked slowly—once, twice—and then Beatrice arrived, her voice cutting through the candlelight like a butter knife through bad intentions.

​

     “I've seen raccoons with more self-awareness than this one,” Beatrice said, eyeing Corbin. “Bless his wallet. His brain must’ve slipped out with the valet ticket.”

​

     “Beatrice,” Florence hissed. “This isn’t—”

​

     “Let her talk,” Vita said, stabbing a piece of duck. “She’s the only one making sense at this table.”

​

     Corbin chuckled, blissfully unaware. “Did I miss something?”

​

     Jolie beamed. “Beatrice is Asher’s creative side. It’s like part performance art.”

​

     Dinner was nearly through when Asher theatrically dropped his napkin to the floor.

​

     “Oh no,” he said, faux-innocent. “Butterfingers. Corbin, would you be a dear and grab that for me?”

   

      Corbin hesitated for only a moment before ducking down under the table.

​

     Asher turned quickly to Vita and Florence while Corbin was out of sight. “Ladies, place your bets. Boxers, briefs, or is he one of those brand ambassador types who doesn't wear anything but ego?”

​

     Vita didn’t hesitate. “Five bucks on briefs. Basic white. Boring as hell.”

​

     Florence clutched her pearls. “This is disgraceful. We are eating dinner.”

​

     Before anyone could say more, Asher’s expression shifted, and Beatrice emerged, her voice unmistakable. “That’s not all someone’s trying to eat, Florence.”

​

     Jolie was mid-sip of her wine and nearly choked. “Is everyone okay?”

​

     Corbin popped back up, napkin in hand. “Found it. Uh. Thanks?”

​

     Asher gave him a lingering smile. “Your hands are so… competent. Must be from managing all those assets.”

​

     Jolie looked around the table suspiciously. “Is it hot in here, or is everyone just acting weird?”

​

     Vita fanned herself with a napkin. “It’s not the heat, darling. It’s the emotional humidity.”

​

     Dessert arrived with pomp: molten chocolate cakes served on bone china, tiny gold forks, and a side of tension. Corbin took a bite and leaned back in pleasure. “Mmm. Rich. Decadent. Just how I like things.”

​

     Asher didn’t miss a beat. “Well,” he said, voice silk, “that makes two of us.”

​

     Florence inhaled sharply. “Oh, for heaven’s sake—Asher!”

​

     Corbin dug into the cake with his fork and grinned. “I don’t usually eat sweets, but this—this is worth it.”

​

     Asher leaned in. “You don’t strike me as the type to deny yourself.”

​

     “Depends on the day,” Corbin replied, oblivious to the tone.

​

     “Oh, I know the type,” Asher purred. “Stern in public, but a real softie under pressure.”

​

     Jolie swooned beside him. “You’re so observant, Ash! Corbin is soft underneath. Like, emotionally.”

​

     Florence cleared her throat. “Honestly, Jolie, you should really—”

​

     “Zip it, Florence,” Vita chirped, sipping her martini. “The boy’s orchestrating a one-man opera. And frankly, I like the arias.”

​

     Asher chuckled. Then came the flicker in his eye—the twitch of the lip. Beatrice was emerging again, slow and sharp.

​

     “You know,” Beatrice said in a crisp, matter-of-fact tone, “you can always tell a man’s priorities by how he handles dessert. Too careful, and he’s selfish. Too fast, and he’s careless. But when he cracks the surface, lingers just long enough… he might be worth a night.”

​

     Corbin blinked. “Wait, what?”

​

     “Performance art!” Jolie said quickly. “He’s, like, developing a one-man show.” She shot Asher a look to shut him up.

​

    Florence slapped her napkin down. “This is ridiculous.”

​

     “Florence,” Vita said coolly, “if you say one more word, I will swap your molten cake with a cup of plain yogurt and tell everyone it’s a statement on moral constipation.”

​

     Florence went silent.

​

     Asher gave a low chuckle, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of his wine glass. “You’ve got this charming way of looking so... untouchable. I wonder, though... when the lights go out and it’s just you and your desires, how long can you keep pretending you don’t crave the temptation?”

​

     “This is highly inappropriate,” Florence huffed, her napkin pressed firmly to her chest.

​

     “Florence!” Vita said, jabbing her under the table. 

​

     Florence hissed across the table. “Stop this at once!”

​

     "Oh, Florence, sweetie, if I waited for appropriate at this table, I'd have died of old age in the foyer. Inappropriate is my middle name. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to enjoy a performance. It's like Shakespeare, but with more glitter and fewer morals." Vita quipped at Florence with a look that made her finally simmer down. 

​

     Florence sat with an obvious pout on her face. But Vita just beamed. “It’s family fun, Florence. Loosen your girdle.”

​

     As wine flowed, Jolie grew tipsy, draping herself over Corbin. Asher pressed closer, whispering things that made Corbin’s ears turn bright red. Vita finally clinked her fork against her glass.

​

     “Alright! Jolie, upstairs. Florence, tuck her in before she tries to marry the ficus. Asher, bed. Corbin, you’re in no state to drive — couch it is. Goodnight, my dears.”

​

     She swept from the room like a satisfied peacock.

​

      Morning light spilled into Vita’s kitchen like champagne, soft and sparkling. She stood at the stove in her satin robe, flipping lemon ricotta pancakes, humming a tune that would scandalize Florence if she knew the lyrics.

​

     The front door slammed. Florence marched in with the conviction of a woman who’d been rehearsing her scolding all night.

​

     “You let that dinner become a den of sin,” Florence huffed, sliding her purse onto the counter. “I dreamt of flaming swords and goats. Goats, Vita!”

​

     “I’d be worried if you dreamt of anything normal,” Vita replied sweetly, pouring more batter.

​

     Before Florence could fire back, a shriek ripped through the house. High, wounded, unmistakably Jolie.

​

     “Sweet bleeding Madonna,” Florence whispered.

​

     They bolted up the stairs, Vita surprisingly quick for a woman draped in rhinestones.

​

     Jolie had opened the door to Asher’s room, her arms full of towels, only to freeze in shock. There, in the bed, were Asher and Corbin—completely naked, tangled in sheets like a pair of overripe fruit. Corbin’s hair was a mess, his face as red as the sunset, while Asher, half-asleep, had a lazy grin plastered across his face.

​

     Jolie’s voice cracked. “What—what is this?!”

​

     Vita strolled in behind her, casually checking her nails. “Well, looks like someone finally got Corbin out of his shell. I knew this was coming, but I didn’t expect the bed to be so... unsophisticated.”

​

     Florence gasped in horror, clutching her chest. “Asher! Corbin! This is disgraceful! Oh my poor Jolie!”

​

     Asher yawned, stretching dramatically, then looked over at Corbin. “Morning, sweetheart. You sleep well?”

​

     Corbin's eyes darted nervously. “Jolie, it’s not what you think. We just—”

​

     “Oh, don’t,” Jolie interrupted, her eyes filling with tears. “You were supposed to be mine, Corbin. How could you do this to me?” She backed away, her voice trembling with disbelief. “I’m moving out. This whole thing is just... insane.”

​

     She slammed the door behind her, and Corbin collapsed back onto the bed, covering his face and body in embarrassment.

​

     Florence’s face turned even more crimson. “I—I can’t!” she sputtered, shaking her head in disbelief.

​

     Vita turned to Corbin and Asher, her tone suddenly brisk. “Alright, you two. Get your little antics together, get dressed, and come downstairs. There’s a lovely breakfast waiting... for those who still have decency left.”

​

     She looked at Florence, who was still frozen in horror, and raised an eyebrow. “I think the whiskey might be calling your name, darling.”

​

     Corbin groaned from the bed. “This wasn’t supposed to happen…”

​

     “Oh, sweetie,” Asher said with a teasing smile, “It never does.”

​

     Eventually, they herded back downstairs. Jolie plopped onto the couch, dramatically sobbing into a cushion. Florence hovered, one hand on Jolie’s shoulder, the other brandishing her rosary like a weapon, warding off sin.

​

     Asher slumped in a chair, looking equal parts satisfied and sheepish. Corbin hovered awkwardly by the mantle, hair still mussed, shirt only half buttoned.

​

     Vita took it all in, perched regally on her chaise. “Well. We’ve certainly given the neighbors something to speculate about, haven’t we?”

​

     Florence shot her a look that could peel paint.

​

     Suddenly, the front door burst open, and in stumbled Nadine, sunglasses firmly perched on her nose despite being indoors, her hair a frazzled halo around her face. She clutched a crumpled paper bag like it might contain either vodka or stale cookies. Possibly both.

​

     “Well, look at this!” she bellowed, her voice loud and theatrical. “My darling family, always good for a horror show matinee. Who’s screaming this time?”

​

     She spotted Corbin looking mortified, Asher awkwardly biting a fingernail, and Jolie seated while sobbing, her shoulders shaking.

​

     “Oh, for God’s sake,” Nadine muttered, rolling her eyes. “What did I miss — an orgy?”

​

     “Close enough,” Florence replied, her voice dry and unamused.

​

     “You’re late, dear,” Vita remarked with an air of casual elegance, giving Nadine a once-over. “Missed the pre-show nudity and post-coital confessions.”

​

     Nadine pointed accusingly at Vita, a sneer spreading across her face. “I swear, Mother, only you could raise a household where my son ends up naked with my daughter’s boyfriend. You think your little sparkly circus is so glamorous, but newsflash — your real name isn’t even Vita Valentino, it’s MAUDE GARFUNKEL.”

​

     A collective gasp went around the room. Even Jolie stopped mid-sob, her head snapping up in shock.

​

     Florence wheezed with laughter, unable to contain herself. “Maude Garfunkel? Oh my stars, Vita, that sounds like a woman who hand-crochets toilet paper cozies!”

​

     Vita narrowed her eyes, her tone deadly calm. “Florence, darling, be careful. You still dye your eyebrows two shades darker than your hair. If we’re exposing secrets, I’d hate to start with the ones on your face.”

​

     Florence shut her mouth, sputtering in surprise.

​

     Nadine spread her arms wide, a triumphant look on her face. “See! This is what I’m talking about. You’ve been living in this glitter-soaked fantasy for so long you forgot who you really are. Maude Garfunkel from Indiana. Not some sequined phoenix named Vita bloody Valentino!”

​

     Vita, unfazed, took a slow sip of her martini, as though nothing in the world could rattle her. “Well, I certainly couldn’t be a Maude forever. Maude is a woman who clips coupons and owns orthopedic sandals. Vita Valentino, on the other hand, drinks martinis at ten a.m. and has admirers who still send me fan mail — even if half of them are in assisted living.”

​

     Jolie, throwing her hands up in the air, cried out in exasperation. “OH MY GOD, can we not? My life just imploded! My boyfriend cheated on me with my brother—or… maybe Beatrice. We’re still fuzzy on that detail.”

​

     Florence, genuinely concerned, stepped forward. “Speaking of—how do we even know it was Asher who… you know… and not Beatrice?”

​

     Vita rolled her eyes and barked with laughter. “Florence, what the hell difference does it make? If it were Asher or Beatrice, there were two male parts involved. Beatrice has the same hardware downstairs as Asher. Next question!”

​

     Florence nearly choked on her own shock. Nadine burst out laughing despite herself. Even Jolie made a strangled noise halfway between a sob and a snort.

​

     Nadine crossed her arms, still trying to maintain some semblance of superiority. “Well, congratulations, Maude — I mean Vita — your glittery madhouse finally hit rock bottom.”

​

     Without missing a beat, Vita fired back. “Oh, please, Nadine. Rock bottom was the night you married your second husband in a gas station parking lot because he promised you half a rotisserie chicken and a scratch-off ticket.”

​

     Asher, who had been nervously laughing, couldn’t help himself. “He didn’t even win!”

​

     Nadine glared at Asher. “Whose side are you on?”

​

     Asher shrugged, trying to keep his composure. “Whoever’s buying dinner next?”

​

     Vita tossed her boa dramatically over her shoulder. “Listen up, all of you. You can call me Maude, Vita, or Queen of Glitter and Chaos — it doesn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, this freak show? It’s my freak show. And like it or not, it’s kept a roof over your head, therapy bills high, and stories so outrageous they’ll make your eulogies worth listening to.”

​

     There was a brief silence. Nadine looked torn between retorting and a reluctant affection, her jaw tightening. Jolie dabbed her eyes with a tissue. Asher tried to catch Florence’s eye, but neither of them could avoid grinning.

​

     Florence, her lips twitching, spoke softly. “Well… can’t argue with that.”

​

     Vita smirked and raised her martini glass in a sarcastic toast. “Damn right you can’t. Now, someone find me more olives. It’s going to be a long day.”

​

     Jolie finally stood, wiping her eyes. She fixed Corbin with a quivering stare. “We are over. And I swear I’m going to Miami, where the men like women and the water’s too warm for betrayal!”

​

     Nadine followed behind Jolie, sobbing, turning toward the staircase. “Baby, Miami’s a cesspool. Go to Vegas — at least there the men are honest about being awful.”

​

     She stormed up the stairs. Moments later, they heard her door slam. A muffled sob was followed by what sounded suspiciously like her throwing shoes at the wall.

​

     Corbin blinked at Vita, lost. “Should I… go after her?”

​

     “Oh, honey, no,” Vita said kindly, patting his hand. “Best let the hurricane blow itself out.”

​

     “You’re a sweet boy, Corbin. Not the first to get tangled in our family web, and certainly not the last. Take it as a compliment. You’re quite pretty.”

​

     Corbin managed a weak smile. “I… think I’ll stick to simpler girls. Maybe from Ohio.”

​

     “Do. They’re less likely to embroider your scandals into cocktail stories.”

     Vita walked Corbin to the door and offered a goodbye only she could deliver, “Darling, life’s a messy cabaret. You’re welcome to audition again sometime — but perhaps not with both my grandchildren at once.”

​

     As he walked down the drive, Florence appeared behind Vita, arms folded. “He’ll be scarred for life.”

​

     “Good. Makes for more interesting memoirs.” Vita said triumphantly.

​

     The whirlwind of a day settled into a quiet evening, where Vita made her way outside to enjoy the sunset. The porch was strung with tacky but charming multicolored lights, and a citronella candle flickered on the little table between three rocking chairs. Vita lounged in hers with a martini, Florence sat stiffly with a mug of herbal tea, and Asher slumped like a wilted flower, staring glumly into the darkness.

​

     "You know, Asher," Vita remarked, drawing in a long, satisfied sip of her martini, "you look like someone just shot your favorite drag queen."

​

     Asher sighed. "I kinda did. If the drag queen is our whole family dynamic."

​

     "Oh now, Asher, it’s not that dire," Florence said gently. "Families bounce back. Even yours."

​

     Vita shot a side-eye at Florence. "Coming from a woman whose family holds interventions over the cancellation of Little House on the Prairie, that’s rich."

​

     Asher scrubbed his face with one hand, his voice small. "It’s just… is Jolie going to move to Miami?  She won’t even speak to me. And Mom, who knows where she will end up next? Reno? Atlantic City? Passed out in the back of a karaoke bar in Topeka?"

​

     Vita rolled her eyes, her voice smooth and unbothered. "Relax, darling. Your sister will be back the minute Miami’s botox scene runs out of men with yachts. And your mother? Please. She’s like a bad rash. You think she’s gone, and then—poof—shows up again at the worst possible time."

​

     "Vita!" Florence exclaimed in mild reproach.

​

     "Oh, hush, Florence," Vita said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. "Nadine knows I love her, even if her liver hates me."

​

     Asher rubbed his arm, still downcast. "Yeah, but… what if they don’t come back this time? What if I did ruin everything?"

​

     Vita leaned forward, fixing him with that piercing grandmother stare she was so famous for. "Asher, sweetie, you couldn’t ruin this family if you tried. We’ve survived bankruptcies, drunken proposals, and that time Jolie thought she’d make it as an Instagram influencer for luxury dog collars. This—" she gestured around, taking in the chaos of their lives, "—is just another day ending in Y."

​

     Florence smiled softly. "She’s right, you know. Dysfunction is your family’s cardio."

​

     Vita snorted in agreement. "Finally, Florence says something useful. Mark your calendars."

​

     Asher managed a small smile. "You think they’ll come back?"

​

     "Honey, of course," Vita said, a sly smile creeping onto her face. "Jolie can’t survive off the Florida men buffet forever. Eventually the spray tan fumes will eat her brain. And your mother? She’ll show up the minute she’s out of booze money or needs someone to blame for her latest fiasco."

​

     Florence smiled despite herself. "Vita, you’re terrible."

​

     Vita leaned back smugly, enjoying the moment. "Yes, and you love me for it. Don’t pretend otherwise, Florence—if your life didn’t have my chaos to watch from your prudish little perch, you’d still be ironing your underwear for fun."

​

     "I do not iron underwear for fun! It’s… relaxing," Florence sputtered.

​

     Vita gave Florence a playful shove with her foot, then reached over to pat Asher’s hand. "Now listen up, you precious neurotic mess—you’re exactly where you belong. You’re the kind of boy who needs to stay with his grandmother. Honestly, what would my mornings be without finding you and Beatrice debating whether to reorganize my wig closet by volume or by how many men cried over me while I wore them?"

​

     Asher laughed despite the tears welling up in his eyes. "You’d probably be bored stiff."

​

     "Exactly," Vita said with a smirk. "So stop moping. I’d rather have you—and yes, even that busybody Beatrice—under my roof, splitting personalities and spilling secrets, than a house so quiet I could hear myself aging."

​

     Florence softened, reaching over to squeeze Asher’s knee. "And you know we’d both miss you terribly. Even if you’re the reason I may need therapy."

​

     Vita waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, please. Florence is the human version of a doily—she’d miss anyone who tracked mud on her porch long enough. But you, Asher—you’re my favorite sort of chaos. The kind that makes life worth throwing a rhinestone at."

​

     Asher let out a watery chuckle. Vita clinked her glass against his water, then against Florence’s mug.

​

     "To family," Vita toasted, raising her glass high. "Even when half of them are halfway across the country, the other half naked with the wrong people, and the rest of us old broads just trying to keep our eyebrows from sliding down our faces."

​

     Florence laughed, rolling her eyes. "Cheers to that, you horrible woman."

​

     Asher managed a small but genuine smile. "Cheers, Nana. Thanks… for all of it."

​

     "Don’t mention it, darling," Vita said, taking another sip of her martini. "Now let’s go inside before the mosquitoes drain us drier than Florence’s sense of adventure.

​

     The lights were low inside the house now. The living room was scattered with empty glasses, throw pillows askew from earlier fights, and the faint scent of Vita’s floral perfume mixed with old laughter. Out on the porch, the tacky string lights still glowed. Inside, Vita sat alone in her big chair, a feather boa around her shoulders, finishing off the last of her martini. She looked out the window with a sly smile as her voice floated over it all… 

     Funny thing about families—they’ll break your heart just as quick as they’ll warm it.

I’ve spent a lifetime sweeping up glitter and heartbreak off these floors. And sure, sometimes it feels like I’m the ringleader of a three-ring circus held together with duct tape and denial.

But hell—it’s my circus.

     Jolie will come back eventually, pouting and poorer, demanding a new pair of heels and pretending Miami was a grand adventure instead of a sunburn waiting to happen. Nadine? She’ll waltz through that door again one day, smelling of cheap gin and bad decisions, ready to hand me another grandchild’s trauma to raise.

And Asher—my sweet, fractured, fabulous Asher—well, he’s exactly where he ought to be. Right here, with me. Beatrice too. God knows, this house would echo like a tomb without them bickering about curtain rods or which old Hollywood star had the best divorce.

     Then there’s Florence. Always hovering with her muffins and moral outrage, pretending my chaos offends her delicate sensibilities. Truth is, she’d be bored stiff in a house that didn’t occasionally erupt into scandal. We all need our stories to tell, don’t we?

     So yes, my name might be Maude Garfunkel on some dusty birth certificate buried in a drawer—but out here, in the world I’ve built, I’m Vita Valentino. Sequined, scandalous, slightly unhinged.

     And I wouldn’t trade a single damn rhinestone or broken heart of it for anything.

     Because in the end, it’s the mess that makes us family.