by Lily Cahill
I wish I could say I don’t care. But to be cut off completely … I’m not sure I can manage without my inheritance. The title, I truly don’t care about. But suddenly finding myself twenty-two and broke. It’s terrifying.
I lean my forehead against the wood door, willing my heart to calm. I need to think, to figure this out.
Oh God, Nara. I need to apologize to Nara.
I yank the door open, only to find her standing on the other side, her face muddled with worry and anger and a hundred other emotions I can’t place.
“Who’s Shelby?” she asks, accusation in her voice.
The question lays me out flat. Who’s Shelby? How do I explain? I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I … She ….”
“Who is she, Ben? I heard your father. He said she’s beneath you, just like I am. But you defended her. You didn’t defend me.”
“Nara, I—”
Nara shakes her head in disgust and shoves her hands through her jacket sleeves. “I’ve got to go.”
“No!” I shut the door behind me and try to reach out for Nara, but she steps away from my touch. “She’s my girlfriend,” I say suddenly.
Nara’s head wrenches up, her eyes wide with shock and pain for a moment before they harden to fury.
“I mean, she was my girlfriend. She … died. My parents hated that I was with her. My father threatened to disinherit me if I didn’t cut things off with her. But she was a better human being than I’ll ever be.” I drop my chin, reach out for Nara. Her fingers slip through mine, then fall. “Like you,” I whisper to the ground.
“But you didn’t defend me, Ben. I won’t go through life letting others think they’re above me. I get that crap enough as it is. Do you have any idea what it’s like being a black woman today? Everything I do well, people treat it like a surprise. Everything I do wrong, they think it’s inevitable. Do you know how many people ask if I’m the first in my family to go to college? No, you wouldn’t. You’re expected to be great. I’m expected to be … black.”
“Nara,” I say, my voice rough in my throat. I hate to admit it, but I never have thought about what it must be like for her. Race is different in England. We certainly have our share of problems, but being black isn’t treated the same as it is here. “Nara, please. I’m so sorry I didn’t stand up for you like I should have. I should have punched him. That would have shut him up.”
“Ben,” Nara says, her tone softening. “He’s your father.”
I look up suddenly, an idea forming. “Come to the gala with me. It’s tomorrow night. Please, let’s show him you’re every bit my equal.”
Nara sighs deeply. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can be with someone who doesn’t accept me for who I am. Even if you do, I’ll never be what your parents want. I’m maybe not even what you want, not in the end. I don’t want to have to prove myself to anyone. I’m just so tired of putting on that face, you know? Always being perfect. My sister ….”
She trails off and glances up at me, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. I should keep my distance, keep respectful of what she wants. But all I want is her. I cup her cheek, run a soft thumb under her eye to wipe away her tears.
“Please, Nara. Come with me. My father doesn’t get a say in who I’m with.”
I desperately want that to be true. I’ll make it true.
Nara leans into my hand and closes her eyes. She presses her lips together, then steps away from me, away from my touch. She pulls the door open, and I can only watch as her shoulders heave up in a heavy breath. Then she turns to look back at me.
“I just don’t know, Ben.”
Then she’s gone.
Chapter Ten
Nara
THE KAPPA HOUSE IS UNUSUALLY quiet.
It’s Friday morning, and I’m curled up on one end of the long, overstuffed couch in the living room finishing up my Mezo-American Cultural History homework. Fridays are always light for me, purposefully so to accommodate my cheer schedule ahead of football games, but this week is a bye. Which explains the empty house. A bunch of the girls headed into the mountains for the weekend. There’s a Kappa alumna who matriculated from MSU in the eighties who lets us borrow her gigantic cabin some weekends. I almost went. But doing so made me feel so … final.
I stare at my laptop, re-reading the same sentence in my essay again. Instead of “been,” I typed the word “Ben.” He’s on my mind, and apparently on my fingers too.
Tonight, if I choose to go, is the gala he’s invited me to. I don’t know much about it, only that it’s black tie, and that I need to meet him at his dorm to leave at three o’clock if I want to go.
One glance at my laptop tells me it’s noon now.
Do I want to go? I just don’t know. The fact that I borrowed one of my Kappa sister’s nicer dresses before she left with the other girls makes me think I do want to go. So why this hesitation?
Uncertainty sits like a weight on my shoulders. I spend so much of my life being exactly what others want. And after that excruciating encounter with Ben’s dad, I’m cringing at the thought of being “perfect” Nara for his family too. And learning about Shelby … I shift on the couch and play with the mousepad. How can I ever live up to a dead girlfriend? Not that I want to replace her, but I’m sure in Ben’s mind she’s perfect. I just can’t do that. I can’t.
My fingers drift over the keyboard, hesitating above the keys. I’ve kept myself from doing this—googling Ben. It feels like a violation of his privacy to snoop on him. But I’ve got to know.
Typing fast, almost like I’m doing something illicit, I plug his name into the search engine and press enter.
Site after site scrolls down my screen, headlines and snippets popping out. The headlines are lurid: Murderous Mayhew. Shelby’s Story. Derby Disinherited.
I recognize this sort of journalism—tabloids. My father worked for many years as the managing editor of the Granite Chronicle before becoming the political editor for an online magazine. What he does is principled, honest, full of integrity. These headlines are none of those things, and I can only imagine what the actual articles contain.
I click on one at random and read quickly, my throat going dry and my chest tightening. Oh, it’s awful. Almost two years ago, his girlfriend was driving his car when they crashed. She died at the scene, apparently she bled to death from her femoral artery. And even worse. I click out of one article and into another one. Sources—called “close friends” by the reporters—shared things with the media they had no right to share: that Shelby was pregnant or that she broke up with him and he purposely made her crash. There are pages and pages of articles, some accompanied by photos from the crash, or blurry shots of Ben at Shelby’s funeral. There’s an entire article of grainy pictures of him drinking at a pub that is used as evidence that he didn’t miss her.
My heart hurts for Ben, for going through that. The guilt he must feel, the responsibility.
Like I do with Yaya. She’d been sliding into darkness and addiction for a while, probably since before she started law school. But the bad one, the overdose that wrecked her brain, that happened the night of my final gymnastics competition. I was always more athletic than my brainy sister—it was the one thing in life that was solely mine. Yaya had a mock trial that night—her first of law school—and invited my parents to come. But they chose me over Yaya. Probably because I was sixteen, maybe because I begged them to come. Whatever the reason, they chose me over Yaya, and my sister lost it. She called me in a rage right before I was to do the uneven bars. She told me she’d been decimated by the prosecution, that it was all because of me that she’d failed. She told me she hoped I fell, then hung up. It was the last time I really spoke to her.
I didn’t fall, but I never competed again. I’d been cheering for two years by that point, and I focused all my energy on cheerleading instead of gymnastics. Now, anything beyond the basic tumbling passes I do for the squad remind me of my sister.
I need to give Ben a c
hance to prove himself. Knowing what I know now, he’s been through hell just like I have. We just came out scarred in different ways. Maybe, together, we can finally heal.
There’s a creak of wood flooring behind me, and I startle. I whip my head around only to catch Jess at the foot of the stairs, staring. Staring at my laptop. Adrenaline spikes through me, and I snap my laptop shut. Jess’ emerald eyes sparkle.
“Doing homework?” Jess says, her voice tipped high with false innocence.
“Yeah,” I say, gathering my things into my arms. “Yeah, but I’m done now.”
Jess bars my way up the stairs. “Listen, hon,” she says, sickly sweet. “I think you’re taking this bet thing way too seriously. Like, you won. You got a date with Ben when I couldn’t. You don’t need to keep up the charade. It’s just a little pathetic, you sitting here pining away for the guy.”
My books and laptop are pressed tight to my chest, and my knuckles pop white where I grip them. “I’m not pining for anyone, Jess. I’m dating him.”
Jess holds her hands up, like I’m being ridiculous to not take her advice. I’m about to pound up the steps when I pause, look down on her.
“But, Jess? Jealousy really doesn’t look good on you.”
Jess’ green eyes turn rock hard, and her mouth twists. But I don’t wait for her to speak. I’ve got a gala to get ready for.
Dressing up isn’t new to me—I do it for games, for going out, for Christmas services with my parents.
But this … this is a whole new type of dressing up. I’d had to look up what, exactly, black tie meant. What it meant was an order of magnitude fancier than anything I own. Luckily, my Kappa sister Haley let me borrow this dress she’d worn in her cousin’s wedding.
Now, I twist side to side in the long mirror behind my door to check all angles. The dress is peacock blue, which brings out the bronze tones in my skin. It’s a simple column dress, cut straight across my chest so I’m given the illusion of bigger breasts than I’ve got and ends at mid-thigh. But an overlay of a shimmery, gauzy material takes the dress to another level. It gathers at my shoulders in delicate pleats before plunging to a deep vee down to the middle of my sternum and back then falls gracefully to the floor, diaphanous and ethereal. I’ve paired it with Lilah’s strappy gold heels and drop gold earrings.
But the biggest risk of the whole affair is my hair. I’d been overdue for a relaxing treatment at the salon, so I let my hair dry naturally after showering. Well, as naturally as possible. I’ve loaded leave-in conditioner and shine serums into my thick, tight curls. I place one final bobby pin and stare at my reflection. My hair is twisted away from my forehead in a makeshift headband, making my hair full at the crown and bouncy all the way down to just below my shoulders.
Giddiness bubbles up through me. I have to pinch myself. I’m going to a gala with a British aristocrat. Who would have thought a girl from Colorado with middle-class parents could say that?
With one final look at myself, I slip down the back stairs and toward my car, an older model Toyota that I barely drive. But I’m not about to walk across campus like Cinderella hoofing it to the ball. A few minutes later, I’m staring up at Taylor Hall, my hands shaking with anticipation.
Maybe he’s already left. Maybe this is a mistake.
Maybe these are all excuses to cover up what I’m really feeling: Excitement to see Ben again. To see where this thing between us is going.
I step from the car and carefully walk up to Ben’s dorm room. He answers on the first knock.
“You—” His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.
I’ve made him speechless. That’s about the best compliment a girl can get. But I’m speechless too. Ben’s unruly hair is tamed, falling in waves around his ears. He’s freshly shaven and smells divine. And the tuxedo. My goodness, just seeing him dressed like this is making me faint. It’s impeccable, tailored to his tall, muscular body so it skims his broad shoulders and tapers in at his trim waist. He’s wearing a black bow-tie and black shoes buffed to a luster. His cufflinks that peek out of his tuxedo jacket are shiny silver.
When I find my voice, I manage to ask, “Am I black-tie appropriate?”
“There isn’t a single person attending tonight who will match you for beauty,” Ben says, then he bows his head and lifts my hand to his lips.
I blush like mad but cover it with a laugh. “Come on, your majesty.”
“‘You majesty’ is my cousin. I’m just Ben.”
That gives me pause. “Wait. Really?”
Ben quirks a delicious smile. “On my mum’s side.” Ben extends his arm, and I take it gratefully. Honestly, I’m feeling a bit light-headed.
And that doesn’t improve when Ben helps me into his car then drives us to a private airfield. Out on the runway, there’s a small jet idling.
I stare a Ben with my heart thumping madly. “Where is this gala again?”
Ben looks at me with another wicked grin. “San Francisco. Didn’t I say?”
I nearly squeak with surprise. Ben laughs and jogs around the car to open my door. He nods at someone across the runway, and a door opens in the jet and stairs are rolled up to the machine. I duck my head into the small jet and actually squeak. It’s private, with four club chairs and rich mahogany tables in between.
We sit in silence for a few minutes as the plane taxis and takes off, then I can’t hold back any longer.
“Ben,” I say. “I know what happened. With Shelby.”
Ben looks down at his lap for a moment. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything earlier. I’ve been so selfish about my memories of her, but you deserved to know the truth.”
I deserve to know the truth … a truth he has guarded from everyone else in the U.S. And yet, he’s confided in me. My heart flutters in my chest, but I don’t give myself time to think about what it means. Underneath the fluttering in my heart is a twist in my stomach. He deserves to know the truth about Jess and the bet too. But I don’t want to make what we have awkward, and besides, it all seems so inconsequential now. We’re together now because we want to be; it doesn’t matter how we started. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I focus on Ben, on the tight line of his jaw and the hardness of his mouth—but now I don’t see anger or arrogance, I see a man wearing a mask to protect his heart.
“Is that why you came to the U.S.? To get away from the tabloid coverage?”
Ben’s hands where they grip the side of his chair have gone tight. “It was awful,” he says, almost to himself. “Mates I’d known since childhood sold me out to the papers. They were always there, always looking for a reason to judge me guilty in the press.” He looks up suddenly. “You have to know. None of what they said—”
I stop him with a hand covering one of his, comforting him. “I know.”
“It’d always been her dream to travel around the U.S. after college, to maybe even settle here. I latched onto that, thought I could honor her memory if I did the trip she couldn’t. I thought it’d keep her in my life longer, but it just made me miserable. But I couldn’t go home, not after how my parents treated us, treated me after her death. I’d just enrolled for my final year of college where I’d stopped traveling, and then Coach Prescott found me.”
Ben stops with a big breath. It’s more than I’ve ever heard him speak at one time. He seems drained, but lighter at the same time. He turns his hand over so our palms press together and twines his fingers with mine. I squeeze his hand, take a breath, and tell him about Yaya.
We talk the entire flight, and it all goes by so quickly I blink wide when the pilot comes over the intercom to tell us to fasten our safety belts. The one thing I haven’t asked, that I won’t, is if he’s over Shelby. Because I realize he doesn’t have to be over her. She will always have a place in his heart. But that doesn’t mean there’s not room for me too.
There’s a car waiting for us at the small, private airport north of San Francisco, and we’re whisked away over the Golden Gate Bridge to a Victorian ma
nsion perched near the very edge of the continent. The sun is sinking toward the horizon, making the world around us glow as we walk up the steps to the gala.
Tinkling music and talk wafts out the large, open door to the home, and a man in a black suit and white gloves stands at the top of the steps. My heart, which has been thumping since the moment I decided to take this chance, flips over in my chest. I can’t help but feel, for one awful moment, like an imposter. Ben’s world, I’m quickly learning, is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
Ben slips his arm around me and settles his hand at the small of my back, settling me. Claiming me, in a way. With smooth movements, he pulls a card out of his pocket and presents it to the man at the door. The man’s quick eyes flick over the creamy paper—embossed, I see, with a crest that says Empire Society and addressed to Lord Mayhew—then stands back to let us through.
It’s the smell that hits me first. Roses, verdant and softly floral. There are arrangements everywhere, and more black-suited waiters holding trays of champagne and canapés. Ben only takes his hand off my back to accept two flutes for us, then tips the lip of his glass toward mine.
“To understanding, at last,” he says, and his voice is deep and rich and rumbles all the way to my core.
My heart jumps, and I finally put name to what I’m feeling. Love. I’m falling in love with this man. Not the arrogant football player or the terse Brit, but Ben. Witty, intelligent, deeply emotional Ben.
It takes me a moment to recover, to gather my senses about me, then I smile wide—a smile because it’s what I want … he’s what I want—and toast to him. To us.
The champagne makes me feel light as air and golden. Arm in arm, we wander deeper into the house, toward the sound of music. Every so often, someone stops Ben to say hello and inquire after his family, and I just stand at his side and marvel at just how … posh he sounds. My God, just hearing him exchange pleasantries in that voice of his is tipping my arousal high.
And then we glide into the ballroom, and I nearly come undone. An orchestra plays in one corner, and couples are swirling elegantly across the floor. It’s not a large room, but it’s surrounded in gilt-framed mirrors that bounce the movement and soft light off each other until the dance appears infinite.
