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“No. I didn’t.”
“Why not?” He turned toward me, actively listening.
His follow-up question led me to believe that he was truly curious.
“My father was really strict. I wasn’t allowed to go to anyone’s house after school, attend any after school activities, or invite friends over. And then sophomore year, he took me out of school completely. I finished high school with tutors.”
His dimple made an appearance as a half-grin spread on his face. “I bet you went crazy in college.”
“No, not really. I started working for my father’s company as soon as I graduated high school, and I took most of my classes online. I worked twice as hard as the average employee because I never wanted anyone to think that I’d gotten the job because of any sort of nepotism. So that meant I put hours in after everyone else clocked out, and on weekends. When I added in my studies… I never had any time to be crazy.”
His jaw dropped. Not figuratively, either. Literally. “How did you deal with that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how did you survive and not go crazy? You were basically being held hostage in your own house until you finished high school and after that, you were held hostage by your workload.”
I was quiet for a moment, taking in what he’d said. Any time I had any negative thoughts about my upbringing, I’d shut them down because I didn’t want to be the stereotypical, “poor little rich girl.” Having someone see things from a different perspective was…validating. “I guess I never thought of it like that.”
“How did you think about it?”
“I guess…I just thought I was sheltered.”
“Well, that’s one word for it. Damn, I would’ve lost my shit.” He ran his hands through his thick brown locks and blew out a breath. “When I was growing up, I basically only had to live by four rules: graduate high school, don’t get anyone pregnant, don’t die, and don’t end up in jail. That was it. And those were imposed on me by Hank. My father never gave two shits what I did. I couldn’t imagine having someone hovering around me trying to dictate my every move.”
“It was…fine.” I felt like I should elaborate, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. He obviously thought my childhood was strange, and I conceded the point. But I wasn’t sure there was more to add. These were the times I wish I had more confidence to handle situations like this.
Just then, a chime sounded, breaking the tension.
Relieved for the interruption, I reached into my purse. When I saw the text, I said, “It’s Cheyenne, she wants to meet for lunch tomorrow.”
I was typing back my response when Jimmy said, “Cheyenne mentioned that you two just randomly ran into each other.”
“Yes.” I pressed send and put my phone away. “I had no clue that she was here. We didn’t keep in touch after school.”
“Not even on social media?”
“No. I wasn’t allow—” I stopped myself mid-word. What sort of a twenty-five-year-old confesses that her daddy didn’t allow her to have social media accounts? After his reactions to my upbringing, I didn’t really want to add anything else. “I don’t have any social media.”
There. I gave out the same amount of information without incriminating myself. My father would be proud. Or maybe he wouldn’t. I honestly had no clue, because I didn’t know the man.
“Not even Facebook?”
“No.”
“Twitter?”
“Nope.”
“Instagram?”
“None. I have no social media presence.”
“You don’t?” He seemed genuinely shocked.
I shook my head. “No.”
If he had any more follow-up questions about my lack of an online profile, he didn’t share them, and for that I was grateful.
