Chapter 13 #2
Mom doesn't ask what I think. "Already decided. The third one. Book Eduardo for two weeks from now. The gala is on Saturday night, so he will need to be there early."
My head snaps toward her. "Saturday night?"
"Yes, dear. The gala is Saturday." Mom scrolls through her phone, completely unbothered.
"I can't do Saturday."
That gets her attention. Her eyes lift, sharp as cut glass. "Excuse me?"
"I have plans. I'm traveling that weekend."
"Traveling." She draws the word out slowly. "To the mountains again, I assume?"
"Yes." Heat floods my cheeks.
"Piper." She sighs, the sound perfected over decades of disappointed motherhood. "This charity event has been on the calendar for months. This is my event. My turn to show what our family is capable of. Surely your little… rustic getaway can wait, huh?"
White-hot fury blazes through my chest, and she notices but doesn't care.
"Come now, dear. The caveman will manage to hunt for himself for one weekend."
The caveman.
Chase, who sends me care packages and leaves notes on mirrors. Chase, who planned an entire spa weekend because I had a bad week. Chase, who makes me feel more loved in two days than she has in twenty-nine years.
"His name is Chase," I bite out.
"Whatever his name is, he'll survive without you." She waves a dismissive hand. "Monique, can we?"
I step onto the raised platform in front of the three-way mirror, and suddenly there are multiple versions of me staring back.
The Whitman daughter. Polished. Perfect. Contained.
She looks beautiful.
Except…
She looks miserable.
"Stunning," Mom declares, circling me like a general inspecting troops. "Monique, the hem needs to come up half an inch. I want it just brushing the floor with heels—Piper, you'll wear the Louboutins, the nude ones with the crystal detail."
Monique kneels gracefully, pins appearing in her hand like magic.
I watch myself in the mirror. Watch the way the dress transforms me into exactly what Mom wants.
What the Whitman name requires.
Caveman.
He’s more man than any society prince Mom pushes my way.
My bag sits on the velvet bench behind me as Monique follows orders. I can see the corner of Chase's flannel peeking out, the one I'd folded carefully this morning and tucked inside because I couldn't bear to leave it at the penthouse.
The hiking boots are in there too. The deep teal ones with coral laces that Chase had laced up himself at the General Store.
My pulse kicks up.
"Actually…" The word comes out before I can stop it.
Mom's head snaps toward me. "Actually what?"
I meet Monique's eyes in the mirror, ignoring Mom.
"Could you hem it for boots instead?"
The room goes silent.
"I'm sorry?" Mom's voice could frost glass, but I don't care.
I step down and reach for my tote. I pull out the hiking boots, and step into them right there, hoisting the dress up and moving back to the platform. The coral laces are still tied from the last hike and there's mountain dirt and muck all over them.
They're perfect.
Monique's lips twitch with amusement. Another stylist across the room turns away, but not before I catch the smile she's fighting.
Mom stares at my feet like I've sprouted a second head.
"Piper. No." Her voice climbs half an octave. "Take those off immediately! You'll scuff the silk. You'll—this is a Valentino—"
"I know what it is."
"Then you know you cannot possibly wear hiking boots to the Whitman Foundation Gala!" She steps closer, her own heels heavy against the marble floor. "You'll be photographed! The images will be in the press, the society blogs—people will talk about this for years!"
I look at myself in the mirror again.
The red silk. The teal boots with their cheerful coral laces.
The version of me that's been hiding in Stone River, laughing over gummy bears and learning to identify wildflowers and falling asleep wrapped in flannel shirts.
That version is bleeding into Chicago.
And I like her.
"Then let's photograph who I really am," I say quietly. "Shall we?"
"No. No!" she manages beneath her fury. "I forbid it! Monique, you will hem it for heels. Piper, take those ridiculous things off so we can discuss this at home."
"There's nothing to discuss." I turn to Monique, whose expression remains professionally neutral. "Do what you like, Monique. I don't give a fuck."
Dear Mother, who's never heard her prim and proper daughter curse, nearly faints right there on the spot.
"But, thank you, Monique. You're very good at your job."
She nods beneath another smile, and I step out of my boots. I change back into my jeans behind the screen, my hands only shaking a little.
When I emerge, Mom's gone.
Her assistant looks uncomfortable. "She said she'll… call you later."
"I'm sure she will."
Monique hands me a card. "We'll have it ready by the gala. And Miss Whitman?" Her eyes crinkle at the corners as she leans in to whisper, "I think the boots are a good choice."
"Thank you," I say.
I slip the card into my tote, right next to Chase's flannel. Outside, the Chicago wind cuts sharp and cold, but I barely feel it.
I reach into my bag's inner pocket and pull out the red gummy bear I saved for if I survived. It sits in my palm for a moment, then I slip it onto my tongue.
I survived.
And standing up to her… it feels like Friday afternoons.
Forever Friday.