Page 13 of Trust Fund Baby

Where he’d stood next to my grandfather in his wood-paneled office, his mouth set in a line, while I had been left with nothing. Not even the boy I thought I’d escape it all with.

I shut the laptop briefly, like that could silence the memory. But the drop in my stomach had already made its presence known.

Time dulled pain—but it had a way of sharpening betrayal when you least expected it.

But I knew that after I’d finished the last of my glass of wine and bowl of popcorn and the newest episode of my favorite reality dating show ended, I’d open the laptop again.

Re: Long time, King

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Emergency escape plan noted. Why am I not surprised you have access to a helicopter?

And while we’re on the topic of the golf cart. You never hot-wired it. I’m pretty sure you found the keys in the pool house.

The tap of the send key echoed loudly in my quiet apartment. My eyes lingered on the screen, expecting an immediate reply.

I imagined we were still seventeen and carefree. As if the last ten years were just a brief intermission.

In the quiet, my thoughts spiraled.

One more email wouldn’t kill me.

But letting myself believe any of this meant something again?

That just might.

6

Roxie

The drive to Greenwich always felt like stepping back in time. Like every mile out of the city stripped away the person I’d built myself into, until all that remained was the girl who used to sit stiff-backed at the King family dinner table, trying not to say the wrong thing.

Even though my grandfather had taken away my inheritance, that didn’t mean my parents still didn’t want me to show up every Sunday to pretend like everything was as it was when I was still under their roof. I think it was mostly to make sure I was alive and not living on the streets of New York.

Barely anything had changed since I was a kid. The gates still creaked the same when they opened. The hedges were still manicured to within an inch of their lives. And the front door—glossy black with a lion’s-head knocker—still made my stomach twist every time I stood in front of it.

“Roxanne,” my grandmother Kirsten, part of my namesake, crooned as she opened the door. She glided forward in cream slacks and pearls. Her perfume hit me before her arms did, the same Chanel No. 5 I wore.

“Hi, Nana.” I hugged her warmly, careful not to get foundation on her cashmere.

Kirsten King carried herself with regal grace. I sometimes questioned how she could have married my gruff and brooding grandfather, but then I remembered it was a strategic alliance between their families.

She was everything I aspired to be—an art connoisseur, a feisty enigma that knew her way around a tennis court, and a woman who could work a room. As my number one supporter, she proudly displayed my framed photographs, telling her friends they were her granddaughter’s work. She didn’t approve when my grandfather cut me off, but there was nothing she could do.

“You look delightful. Where did you find this one?” My grandmother held me at arm’s length to admire my outfit of choice for the occasion. Only a new piece from my favorite designer that I found on a discount rack could get me through dinner with my family. I wore the confidence my outfits gave me like a suit of armor against the judgment that was sure to be passed across the table during the meal.

“A little vintage store near my apartment. I thought I was dreaming when I saw it on the rack.”

Kirsten, who had an infallible superpower of predicting future trends, was a fashion icon known for wearing styles months before anyone else. I spent my childhood years documenting and organizing my favorite outfits of hers. My career choice, which diverged from family expectations, was influenced by her unique perspective. It would be impossible to endure these family dinners if she wasn’t there.

“Ah, well. It’s very you, darling,” Kirsten said approvingly, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from my sleeve before ushering me inside. “Come on. Your mother’s fussing over the flowers and your father’s already two whiskeys in.”

The marble foyer of my childhood home gleamed just as brightly as it always had beneath my boots as we walked through the house. There was the distant sound of ice clinking in crystal, and the murmur of classical music seeped through the walls. A framed oil painting of the family yacht still hung above the console table in the hallway, staring me down like it was just as disappointed as my parents for abandoning it.

It was all so pretentious.