Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
“Oh, for sure,” Cathy agrees. “Jane Cobalt is so ditzy in comparison. Rose Calloway is fierce and dominant. It’s hard to believe Jane Cobalt is even her daughter.”
My eyes flash hot at the radio. “Wow. Stomping on me just to uplift my mom.” It happens too often, but when other women try to pit me against her, it hurts a little more.
The media will run bogus stories about how I’m jealous of mom’s success. Celebrity news loves to define most of my female relationships in my family as catty, competitive, and jealous. Perpetuating an ugly stigma that we cannot work together or support one another.
I would much rather cheer in the stands and watch Sulli win an Olympic gold than ever hope she loses. I can’t imagine rooting against people I love. It must be a lackluster truth since it’s never graced a tabloid.
But the more the media compares me to my mom—just to point out my shortcomings—it does become harder to ignore my failures.
“Now that I think about it, Jackie,” Cath continues on the radio, “what has Jane Cobalt even accomplished in comparison to her mom?”
Here we go.
I press my lips together. What have I done? Not much, really.
Jackie laughs. “She bought her way to Princeton with her last name and notoriety.”
“I did do that,” I admit aloud. Because I will never truly know if I would’ve been accepted to Princeton based on academics and merit alone. I’m very conscious of how much of a leg up I have in life.
“Such a shame,” Cathy says. “Jane Cobalt was so intelligent in math. She could’ve been an engineer.”
Jackie makes a disappointed noise. “Instead, she just rode the coattails of Maximoff Hale and helped his charity.”
“Which Maximoff Hale was kicked out of!” Cathy exclaims with a laugh of disbelief.
“But you have to remember, Cath, his parents are addicts. The fact that Maximoff Hale has stayed sober is a real feat—”
“It is,” I interject in agreement.
“—and Jane hasn’t even come close to him. What is she doing with her time now? She’s living off Mommy and Daddy.”
Thatcher grumbles an Italian word that sounds like a curse, but I can’t be certain.
Cathy snorts. “And she probably actually believes she’s as successful as her mom.”
My shoulders sink.
Of course I haven’t achieved anywhere near what my mom has in her lifetime. My family is full of overachievers and goal-oriented prodigies, and as the eldest of the brood, I am pressured to live up to the Rose Calloway Cobalt ideal every day.
My mom started her fashion company when she was only fifteen. Ladies and gentlemen, let all of that sink in.
Fifteen.
I’m twenty-three and I can hardly decide which brand of toothpaste to use.
It’s becoming shamefully easier to say, I am not worthy to be a Cobalt.
Confidence should be engrained in my DNA, but to reach into the well, I have to constantly remind myself that I am good enough.
I won’t devalue her achievements just to find value in myself.
My mom is brilliant and beautiful.
And so I am. Just in my own way.
“It comes down to this. Jane Cobalt is nothing more than a conceited heiress to a billion-dollar fortune,” Jackie tells the listeners. “She continues to be a disappo—”
Thatcher turns the radio off. “Fucking horseshit—sorry,” he apologies quickly to me, his muscles flexed and jaw tensed.
“Are you apologizing for swearing or for cutting off the radio?” I wonder, eyeing the road.
“The radio, but if swearing offended you—”
“It doesn’t offend me,” I say quickly. I want him to feel comfortable being himself with me.
Thatcher holds my gaze for an extra beat and then checks his watch. “You have three minutes.”
I scoot closer to the wheel. “We’re on the right street,” I say aloud, and I circle the block a few times just to find an open space. “Parking is horrendous.”
“Up ahead,” Thatcher says. “It’s too small of a space. Jump the curb and park half on the sidewalk.”
I don’t ask if I’m allowed. I’ve already spotted four cars parked on the sidewalks here.
Zeroing in on the tight space between a hybrid and a Jeep, I reverse to parallel-park, and then I maneuver my Beetle up the curb in a diagonal. The car bounces, and I squeeze in tight. Front tire perches on the sidewalk, and my back bumper is nowhere near incoming traffic.
Looks good to me.
I park and move more quickly.
Two minutes remaining.
Thatcher and I both open our doors. Just as I gather my purse and my keys, I shuffle out of the Beetle—no , my ballet flat slips off and plummets to the pavement.
I hurry and shut the door, stepping barefoot on loose chunks of gravel. Crouching to retrieve my shoe. “Come here, shoe.” I peer under the Beetle. “Please, please don’t betray me.”
Thatcher has already rounded my car. I sense his towering presence behind me.
Beeeeep!!
My head swerves to the road, and between Thatcher’s legs, I spot a few cars honking at the Toyota which blocks traffic, unable to find a parking spot. A cameraman jumps out of the passenger seat, and the Toyota drives away.