[h2][center][color=9e0b0f]ℳ𝒶𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃𝒶[/color][/center][/h2]
[center]🂱[/center]
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Mariana checked out when Bailey came into the conversation, raising a brow at the ripped jeans. She didn’t care either way. The dark haired woman was certainly never close with the youngest child, even in their youth. Mariana would often be stuck watching Bailey at random, and it grew tedious. Especially since she viewed the young girl as her replacement, whether is was true or not. 

Smoke fills Marianas lungs and she sighs, blowing it out. The pool house came into view. 

She hums, pushing open the door and her eyes fell on her mother. Mariana pauses in her tracks slightly, seeing the older woman on the phone, saying something Mariana didn’t hear over her thoughts. God…she expected to come here and feel…well not this. 
Her mother was visibly exhausted. Mariana saw it in her stance, the ever so slight tremor in her hands and the cracked lips. This poor woman just lost her husband and for once in her life since she was a child, Mariana wanted to embrace her mother. 

Then she spoke and all of those feelings vanished. [b]“Well at least one of us didn’t come dressed for a funeral - Your father won’t be buried for another week at least,” [/b]Regina sighs and Mariana raises a brow, taking the cigarette from her mouth. [b]“Would it have killed you to venture outside your monochromatic wardrobes? You’ve come dressed as undertakers.” [/b]

Always such a pleasure. 

[b]“Mariana, fix us all a drink will you? Take the good bourbon from the drinks cabinet,”[/b] Marianas eyes settle into a more relaxed state, anger shooting through her veins. The fuck was she, the bartender? Not here she wasn’t. Mariana says nothing though, pressing a tight lipped smile to her face, “Death becomes you mother.” She says, her voice not venomous, but something akin. She steps forward, tossing the cigarette on the ground and putting it out with her shoe. 

“And [i]goodness[/i], I am [i]deeply[/i] sorry we don’t want to dress like we are seeing some indie punk band after this,” she chuckles dryly, walking to the bar and going behind it, taking the glasses and pulling out the bourbon along with vodka and a cherry syrup. She pours the glasses, doing this [b]one[/b] kindness before making herself a cherry vodka. 

She takes her glasses, sipping it as she leans against the bar. 

[b]“Apologies for being late.” [/b]Marianas eyes snap to Katherine, pulling out another glass and lazily pouring it. “You’re not.” She says in a simple tone, swirling her glass slightly before giving a half smile, her head tilting. She meant the words in two ways. Katherine wasn’t really late. And she certainly wasn’t sorry.