My brother kisses his future bride-to-be and she throws her arms around his shoulders, rising on her toes and all but squeezing the life out of him.
I’m happy for them. I am.
But I’m also a little bit wistful because it’s the end of an era, a bittersweet farewell of sorts because things will never be the same after this.
They’ll marry next year, likely move somewhere else because they both work in the medical industry and can find jobs anywhere in the country without a problem. Laurel has made no bones about the fact that she wants kids, like, yesterday, so nature will likely take its course sometime shortly after the honeymoon. After that, I’ll be lucky to see my brother on days that aren’t Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving.
But still. His eyes glint like flawless diamonds and I’ve never seen him smile so big.
He loves her.
She loves him.
It might be the end of an era, but it’s the beginning of an entire lifetime together and I couldn’t be happier for them.
I lift my champagne glass, ignoring the way my parents watch me from the corners of their eyes. This is officially the first time I’ve had an ounce of alcohol in front of my family.
Someone clinks their knife against a crystal wine glass and my father stands, proposing a toast and welcoming Laurel’s family into ours.
My brother, Graeme, sits to my right, and I watch as he takes his wife, Cara’s, hand in his and lifts it to his lips for a small kiss. The two of them flew in from Manhattan earlier this afternoon. Tomorrow they’ll fly back. He just opened an otolaryngology practice in Midtown, which has consumed their entire lives as of late. It’s also the reason Graeme opted not to do Doctors Without Borders this summer.
Eben and Laurel share another kiss and the other patrons dining in the club offer a congratulatory round of applause.
Laurel’s parents rise from their seats, hugging their daughter and shaking my brother’s hand.
“Let’s see that ring!” my mother says, joining them.
From across the table, I watch them fawn, ooh-ing and aah-ing as it glimmers in the light.
I wonder if Eben will ever tell her that I chose that ring for her. Not that it matters. It’s a classic princess-cut. Three carats. A scarf of diamonds around the side and down the band for a little something extra.
Laurel is very much a traditional kind of woman. She dresses like a British royal when she’s not running around in scrubs at the pediatric hospital where she met my brother. She wants two kids and a dog and a house in the suburbs, and she wants it yesterday. Not that she’s explicitly stated that. With some women, you can just see it in their eyes. They want that next thing. They want to level up. Like life’s a game. One achievement after the next.
College? Check.
Fiancé? Check.
Marriage? Next.
Babies? Soon.
“All right, let’s see it,” Cara says, joining the herd.
Cara and Laurel have only met a handful of times over the past couple of years, but I’ve yet to determine if the two of them like each other or if they’re just doing that thing where you’re trying to keep the peace and impress your in-laws and saving your true opinions for later, when you can vent to your friends about how you really feel.
The two of them couldn’t be more different.
Laurel grew up in privilege, the daughter of Apple and Microsoft executives. She attended Brown and summered in Europe all throughout her childhood. Cara is from Pennsylvania, the daughter of a factory worker and a schoolteacher. She put herself through college and met my brother when she was working as a drug rep, pitching a prescription nasal spray that had recently hit the pharmaceutical market. Cara’s a hustler. Laurel is not. But so far, they're cordial and that’s all anyone could ask for, really.
In a way, I’m kind of jealous of her.
At least she knows what she wants.
And she has options.
For me, dating was never allowed and not going to med school was never an option. It was an implied requirement, and given my chemistry and biology GPA, it’s like I was bred to do this. Minus the passion and actually wanting to do it.
My mother returns to my other side, her gaze immediately falling to the near-empty champagne flute in my hands.
“Sweetheart, you might want to pace yourself,” she says. “We don’t want you making yourself sick.”
I hide my smirk in another sip. She must truly believe this is my first time.
“You worry too much,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
She hesitates, lingering as she watches me take another drink.
Eben meets my gaze from across the table and gives me a wink when he sees the concern baking into our mother’s expression.
He knows.
In fact, while I’m close with my brothers, I’m closest with him. I’ve always told him everything. And he’s always kept my secrets like the good, loyal brother he is.
Laurel links her arm in his and steals his attention as his future father-in-law speaks to them. Beside me, Graeme and Cara are still holding hands, but now her forehead rests against his shoulder. They’re as inseparable as they’ve always been. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them go longer than a minute without touching in some capacity.
My mother returns to my father’s side and he slips his hand around the small of her Versace-clad waist.
Everyone has someone but me.
Everyone has a life—or at least a future—but me.
I’m not going to sit here and feel sorry for myself. I don’t believe in pity parties. But seeing everyone so happy while I’m stuck treading water rustles something deep inside of me, unsettling the muck and mire I’ve been ignoring my whole life.
In an instant, I find it difficult to breathe. It doesn’t matter how deep of a breath I take, it’s not enough. The room grows hotter by the second and warmth intensifies beneath the surface of my skin.
Placing my flute in front of my plate, I gather my clutch and excuse myself to find a restroom. I need a breather. I need a second to myself.
As I pass between tables and patrons, I conclude that everyone here is stuffy and conservative and boring. Everything is blush and beige and silver and everyone is humble bragging and one-upping each other under the guise of having an actual conversation.
On my way to the ladies’ room, I pass an open door by the kitchen and catch a glimpse of a few of the tuxedo-clad staff members horsing around.
They laugh, leaning against a counter casually. While I only see them for a handful of seconds, I pick up on an easiness about them, a kind I’ve never experienced.
I want that.
I want to know what it’s like to be unburdened by my last name, by societal and familial expectations, even if only for a moment.
Skipping the ladies’ room, I make a beeline for the front door and stand outside the entrance until my lungs fill with the tepid summer evening air.
Taking a seat on a nearby marble bench surrounded by red peony bushes, I watch as Bentleys and Aston-Martins and Rolls-Royces pull up to the valet stand, and couples dressed to the nines step out and head inside to make their dinner reservations.
I'm sure there are some who only dream of a life like this.
But I’m not one of them.
I cross my legs and adjust the hem of my Oscar de la Renta tea-length dress. The bodice is covered in shimmery gold sequins and the skirt consists of layers of peach-colored tulle. I don’t care what my mother says, I absolutely upstaged Laurel in her navy-blue Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress.
Burying my head in my hands, I laugh at the absurdity of what my life has become. This fall, I’m set to start med school back at Rothschild, and the mere thought of it makes me want to both vomit and cry.
I’ve never dreaded anything so much in my life.
“Hey, Bird.”
I follow the voice and turn my attention to the right, where Eben stands with his hands in the pockets of his slacks.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Of course,” I lie. I’m not going to ruin his night with my silly little First World Problems.
“You sure? Because you seem out of it.” He takes a seat beside me, and I scoot over to make more room. “What’s on your mind?”
I shrug. He’s not going to let me out of this that easily, so I might as well play along. “Just thinking about the future, I guess.” Before he can say anything, I add, “Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thanks.” His sandy blond hair ruffles in the wind. “All of this have you thinking about what comes next for you?”
“A little.” I exhale. “Just seeing everyone so happy tonight made me realize ...”
I stop. Thinking these thoughts is one thing. Saying them out loud isn’t quite as simple.
“What?” he asks. “Made you realize what, Bird?”
I hiccup, blaming the champagne. “I feel like everyone has something to look forward to except for me.”
“That’s ridiculous. You have tons to look forward to.”
“Like?”
“For one, you start med school in a few months. That’ll be fun.”
I shoot him a look. “Fun?”
“Yeah. It’s a lot of work but if you love it, it doesn’t feel like work at all.”
“What if you don’t love it?” I ask.
I feel his gaze, heavy on me. Like he’s studying me. “What are you saying? You don’t want to be a doctor?”
Of all the things I’ve confessed to Eben over the years, not wanting to be a doctor was never one of them.
My father went to medical school before climbing the ranks and eventually taking over my grandparents’ pharmaceutical corporation.
Graeme went to medical school.
Eben went to medical school.
Their passion was contagious and I idolized all of them growing up. But now? I realize I was only ever chasing their dreams, fulfilling their expectations.
“Med school’s a lot of work, and if your heart’s not in it?” He blows a breath between his lips. “You’re going to spend the next several years hating every minute of your life.”
“So what, I just tell Mom and Dad the last four years were a total waste of their money and my time and they’re going to be cool about it?” I ask.
“I don’t think they’d force you to finish med school if it’s not what you want to do. What’s the worst that could happen? They might be upset for a little while, then they’ll get over it.”
“You don’t understand,” I say, thinking about how all my mother ever does is brag about how her Brighton's going to be the first female in the family to attend medical school and all my father ever says to anyone who will listen is how proud he is that his daughter is following in his footsteps. “Public perception and family reputation are everything to them. Something like this would be beyond humiliating to them.”
“Yeah.” Eben folds his arms across his chest and leans back. “True.”
“I want to think they care about my happiness,” I say, “but at the end of the day, they’ve completely engineered every aspect of my entire existence.” I tug at the tulle of my skirt. “Like this dress? Mom insisted I wear it. She went out and bought it especially for tonight. Never mind the fact that I’m twenty-two and perfectly capable of dressing myself.”
“Did you tell her you didn't want to wear it?”
“I tried. She wouldn’t hear it.”
“You need to be more persistent with them. Stand up for yourself more. What can they do?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. I’ve thought about this before, what they’d do if I defied them. It was part of the reason I got the tattoo—just to prove to myself that I was capable of doing something rebellious. “They own my car. They pay for my school. I don't have a job or money of my own. If they decided to cut me off for not doing what they want me to do, I’d literally have nothing. They might not own me, but they own my life. And that’s kind of the same thing.”
“All right. Fine. Then spend the rest of your life being miserable.” Eben stands. He’s taking a tough love stance now.
“Never said I was miserable.”
“It was implied.”
I rise and he puts his arm around me.
“You’re a smart girl, Bird. Smartest one I know. You’ll figure this out,” he says as he walks me back inside. “Sometimes you just have to follow your heart and worry about everything else later.”
8
Madden
“Dev, you up?” I call as I step into Mom’s house Saturday morning.
Friday nights typically consist of Mom going out and getting hammered after work. Saturday mornings typically consist of Mom sleeping in. My sister’s lucky if she sees her before noon.
I place a bag of McDonalds breakfast on the kitchen counter and head down the hall to my sister’s room, rapping twice on the door.
“Just a minute,” she calls, voice groggy. I suppose it’s not the end of the world if she sleeps in ‘til nine on the weekend.
The door swings open a second later, and Devanie brushes the wild curls from her face.
“Brought you breakfast,” I say.
“Thanks.” She rubs her eyes before following me back to the kitchen. I move the bag of food to the table and she rifles through it like a kid who hasn’t eaten in years.
I take the chair beside her.
“You’re not going to eat?” she asks, mouth full of Egg McMuffin.
“Ate on the way over.”
“You hang out with Pierce last night?” she asks, rolling her eyes. Anytime those two are around each other, he’s always razzing on her and giving her shit and she always acts like she hates him. He’s the other brother she never wanted but has to put up with anyway.
“Of course.”
Dev opens her orange juice next. “Lame.”
“What’d you do last night?”
“Molly and Cadence came over. We watched Mean Girls.” She says it so flawlessly, like a line she rehearsed. And she won’t make eye contact with me.
I don’t buy it, but I don’t have proof, so I let it go.
“What are you going to do all summer?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Hang out. Go swimming. I dunno.”
Yesterday one of my clients was telling me about some local Boys and Girls Club and how they have a mentorship program. Devanie could use something like that, something to keep her busy and out of trouble. And she could use a mentor—a female mentor—because Tandace Ransom sure as hell isn’t cutting it.
I steal a bite of her hash round before getting up from the table.
“Hey!” She swipes it out of my hand. “Where’re you going?”
“Back to the shop.” I grab my keys from my pocket. “Stay out of trouble this weekend.”
“Always.”
“I’m serious.” I’ve decided to get her a cell phone. Mostly because I need a way to keep in contact with her at all times and vice versa. She’s growing up. Fast. And this is nothing more than a safety precaution and a way to keep tabs on her, because Mom’s sure as hell not doing it.
I make sure to make as much noise as possible on my way out. Heavy footsteps. Slamming doors. That kind of shit. And when I start my car a minute later, I rev the engine of my GTO a couple of times since I’m parked right outside Mom’s bedroom window.
Just a friendly little wakeup call.
I check the books as soon as I’m back at the shop because Missy left me a sticky note about squeezing in an old client for a quick touch-up. My schedule is full. I’m booked for months. Paging back to the current month, I smirk when I see Brighton’s name listed for a 15 minute follow-up a few weeks from now. Her design was simple and she honestly probably doesn’t need a follow-up, but it is listed on the instruction sheet I give all my clients, and she’s exactly the kind of person who’d follow those rules to the T.
I scribble down a few appointment options for my other client on Missy’s note. I’m
always willing to come in early or stay late, especially for longtime clients.
Loyalty goes a long way with me.
Closing the book when I’m done, I place it back in the stack and head up to my apartment to get ready for the day.
If I’m being completely honest, there’s a part of me that’s kind of, sort of looking forward to seeing her again ...
9
Brighton
The Boys and Girls Club called me yesterday to let me know my background check had gone through.
It’s been two weeks to the day that I applied as a volunteer, and this couldn’t have come at a better time.
Sitting around the Iron Castle and figuring out new ways to keep busy and avoid being roped into various activities with my mother was proving to be more difficult than I thought.
“We’re so glad to have you on board,” Megan, the center coordinator, leads me around the facilities, giving me the grand tour of an old industrial building that’s been renovated to include a sport court, an art room, a playground, a small library filled with donated books, and a computer lab amongst other things. “We’ve already matched you with a local girl. Just waiting for her guardian to sign off on everything and then we’ll introduce the two of you.”
“Perfect,” I say.
The place is filled to the brim with kids, most of them between the ages of six and fifteen. Some stare at me as I walk through. Others stare through me. A young girl with blonde pigtails runs up to me with a kickball and gives me a hug before running off.
Megan chuckles. “That’s Angelica. She’s one of our new ones. Sweet as can be. Unfortunately, they’re not all as sweet as she is. A lot of our kids have been through some difficult situations. Some of them come from heartbreaking home life situations. We do our best to give them a little respite from that, and to help them realize their own potential so they can go on to bigger and better things regardless of where they came from.” She turns to me as we approach the front door and the little tour ends. “Anyway, we’ll be in touch regarding your match. There’s a sign-up sheet just outside my office if you want to sign up for any general slots. Never a shortage of things to do around here.”
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