14. Lily
Lily
A few hours in Gage’s presence, and I’m a mess.
How did I forget I was naked?
When Nads pointed that out, I freaked out and ended the video call.
She’s seen me in my birthday suit before, but not after I had pleasured myself. That’s a little too intimate.
I jump into a pair of shorts and pull a t-shirt over my head, before calling her back.
“ Bonsoir, Nads, ” I say.
Translation: Good evening, Nads.
“ Bonjour à toi, ” Nads says.
Translation: Good morning to you.
I frown. “It’s eleven p.m. LA time, what time is it in Paris?”
“It’s eight in the morning.”
“Oh, you’re right.”
She laughs. “Glad to see you’re more presentable.”
“Sorry, I lost my head there for a minute.”
“No one can blame you. You’ve had a cruel day.
It’s a girl’s worst nightmare to arrive at her destination sans luggage.
” She shakes her head and makes a tsking sound.
“What’s the point of paying a premium to be seated in First Class if the airline company can’t even get their act together so that your luggage makes it? ”
I roll my eyes. “Exactly.”
“On the plus side, it was an excuse to go shopping.”
“It was.”
“Please tell me LA isn’t sunny all the time,” she says, “because it’s been raining cats and dogs here in Paris for the last week or so. Hence why I’m wearing this”—she pulls at her white sweatshirt—“instead of a cute little top like yours.”
The sweatshirts were gag gifts from last Christmas. We exchanged personalized Vogue cover sweatshirts. Hers has my face. Mine has hers.
“Okay, I’ll lie and tell you, LA isn’t sunny all the time.”
“God, I hate you,” she says, mustering a menacing stare.
“Muah!” I send her a Hollywood kiss. “Love you, too, babe.”
“Moving right along.” She rolls her eyes. “How was shopping in LA, versus New York, London, or Paris?”
“Different cities, different experiences,” I say. “Beverly Hills is the height of opulence.”
“If you end up going to school in Los Angeles, I’m visiting for sure,” she says.
“You better.”
She grins.
“Speaking of which, how was tonight’s event?” I’m about to respond, but she lifts a hand. “Bravo on the couture.”
“You didn’t mind the dozen selfies I sent?”
She shakes her head. “I was able to admire the dress from every angle.”
“You’re such a good friend. ”
“And you—” she points a finger at me—“were as glam as a Hollywood movie star.”
I beam. “I felt like one.”
“You were totally giving off vibes of a blue-eyed Jane Russell.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“I’m serious.”
More beaming on my part.
“You wore the necklace.”
My hands touch it. “I wanted to show it off.”
“Did anyone ask you about it?”
“A flamboyant blonde agent I was talking to inquired about the name and address of my jeweler in Paris.”
“Did you tell her who designed it?”
“No. It’s still my secret to keep.”
“ Oh là là .” Nadine huffs in exasperation.
“That’s what you should be focusing on now that you’re back in America.
Not fulfilling your father’s self-serving wishes.
Instead of buying a PR agency and putting you ‘in charge’”—the fingers of one hand form air quotes—“why not place a lackey he can control in the top position and call it a day?”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“You’re willing to go that far so your own father accepts you? That’s fucked up. Your insensitive older brother goes out of his way to ignore you. You think he’s going to warm up to you when you start working for him?”
My shoulders slump.
“Lily, these people don’t care about you. They’re going to use you and break your heart.”
“I keep hoping things will change,” I say.
“The mighty Fisher Edgington couldn’t be bothered remembering his only daughter’s twenty-first birthday, Lily.”
I shrug.
“My father has his cross to bear, but he was there when I hit that milestone four months ago.”
I know. I was there, envying your good fortune.
She soldiers on. “You’re more than une batarde . You’re his daughter. His blood runs through your veins.”
I keep hoping he’ll stop treating me like his bastard child, but so far, my wish hasn’t been granted.
“I’m being harsh,” she says, “but I’m the only person who cares about you, and we’re not even related by blood.”
I don’t have a comeback because she’s right.
Nadine Whelan and I are both batardes ––the product of an affair.
Our fathers and their families have treated us as such.
The nonexistent relationship she was accustomed to with her dad has been transforming into a something civil.
She still isn’t sure what happened, but it’s as if one day, he had a change of heart.
I was hoping my father would wake up to an epiphany, but it looks like that’ll never happen. I’m still the dirty little secret that allowed his ex-wife to walk out with half his fortune thanks to an ironclad prenup.
Je suis la bête noire .
Translation: I’m the black sheep.
“Until I agree to a school, there’s still time for me to change my mind about heading the PR company my father wants to buy,” I say.
“Why not put your foot down now? Do what you were born to do.”
She’s been adamant about this since I discovered my father’s real agenda in summoning me back to New York.
He had my future mapped out, including schools I should check out.
He never once asked if I had other aspirations for myself.
Knowing that none of my father’s dreams for me include anything I remotely want, cuts deep.
It’s as if he’s cashing in his chips, requesting payback for supporting me financially since my mom died.
Putting my foot down, could mean him turning his back on me.
“I was hoping my return to New York would be the beginning of a father-daughter relationship and the opportunity to form a closer bond with my half-brothers.”
Nads stares at me long and hard.
Her lips part in a sad smile. “If anyone on this planet understands your desperate need to be accepted by someone you share DNA with, it’s me.
Had my father not had his come-to-Jesus moment, I was done begging for him to give me the time of the day.
He might not shower me with love––I’ll never get that from him––but he no longer ignores my existence.
I don’t care if my half-sisters and half-brothers still lift their noses at me.
Papa and I have a weekly standing lunch date.
He’s making an effort. It’s the beginning of something.
I’m more than an expense line on his ledger his Champs élysées accountant has to finesse to camouflage an oopsie baby the President was supporting.
” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her gaze darts over my face, and something passes over her brown eyes.
I brace myself.
“I’m not going to even bother to bring your half-brothers into the equation, because they’re morons. But you have to decide when you’re no longer willing to grovel for your father’s love.”