Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
“Corporate law group, I know.” I swallow hard and tell myself to be brave. “But I want to hear about you, Sam. Not work. I know we had that argument, but I never meant for you to pull away.”
I showed her a sliver of the pieces I keep tucked away from everyone else and she punished me for it. She’s still punishing me for it.
“That’s the problem, Harriet.”
“What is?”
“When I tell you about work, I am telling you about me.” Her eyes dart away again, and I don’t have to turn to look over my shoulder to follow her gaze.
My mother and father are holding court in the middle of the room, guests flocking to them like moths to a flame.
“I’m doing really well right now and things feel good. I don’t want to mess it up.”
“Mess it up,” I repeat numbly.
Samantha takes a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I’m in a good place. I don’t need the family drama to distract me from my goals.”
A laugh catches in my throat. “Oh, okay. You don’t want me to mess it up.”
She shakes her head, frustrated. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Yes, it is,” I reply, fighting hard to keep control of my voice. “It’s exactly what you meant. All I’ve ever done is try to be exactly what everyone needs. Instead, this family treats me like I’m a disaster. I don’t understand what I’ve done.”
Color blooms in her cheeks. “You really think you tried, Harriet? You hit one roadblock and you threw everything away. You have no idea what I’ve gone through trying to smooth over the damage you’ve done.”
I angle my face away, feeling like I’ve been slapped. It wasn’t one roadblock. It was a perpetual bad fit. I chose my own happiness, not the destruction of some false legacy. If she knew me the way I thought she did, she’d see that.
I swallow, meeting Samantha’s gaze with difficulty. “And then you threw me away when I couldn’t play pretend anymore. Wouldn’t want anything to rock your boat with Mom and Dad, am I right?”
I’ve been trying to cross the chasm between us for months, but I’m the only one reaching across.
Sometimes bridges aren’t meant to be rebuilt.
The idea that I was making things difficult for her while trying to mend our relationship is unbearable.
My mother believed me to be selfish and cruel for years. I suppose she’s not the only one.
It’s just like I said to my aunt Matilda. I don’t fit.
I’ve never fit. Maybe I need to stop trying.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, already scanning the crowd for Nolan.
The quartet has just started up what sounds like Ariana Grande’s “Santa Tell Me” and there is an alarming amount of retirement-aged law people grinding on the dance floor.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say.
“We don’t—we don’t have to talk at all.” I spot him on the opposite side of the bar from where he said he’d be, a thunderous expression on his face.
I meet Samantha’s eyes again, my anger leaving me in a rush. Instead, there’s just exhaustion. I force a smile. “I really am happy for you, Sam. And I wish you the best.”
I turn to leave, but Samantha grabs my hand.
“Harriet, wait.” My heart gives a hopeful flutter in my chest. “The family picture is in a few minutes. Mom will want you to stay.”
I blink at her, my hope turning to ash.
“Right,” I say. How could I forget? My mother’s favorite performance of the night. When she artfully arranges us in front of the Christmas tree and links her arm through mine, pretending like she’s never been happier. “I’ll meet you over there.”
Samantha’s mask slips. “Harriet,” she says again, only for it to be repeated louder and with far more venom six feet behind me.
“Harriet,” my mother whisper-seethes, marching across the dance floor in her stilettos. She smiles politely at every person she passes, but spares no kindness for me. She curls her fingers around my arm and tugs me close. “Where on earth did you find that man and why is he here?”
My attention darts over her shoulder to Nolan, bewildered. We make eye contact and his eyebrows fall in a heavy line. He takes a sip of his drink, then sets it to the side. He slowly starts making his way to me.
“I told you. He’s my friend.”
I thought Nolan would be able to evade questions with whatever ghostly smoke cloud he carries with him. But my mother is laser focused on his presence. I guess that’s another thing that’s changing for him.
My mother’s face pinches. “He’s rude, is what he is. Do you know what he said to me?”
A hot flare of protective irritation swells within me. Whatever Nolan said, I have no doubt she deserved or instigated it in some way. I yank my arm out of her grip.
“I don’t care what he said.”
She gapes at me. I’ve never talked back to my mother in my life.
It’s oddly … freeing.
“What on earth is this attitude?”
“My attitude. My hair. My dress. My date. Are there any other transgressions you’d like to add to the list tonight?”
She rears back, offended. “What’s gotten into you?”
I think about that little girl with a wooden boat clenched tight in her first. For the first time in my life, I think I’ve gotten into me.
“Everything all right?” Nolan asks, coming to my side, his hand finding it’s usual spot against the small of my back. I try to ground myself. I didn’t come here to argue. I didn’t come here to make a scene.
I came because I thought I was holding a door open, but the hinges broke off long ago. There’s no point in forcing a relationship with people who don’t want it.
“Everything is fine,” I say, tired down to my very bones. “You okay?”
Some of the tension melts from his face. “All is well, love. You ready to go home?”
Love. Home. The words sound like a wish I made upon a star. I want to curl my fingers around them and press them into my skin so that when he’s gone and I’m alone I can remember what it felt like to be adored. If only for a little bit.
“Yeah.” I give him a small smile. “Let’s go home.”
“Absolutely not,” my mother interjects, grabbing for my wrist again. I don’t know if she intends to hold me against my will, or if she just wants my attention. Either way, it’s wildly out of character for my composed mother. Her nails bite into my skin. “We haven’t taken the family picture.”
Nolan’s face darkens.
“I suggest you take your hands off her.”
“And I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself about my daughter.” My mom’s eyes flash, more uncharacteristic emotion breaking through. “I believe you’ve said quite enough for one evening.”
I tug myself out of my mother’s grip, tucking my palm protectively over the half-moon marks. I had low expectations, but this evening has been a disaster. None of it has gone the way I thought.
And yet, it’s hard to be concerned about what my family will think of me when I already know they think the worst. Why not try something new? Why not try … not trying?
“What did you say to her?” I ask Nolan.
“He called me a fool,” my mother rushes to answer. “Never in my life have I been treated—”
“I said she was foolish,” Nolan corrects, his attention unwavering on me. “I said she was foolish to have the incredible privilege of being loved by you, only to ignore it in favor of criticism.” His eyes snap up to my mother and hold. “That is what I said. Exactly.”
My mother halves the space between them, getting in his face as much as is polite in Annapolis high society. “And what gives you the right to say such things? You don’t know anything about our relationship.”
“I know enough,” he says simply. He’s seen enough.
I place my palm against his chest. I’m afraid if I examine what he just said too closely, I’ll split at the seams right here at the edge of the dance floor.
No one’s ever defended me before.
“I’d like to go home now,” I tell him, my voice tight.
He nods, splitting his attention between me and my mother. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” I swallow heavily and touch a trembling hand to my cheek. My face is numb. My fingers are cold. There’s a buzzing in my ears that’s growing louder as the pressure in my chest builds and builds. I’m standing at the edge of something. I’m about to clip my own wings and see how far I fall.
“Could you grab my coat?” I ask. “I’ll meet you by the door.”
He looks like he wants to protest. I squeeze his hand. “Please,” I add. “Aye, all right,” he says. He lingers for another moment, then leans forward and brushes his mouth right above my ear. His magic skims my neck in reassurance, lighter than his touch and twice as warm.
“I’ll be waiting.”
“We still haven’t taken the picture,” my mother says, keeping her face carefully neutral as Nolan makes his way around the dance floor.
The “Waltz of the Flowers” from The Nutcracker drifts lazily around us and I almost laugh.
I feel like a flower. Something delicate, bending toward the light on my trembling stem.
Always trying so damn hard to be seen. To grow.
To build a bouquet and flourish within the group.
I’m so damn tired.
“I think I’m going to pass this year,” I tell her, working hard to stand my ground.
Even though I know it’s the right thing, it’s still a difficult thing, and my heart and my head are screaming at me to smooth the edges.
Fix it. Make everyone else comfortable. I push down against that feeling and ball my hands into fists.
“I know I’ve made some choices in my life that you’ve disagreed with, but I like what I’ve built for myself.
It’s okay if you don’t want to be a part of it, but don’t—don’t make me out to be a horrible person just because I chose something different than what you wanted.
I’m tired of being diminished for some imaginary sin.
I’m tired of having to beg for your attention.
I try so hard and for what? You don’t even notice.
I wish you would be honest with me instead of”—I gesture around us at the ornate dining room—“whatever this is.”
This entire song and dance. This senseless hope that I can somehow turn myself into someone my family likes. That with enough pressure and positive thinking, I can subdue all of my quirks and idiosyncrasies and be someone they’re proud of. That I’m one conversation starter away from fitting in.
“I suppose I’m to blame, yes?” A bored expression settles across her face. “I’m a horrible mother? I’ve done this to you? Your aunt Matilda would never. Is that right?”
My heart turns over in my chest, disappointment a fist around that vital organ. I’m being the most honest I’ve ever been, and she’s still not listening.
I cast a quick look at Samantha, but she’s staring holes into her perfectly sensible stilettos. I’m alone in this conversation, just as I’ve always been.
“I’m not placing blame,” I say as patiently as I can manage. “I’m sharing how I feel.”
“You’re being sensitive,” my mother snaps.
“Then I guess I’m sensitive,” I reply. “I’m sensitive, and I’m softhearted, and I’m emotional, and I’m probably delicate, too.
I cry during sad commercials and I say sorry all the time—most of the time for reasons I can’t articulate.
I never wanted to be a lawyer. I hate arguing.
This conversation right now is killing me because I just want to give you what you want from me until this feeling in the middle of my chest goes away. ”
My hands clench into fists, the words coming faster.
“So, yes. I care too much. I’ve always cared too much.
I’m irresponsible. I eat cake for breakfast. I feed my neighbor’s cat and my Band-Aids usually have some sort of Disney princess on them.
I’m colorful and sentimental, and I—I like these things about myself.
I like my cluttered shop and I like my tiny house filled with things that make me happy.
I like my hair when it’s curly. I like this dress.
And I like that man waiting patiently at the door for me, despite what I’m sure was an overt attempt to chase him off.
” I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back.
“This is who I am. I’m proud of it. You can choose to know me, or not.
But it’s up to you now. I won’t be trying any longer. ”
My mother firms her jaw. “If you walk out that door now, you won’t have another chance.”
I smile tightly. Once upon a time, that statement probably would have devastated me. But now?
I lean forward and brush a quick kiss to my mother’s cheek. I don’t need another chance to force someone to love me.
“I think I’m okay with that.”