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Behind her, the clown had started balloons for the triplets, and Blake thanked the heavens they weren’t listening. At least that was something. Not that they’d probably understand any of it if they were. “No. Not at all,” he said, injecting as much sincerity in his voice as possible.
“You see us as—as underprivileged? What else did she call us?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. She motioned to Jen. “Struggling?”
“No. Mel, I had no idea that’s what this was.”
Mel let out a huff of laughter, and he couldn’t blame her for not believing him. It was his girlfriends’ event, after all. He extended an invitation directly to her, which also meant she must’ve realized he had told them about her—about her tiny apartment with the torn couch and the broken closet handle and the walls in need of a fresh coat of paint. Despite her struggles, she was a far cry from a charity case, and he wished he could rewind to the day he asked her to come.
A moment passed in excruciating silence, the air around them loaded, each second thick with tension.
After a moment, Jen broke the silence, her blue eyes blinking up at Blake, then to Mel, her expression dubious. “I’m sorry. I just . . . I hope you didn’t think I was insulting you. But Blake told me about your little apartment, and how hard you work for it, for your kids, and I just thought . . . I assumed . . . I didn’t mean anything by . . .” Jen trailed off.
“You assumed that I was, what? Poor?” Tears Blake hadn’t noticed before shined in Mel’s eyes, despite her straight spine, her tilted chin.
Her defensive posturing was like a dagger to the chest, so he reached out, but she dodged him. Feeling useless, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nobody thinks that,” he said.
“Obviously, they do.” Mel turned to Jen and pushed her shoulders back. “You think just because I live in a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and live paycheck to paycheck that I struggle? Well, I guess you’re right. I do struggle. Every. Day. I work for everything I have. And maybe it’s not much, but it’s mine. I earned everything I have, and I can still look at myself in the mirror every single day and know I tried. I did my best, and I managed to get through another day of giving my kids everything they need, everything I possibly can.”
“Of course you do. I’m sure you’ve worked very hard.” Jen shot her a placating smile, followed by a look of pleading to Blake. But all he could do was look away.
“Don’t condescend me,” Mel snapped.
It was the first time Blake had ever seen her angry. In the short amount of time he’d known her, he’d witnessed her joy, nerves, anxiety, fears, desperation, and frustration, but never anger. Not even when the kids’ behavior was at its worst.
“Do you even know what I do?” Mel asked.
“No. But Blake told me—”
“I’m the executive editor at PopNewz.”
Jen’s eyes rounded with surprise, and Mel grinned. “Yeah. Now do the math. Career-wise, I’m successful by most people’s definitions, envied even. But I got screwed with a crappy man who couldn’t stick around when things got tough, and here I am.” She waved her arms around them. “On my own. Struggling. But you know what? I’m not ashamed. Because I’m like most of the people in this city. I am not the exception. It’s the other way around. It’s people like you—the Garwoods”—she waved her hands around the ballroom—“that are the exception. Most people aren’t born into privilege with white gloves, gold-plated silverware, and a trust fund. Most people need to earn success, to work for everything they have.”
Jen blanched, and Blake felt the deep roots of shame staining his cheeks red. He needed to stop this, to do something. For both of them.
“She didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” Mel pointed a finger at him. Then she loosed a breath, her shoulders slouching slightly with the movement as if the gesture drained some of her anger. “I may not have a penthouse suite or a fancy car, and the closest thing I own to a Louis Vuitton is the knock-off my mother gave me for Christmas last year, but I have three beautiful children.” She stared at them as she spoke, her voice growing thick. “They’re mine, and sometimes they’re a pain in the butt and drive me mad, but sometimes they’re also the one thing that keeps me going. They’re both the hardest and the best thing I’ve ever done. Everything I do is for them. And I’m not sorry about that. It’s something I can be proud of, even if I never own fancy things. I don’t need help. I struggle because New York is one of the most expensive cities in the world, and I’m on my own. But that does not make me or my kids underprivileged. We’re far from charity—not that there’s anything wrong with that. I respect families in need. We’re just not one of them. But here’s a tip,” she added, “even if we did need help, no one likes being referred to as charity.”
With that, she shoved the pamphlet back into Jen’s arms, leaving her gaping like a fish. Ushering the kids, content with their balloons, toward the exit. “Time to go.”
Blake stared after her a moment, torn between making sure Jen was okay and smoothing the waters with Mel. His feet itched to follow her.
He turned, likely to the detriment of his relationship, and said to Jen, “I’ll be right back,” then jogged after Mel’s retreating form.
He caught up to her in several strides and placed a hand on her shoulder. She stiffly turned, dismissing him with a shake of her head as she kept moving.
“I didn’t know. I swear. I only found out a few minutes before you got here. It’s why I tried to convince you to just leave, to let me take you guys out instead. I didn’t want you to think—”
“What?” Mel halted. “That you told her about my tiny apartment. How we all sleep in one bedroom and share beds? How my furniture has seen better days? Or how my cupboards are stocked with mac and cheese and soup instead of organic-everything from Whole Foods? What a sad little picture.”
Blake swallowed. He had no response to that. He had told Jen about some of those things. How Mel had three kids and they all shared a bedroom. How she was a single mom, and he suspected she was struggling, that money was an issue. Because that’s what boyfriends do—share the details of their lives, their day, with their significant other. But he meant nothing by it. And maybe it was wrong, but as he stared at the pain in Mel’s expression, it felt like a betrayal. To her. Which was crazy. He had no allegiance to Mel.
“She must’ve just assumed,” he said by way of explanation.
Mel sighed. “Assumed that I must be poor because I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth? She does realize I’m how the majority of people live, right? Just getting by?”
“She’s just . . . naive.”
Mel arched a brow, and with a smirk, said, “But she means well, right?”
