Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
She placed the cake before me, and I smiled because it was expected. I let her sing the song, my father's voice falling off after the first few words, his attention caught by the ding of his phone. I beamed for the photo and blew out the candles, missing three on purpose, and Mother's eyes flickered, but her smile remained fixed.
She cut the red velvet cake with a pearl inlaid knife, the scent of Chanel No. 5 drifting over the table as she served me the smallest possible piece, a center cut, away from the decadent icing of an end piece. Then we ate, the three of us at the end of the dining room’s twelve-seat table, the scrape of silver against china the only sound in the room. Father stood first, leaving his plate, and kissed the top of my head. "Happy birthday, sweetie."
Then there was only Mother and I, and the interrogation began.
"Are you dating anyone?" She set down her fork and pushed her untouched slice of cake forward. Her gaze darted to mine, and I placed my fork on the plate, tines down.
“Not right now." I smiled as I had been taught. Always smile. Smiles hid feelings.
"Why not? You're twenty-five. You only have a few good years left."
“Don’t worry, Mother. I'll find someone."
"I think you should reconsider Jeff Rochester. You dated him for almost two years." Four months. Four months that we spun into a two-year relationship to keep my parents appeased and his gay lifestyle a secret.
I gave a regretful frown. "I've heard Jeff is seeing someone. And to be honest, we really didn't have any chemistry." I picked up the fork and used the edge to section off another bite, enjoying the pain in her eyes when I brought it to my lips.
"Chemistry isn't important. He's from a good family—and he’ll always be able to provide for you."
My trust fund would provide for me. I didn't need a physically stale relationship, a prison sentence that would paint a permanent smile on my madness and lead me into an early case of depression and pharmaceutical drug use. But I didn't want to mention the trust. Not when I was an hour away from finishing this party and heading straight to the bank. Let her think, for just a little while longer, that she had some semblance of influence and control.
"Janice Wilkins told me she saw you working downtown. Please tell me that's not true."
I smiled. "I have a degree in quantitative science. It's not unreasonable for me to consider using it. I’m doing consulting for a medical firm. Overseeing some FDA trials."
"Please don't. Work causes stress, which will prematurely age you. And you only have—"
"A few good years left." I finished her sentence, keeping my voice light. I took another bite of cake, then scraped every bit of icing off the plate and slid the fork into my mouth. Sucking on the tines, I killed a little of my mother's soul.
"We've worked so hard for you to have a good life."
"And I do. You've done a wonderful job, and I'm very happy."
"What about Ned Wimble? I heard he and that Avon heir ended things."
I placed down my fork and wondered how much longer this celebration would take.
Two hours. That’s how long it took to sit through more stilted conversation and the opening of my gifts. Cashmere cardigan. Sapphire earrings from my father. A Tracey Garvis Graves paperback from Becky, the maid who knew more about me than both of my parents combined. Becky had been the one who’d found me puking in the bathroom as a teenager and cleaned up the mess and nursed me through my hangover. She'd cleaned my room and kept her mouth shut on condoms, birth control packets, and vodka bottles. She’d held me to her chest when I suffered my first broken heart, courtesy of Mitch Brokeretch—who hadn’t deserved my virginity, much less my tears.
I hugged both of my parents and closed the trunk’s lid, hiding all of the gifts. My real present wasn't in the trunk. It was in today's date, the trust paperwork that had been completed before my first birthday. Twelve million dollars waited for me in a joint account that I had watched from afar for over a decade. And now, with the papers I was about to sign, I would be free from my parents and from their expectations and requirements that have held this money above my head for the last two decades.
I drove straight to the attorney's office and, within thirty minutes, was a free woman. As I walked out of the sleek glass building on Wilshire Boulevard, a genuine smile crossed my face. By the time I visited the bank and transferred the funds into a money market account, it had turned into a full beam.