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I trudge through LaGuardia and out into the oppressive, hot, garbage-scented air.
As soon as I slide inside the dark interior, I’m hit with the familiar aroma of Chanel perfume. To my absolute shock, my mother is inside the black SUV when I climb into the back seat.
“Hello, dear,” she greets, not looking up from her phone. She’s glued to it, like usual, but she came to the airport to pick me up rather than just sending her driver. This is a first, and it ignites hope that maybe this trip will actually consist of some quality time.
The driver opens the trunk. I hear my suitcase land with a thump, and then the door shuts.
“Hi, Mom.”
She glances up when I speak, nose wrinkling as she takes note of what I’m wearing. It’s a ratty ensemble: oversized sweatshirt, athletic shorts, and sneakers. In my defense, my mother has never picked me up from the airport. I didn’t think I’d see her until the show and would have time to change. Of course she is wearing a full face of makeup, a silk dress, and heels.
“How was Canmore?”
“Fine.” That’s all I say, and she’s already looking back at her phone. Sometimes, I’m tempted to blurt out something shocking to my parents, just to see how they’d react, test if they’re even listening. LikeI got expelled from Fairfield AcademyorI’m going to climb Machu Picchu! Be back in a week. Or in this case,I had sex with a guy. Things with Elliot are too raw to consider exploiting it for shock value, though. Too fresh. Too not funny.
I stare out the tinted window at the crowded street, enjoying the cold air being blasted from the vents as the car inches into traffic.
“You’ll enjoy the new line—you inspired it.”
I look over at my mom. “I did?” Aside from giving me samples from her collections, my mom has never actively encouraged any involvement in her work. To say I’m surprised I inspiredanythingis a massive understatement.
“Yes. I had Tomas focused on preppy, varsity, bold colors.”
“Oh. Okay.” None of those sound like me, but I’ve learned my mother’s way is the right way.
“For your freshman year of college, of course.”
“Right.Of course.” Her expression doesn’t change, so my mom definitely missed the sarcasm in my tone. “Did you enjoy it? College.”
My mom went to Stanford too; it’s where she met my dad, but while he lauds the university every chance he gets, my mom hardly mentions it.
“I suppose so.”
Hardly a ringing endorsement. “So, not really?”
“It wasn’t my first choice. I wanted to go to school in the south.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m not even sure why. Just a silly idea I had.” She smiles. “Stanford worked out fine for me, though. I’m sure you’ll like it, too.”
By “fine,” I can only assume my mom means meeting my dad, having me, and founding a multi-billion-dollar fashion empire. She had family money of her own, but it was mainly my dad’s famous clients that sent her stock skyrocketing.
A couple of minutes later, my mother gets a call from her head designer that lasts the whole drive to the hotel. Once we arrive, the next couple of hours pass in a blur. Unsurprisingly, my mother deems the suitcase full of clothes I brought as unworthy of wearing to a fashion show and has her assistant fetch something for me. My hair and makeup are professionally done before we leave the hotel and head to the museum where the event is being held.
I’ve met more celebrities and attended more fancy events than I could begin to count. It’s been a part of life for as long as I can remember due to my parents’ respective careers, and it means I spend the three-hour fashion show more bored out of my mind than starry-eyed. You see one six-foot model with a stoic expression wearing an outrageous outfit ninety-nine out of a hundred people would not be caught dead in, you’ve seen them all, in my opinion.
It doesn’t help that every time I sneak a glance at my phone, there’s no text from Elliot. He didn’t even check to see if I landed safely, which he’s done every other time I’ve left Canmore. Sure, plane crashes are rare, but they happen. I could be at the bottom of one of the Great Lakes right now.
At least I wouldn’t have died a virgin.
Things between us may be awkward—uncertain—now, but at least I tried. I went for it, and I’m still in shock that I did. I’m really not the seduce-the-hot-guy-I’m-into type. More the exchange-eye-contact-until-he-makes-the-first-move kind of girl.
My mom gets caught in all sorts of conversations after the show, and I perch in an uncomfortable chair backstage, awkwardly smiling at the models as they undress—fullyundress, making me feel like I’ve stumbled into a nude drawing class—fighting to keep my eyelids open and quiet my grumbling stomach.
Finally, my mom announces we’re heading to dinner.
We end up at a fancy sushi restaurant. It smells delicious inside, like teriyaki and rice vinegar. We’re seated right away—at a table forfour.
