“Don’t let anyone tell you what to do with your life, son.” Dad let out a slow breath. “Find your own path. Don’t choose some path that’s meaningless to you just because it meant something to someone else.”
Staring at the opposing hallway wall, I felt something crack in my chest.M-E-A-N-I-N-G-L-E-S-S.I didn’t know why it was so impossible for him to encourage me. He’dgone to law school. He’d become a lawyer, and then later, a judge on the Connecticut Superior Court.M-I-S-G-U-I-D-E-D.He was supposed to be proud of me for following in his footsteps. He was supposed to congratulate me on my choices. He was supposed to cheer for me.
I didn’t go back to the dining room. Instead, I went upstairs to my bedroom, locking myself inside, and texted Jamie to tell Carter I wasn’t feeling good.
S-I-L-L-Y.
I resented Destelle even more for having been freely given everything I wanted and throwing it away instead.
And maybe that was why forgetting Beckham Jennings had always been impossible—we’d always been one and the same.
CHAPTER 10
Mimosa Morning was a brunch that Alderton-Du Ponte held once a month for all the ladies of the club and the daughters they brought along with them. I’d been attending with Mom ever since Destelle stopped going, and where my sister had grumbled about her forced attendance, I made sure to show up with a smile. And the ladies loved me more for it.
They were mostly fun, especially if a tipsy brawl broke out. That’d happened a few times, usually when Ms. Jennings had more than three flutes.
Today, she was already nursing her second.
“Is anyone else feeling that this May is just soboring?”
I sat squeezed between Mom and Lydia, because Mrs. Flannagan had pulled her chair up at our table even though it hadn’t fit. Every time Lydia lifted her flute of orange juice to her lips, her elbow would cut into my side. After the third time, I knew it was on purpose.
If Daisy were here, she would’ve elbowed her back.All I did was shift even closer to Mom, spelling outP-A-T-I-E-N-C-Eover and over again in my head.
“My birthday party is next weekend, though,” Ms. Jennings went on thoughtfully. “Perhaps I need something to properly liven it up!”
I reached for one of the cucumber sandwiches on the table in front of me, quickly taking a bite to hide my smile. Ms. Jennings’s idea of livening things up probably involved alcohol. Something harder than champagne mixed with OJ.
“You already have the ballroom booked,” Ms. Conan said, her voice distinctly sharp compared to Ms. Jennings’s. She’d only had one mimosa flute. “But do keep it PG, Allyson. We don’t know if the Pembletons will be there.”
“ThePembletons.” Ms. Jennings leaned into the table, her eyes finding me across it. “Surely they’ll come if Nellie invites their son.”
All the eyes on the table shifted to me.
Immediately, I thought through my plan of attack. I tapped my napkin to my lips. “I can ask him. I’m sure they’d be interested. Carter has said they’ve been wanting to get out of the house more this summer.”
“Have you met Carter more since Senior Night?” Mrs. Holland asked, seeming genuinely interested. She probably was—she didn’t have a daughter in the running for Carter’s attention.
“We’ve met a few times,” I admitted. “He came by the house the other day.”
Lydiastiffened. “He did?”
Ms. Jennings gave a gleeful gasp. “Oh, he likes you, Nellie! No wonder, of course. The most beautiful girl at Alderton-Du Ponte!”
For a split second, I froze, because I didn’t know how to react to such a compliment when Lydia sat at my side, and her mother sat at her other shoulder. If I ducked my head, it’d look too bashful. If I denied it, I was sure they wouldn’t think it to be genuine.
I didn’t have to worry about it for long, though. Lydia abruptly lifted her arm. This time her elbow painfully cut into my ribs, jostling the arm that held my orange juice flute. Some of the liquid sloshed over into my lap.
“Sorry!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Eleanor.”
If she’d thought it through, she’d have let me squirm more. She’d have let Ms. Jennings’s comment hang in the air, shift in her seat, and seem hurt that I’d be compared to her. She’d have played the victim. Not the bully. But that was Lydia—she never thought things through.
“So sorry that you’ve been doing it for the last hour,” Ms. Jennings muttered into her flute.
“It’s cramped, is all.” Lydia’s voice was defensive, but light. She had on a pretty smile while she passed me a napkin. “But I like it. I like being able to chat with everyone.”
She’d expertly shifted the conversation off Carter, unintentionally working in my favor, and I made sure it couldn’t go back. “Mrs. Conan,” I said as I dabbed at my lap. “How’s Annalise’s baby doing?”
