Page 20 of The Rogues

“And you want to see them?” she questions. “You haven’t been guilt-tripped into seeing them?”

I bite my lip, the lie sitting on the tip of my tongue. The truth is, my mother definitely used certain words to convince me to come over. Specifically, “You’re about to go gallivanting around the world doing god knows what, making it easy for your father’s competitors to use your hobby as a way to undermine him. The least you can do is see us before you go waste the year on this silly venture of yours.”

Instead of lying to my best friend, I just slightly bend the truth. “It’ll be nice to see them before we get onto the road. And who knows when I’ll be able to see them after? We’ll be gone for over a year this time, I’m sure.”

She nods despite looking like she still wants to protest. Instead, she reminds me, “You don’t have to see them at all if you don’t want to.”

I nod. “I know.”

Consciously, I know it’s true, but—deep down—it doesn’t feel that simple. They are my parents. They might be less than ideal in a lot of ways, but they’re the only family I’ve got. The idea of leaving them behind just because they’re different from me makes me feel guilt twist in my stomach.

Even though being around them feels a little bit like pulling teeth right from my gum sockets, I’m going to go. Because that’s what family does.

The vacation home that my parents own in Beverly Hills is significantly smaller than the mansion I grew up in, but still just as polished. Gold pillars and tiled flooring welcome me, and I purse my lips at the too-clean material beneath my feet. It feels like it needs to be washed after succumbing to my combat boots that have trailed through the downtown muck. The air reeks of powerful descenter, scrubbing the natural scents from the air in favor of an artificial summer breeze.

Our butler must have been invited on their vacation because Stanley is there, his hair white and fluffy and his suit a size too small as he greets me.

“Good evening, Josie,” he says, and I smile at his use of my nickname. “Your parents are already in the dining room. Please make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Stanley.”

I walk through the house, making my way to the overly expensive room with velvet seats and a chandelier hanging from the painted ceiling that looks like a Renaissance structure, with little angels dancing around the base. When I see my parents, they grin—soft and fake, and stand to exchange false pleasantries. Suddenly, I wish the chandelier would pop off its tiny chain and crush me beneath its weight so I didn’t have to endure an entire evening of their fallaciousness.

My father hugs me first, his expensive cologne a reminder of my childhood as I breathe it in. My mother fake kisses my cheeks and then looks down at my outfit with surprise in her eyes. “What are you wearing, Josephine?”

My ensemble is one of comfort: black boots, black sweats, and one of my favorite band T-shirts. I feel like myself, and considering I’m about to be wearing outfits picked by our team for the next ten or so months, I figure I should dress down whenever I can.

Especially for a dinner with my parents, because if there’s anything that irritates them more, it’s casual wear.

With a rebellious gleam, I smile right in her face. “This old thing? Just something I threw together.”

“It looks like you got them from a thrift store,” she reprimands.

“Okay?” I say, dumbfounded. “Thrift stores are great.”

I don’t stop to mention that these sweatpants were a gift from a luxury brand, mainly because I wouldn’t have bought these pants with my own money given that the cost was a bit too high to be reasonable. But, regardless, the sneer on my mother’s face shows her bias and I am already sick of it as we sit down.

“So, how have things been?” my father asks, ever the diplomat. Staff immediately pile in with the first course, and I blink at their presence, wondering if my parents invited the entire staff for their two-week vacation so they wouldn’t have to do anything themselves.

“Um,” I start, already overwhelmed by the clinking of plates and the rush of people through the space. “Good, things are good. I’m just gearing up for another long stint away from home.”

He nods just as the last of the staff exits the room. With the room empty, I can finally smell their complimentary scents in the air, both floral and pungent in a way that reminds me of New York. “It must be rough being on the road that long.”

“If you had followed your talent with piano, you could have stayed in New York year-round with a stable position at Carnegie Hall,” my mother adds her two cents, the insult sounding casual in her callous tone.

James and Jennifer Rosewood are inheritors of old money. They respect social standing, traditionalism, and anything that can propel my father’s political career forward. Their accents are fake, their mouths emitting posh sounds that sound ridiculous on their American tongues. They were born in New York, not fucking Kensington.

Throughout my entire life, I never wanted to be the perfect doll they were grooming for the prestige spotlight. The dresses were too constrictive, the ballrooms too stuffy with prejudice and pompous attitudes. I always felt like something was wrong with me. Like I couldn’t fully understand why I wasn’t relating to the people raising me or the company they kept. I felt alone, a left-behind piece that was supposed to have its perfect place in this puzzle my parents had curated for me, but I never fit. I was bent, deformed. The spot wasn’t meant for me, but for the person they wanted me to be.

Then I met Cleo, and I never felt that way again. I suddenly realized there were people like me, people who saw the world in a blast of color and full of wonderful opportunities that weren’t defined by the price tag of your clothes or the size of your house. It was never me, but the wall my parents had built to keep me from being who I am.

I grit my teeth. “And I would have been miserable.”

“And you’re not miserable now? Traveling nine months out of the year, never any free time. It’s a wonder you haven’t turned to drugs to cope with the stress.”

The dig hits me right in the gut, Cleo’s face flashing behind my eyes. “You’re acting like being a world-class pianist wouldn’t be just as stressful,” I argue, glaring at her. “They don’t have a lot of free time either, Mom.”

She sputters. “At least you’d be dealing with sophisticated people on a daily basis, not the trash that continues to gussy you four up to look like knock-off Nancy Spungens and Courtney Loves.”