And Pop? I’m a big fan of that grumpy old man.
He’s all show, by the way.
Not at all like Grandma Eloise, who’s like a bottle of nail polish remover. Hard, see-through plastic on the outside. Pungent color-melting chemical on the inside.
This morning, when I found Pop watching the Today Show, I teased him about having a crush on Savannah Guthrie. And, holy hell, the man actually blushed. He does have a crush on Savannah Guthrie, and I’ll bet I’m the only one in the universe who knows it!
Pop needs someone around to notice him. To give him shit and ignore his moods. And Beck needs someone to help him manage that fucking planet he’s got balanced on his shoulder.
There’s not a ton of stuff I think I’m good at, but I feel like I could be good at that. So there are way worse outcomes than living with them.
If I were ready to sell my townhouse. Which I am not.
My dad scatters these thoughts when he starts shaking his head and doesn’t stop, even when he speaks. “You can’t do this. You can’t throw away this nest egg your mother and I secured for you.”
I scoff. “I’m not throwing it away. I’ve done the math. I can show you the receipts,” I say calmly. “I project that it won’t even take Beck two years to turn a profit from his distillery.”
And this is my moment. This is when I need to offer up the alternative. And I really don’t know if they’ll go for it.
“Of course, I wouldn’t need to sell the house if I could invest money from my trust fund.”
Mom and Dad both flinch. Simultaneously. They couldn’t have nailed the gesture any better if they were synchronized swimmers.
I swallow hard and press on. “Th-The value of the townhouse,” I blurt. “Two hundred fifty thousand.”
The fact that neither of them chokes confirms what I suspected. That trust isn’t small. Margaret said as much, though I’m not even sure if she knows how much Mom and Dad have set aside for me.
Still, it’s Mom who balks first.
“Harriet.” Mom shakes her head, frowning. “You hardly know him.”
Her words land like a shove instead of a punch. And I absorb them. Test them against what I know is true.
No.
Not true.
I know Beck and he knows me.
And it’s in this moment I see that it’s because they don’t know him that my parents are so against this.
They are afraid, and they love me. Two things can be true.
Plus, they underestimate me. Three things can be true.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I scan my body. The rhythm of the rocker is something I need. I couldn’t sit still if you paid me.
But even though I don’t like hearing what my parents are saying—how they are taking in my wishes—it’s not overwhelming me. One reason may be because their reaction doesn’t surprise me one bit.
It’s what I expected. What I prepared for.
Another reason may be that—for once in my life—their opinions don’t really hold much power over me. They hold no power financially because the townhouse is legally mine. I can do what I want with it. Keep it. Sell it. Rent it to a coven of witches.
All they can do is deny me access to the trust. Otherwise, I’m free to do what I want.
And that autonomy is no small thing. I’m not about to take it for granted.
But Mom and Dad’s opinions—also for the first time in my life—no longer have the same emotional power.
