PART 1
This is a love story, but not one that is easy to read.
Chapter 1
My life has always had a plan. I think my parents, pre-conception, sat down and planned it out. Drilled into me with constant reminders and a follow-by-example regimen. I was a child of wealth, expected to do nothing but everything. A 4.0 was required, though I would never hold a job. Ivy League was mandatory, but only because that was where I would meet my husband. I would not carry any additional weight, as that would be an embarrassment, but could not show off my figure, as that would be classless.
The plan was simple. Earn a respectable degree while being molded into the perfect wife. Marry quickly. Support my husband while pursuing my other interests, such as charity work and running my home.
I never liked the plan. Foiled it in as many passive aggressive ways as possible. Learned at an early age to hide treachery behind a sweet smile and innocent façade. In my parents' eyes, I was behaving. Thriving. Turning into the woman their DNA deserved. In actuality, I was lying in wait, getting my perfect black ducks in a row and ready for the day that mattered: my twenty-fifth birthday.
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8 YEARS AGO
Twenty-five candles. It was ridiculous that I was getting a birthday cake; the tradition should stop in the teenage years. Yet, here it was, carried by my mother's reedy arms. Mother, the perfect image of my future, should my future include Botox and fillers, pinched lips and over-plucked brows. 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 ring of his phone. I smiled for the photo and blew out the candles, missing three on purpose, seeing Mother's eyes flicker, her smile remaining fixed.
She cut the cake, the scent of Chanel No. 5 drifting over the table as she served me the smallest possible piece, a center cut, away from the decadence of an end piece. Then we ate, three of us scattered over a twelve-seat table, the scrape of silver against china the only sound in the room. Father stood first, leaving his plate, and kissed 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. Pushed her barely touched slice of cake forward and eyed mine pointedly.
"No." 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."
"I'm happy, Mother. I will find someone soon."
"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've heard that Jeff is seeing someone. And we really didn't have any chemistry." I took another bite of cake, enjoying the pain in her eyes when I swallowed it.
"Chemistry isn't important. He's from a good family-will provide for you."
My trust fund would provide for me. I didn't need a relationship without chemistry, a prison sentence that would paint a 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.
"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 am 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. Took another bite of cake. Scraped every bit of icing off the plate and slid the fork into my mouth. Sucked on the tings. 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 set down my fork, squeezed my hands together underneath the table, and smiled.
I left my parents' house a few hours later, a bag of gifts in the trunk of my car. Cashmere cardigan. Sapphire earrings from my father. A JD Robb paperback from Becky, the maid who probably knew more about me than both of my parents combined. She was the one who cleaned up my puke in the bathroom when my drunken teenage self didn't make it through the night. She'd thrown away condoms, birth control packets, and vodka bottles. Held me at fifteen, when I suffered my first broken heart, courtesy of Mitch Brokeretch-who didn't deserve my virginity, much less my tears.
My real gift wasn't in the trunk. It was in the 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. With that date, with the papers I was about to sign, I would be free from my parents, from their expectations and requirement that have held this money above my head for the last twenty years. I drove to the attorney's office, and, thirty minutes later, was a free woman. I allowed a small smile-a real one-upon my exit from Jackson & Scottsdale. Allowed a full beam once I visited the bank and transferred the funds into a money market account that was solely in my name.
Then, freedom. It felt damn good. I put down my convertible's top and screamed into the wind. Celebrated the evening with one of my building's valets-a twenty-one-year-old kid who only made it five pumps, but brought some good weed and laughed at my jokes.
It was a sad start to my new life.
