Chapter 30 I’m Good at Reading
There it was.
The real reason she had been waiting for me.
I turned fully toward her, letting her think I might actually listen. Inside, everything had already snapped into place.
I met her eyes.
“What kind of something?”
Marissa cleared her throat and lifted the stack of papers, tapping it lightly against her palm.
“It’s for your health insurance,” she said, voice softening into that artificial motherliness she’d been practicing lately. “Now that you’re eighteen, the policy needs updating so you stay covered under your father’s plan.”
I stepped closer to her.
“My insurance?”
“Yes,” she said quickly, nodding too many times. “Just a standard transition form. It’s nothing complicated.”
She held up the first page, angled so I could see. At a glance, it looked legitimate.
Dense text. Official formatting. A bold header with the insurance provider’s name and logo. Words like Dependent Coverage Continuation and Consent Authorization printed cleanly at the top.
In the past, I would’ve signed without thinking. Grateful. Obedient. Blind.
Not anymore.
“In plain terms,” she continued, “you sign, you stay covered. Doctor visits, emergencies, prescriptions. Same as before. I already filled everything out, just need your signature on a few pages.”
“I’ll take them,” I said.
Her fingers tightened around the papers.
“What? You just need to sign here,” she said, tapping the bottom of the first page. “And here, and here on the next few pages.”
I reached out again.
“I’ll take them upstairs,” I said lightly. “I’ll read them over before signing.”
Her smile faltered. “Ashley, there’s nothing to read. It’s boilerplate. Legal jargon. You’ll just stress yourself out.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m good at reading.”
She laughed lightly, but it came out sharp.
“There’s no need to complicate this. I’ve handled insurance paperwork for years.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I want to see it.”
I reached for the papers.
She didn’t let go.
“This is time-sensitive, Ashley,” she insisted. “It needs to be signed tonight. The deadline is—”
“Then I should read it now,” I said, tugging once more.
For a brief moment, it was ridiculous, two women having a tug-of-war with a stack of papers.
Then she snapped.
Literally.
With a sharp jerk, Marissa snatched the papers back, hugging them to her chest.
“Actually—” she said, forcing a laugh. “Actually, I… I forgot something.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Forgot what?”
She looked down at the stack, flipping through as if expecting to find the answer printed there.
“There’s a form missing,” she muttered. “Yes. I didn’t attach the… ah… primary care authorization page.”
Right.
Sure.
“I’ll fix it,” she said briskly, already stepping backward. “I’ll add the missing paperwork and bring everything to you tomorrow. It’ll be much simpler that way.”
Then, before I could say anything else, she turned sharply and walked down the hallway, the papers clutched in her fist.
I watched her disappear around the corner.
The next morning she came with a folder pressed to her chest.
“Ashley, I fixed the mistake. It’ll only take a second, sweetheart.”
She stepped inside before I could answer.
I closed my laptop. “May I read it first?”
Her smile faltered, just slightly.
“You don’t trust your own mother?” she said, wounded.
I held out my hand. “Let me see them.”
She opened the folder and sifted through the papers until she pulled out only a few pages, three, maybe four, and handed them over.
“These are the ones you need to sign,” she said. “The rest is just informational.”
I skimmed the first page. Then the second.
These ones looked legitimate: insurance continuation forms, policy updates, nothing obviously damning.
Which meant she hadn’t slipped the real traps in.
Not this time.
She must’ve realized I wasn’t signing anything blindly anymore.
“I’ll read these over tonight,” I said.
“Ashley, really—there’s no need to make this complicated.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just reading.”
“Of course,” she said lightly. “But please don’t delay. It’s important.”
She stood there for another second, watching me like she was calculating whether to push or retreat. Then she smoothed her expression and left.
I waited until her footsteps faded down the hall before opening my drawer and sliding the papers inside.
Unsigned.
I would never sign anything that came from these people.
Later that night Marissa summoned us downstairs.
She stood at the dining table with three glossy binders spread open like she was planning a royal coronation instead of a joint graduation party.
“Okay, girls,” she said, clapping her hands together once. “Let’s finalize everything.”
Apple slid into the chair beside her, already scrolling through her phone. I took the seat across from them.
“Menu,” Marissa began, flipping open the first binder. “I was thinking finger foods. Mini quiches. Smoked salmon crostini.”
Apple looked up immediately. “And the spinach puffs from that bakery? The fancy ones.”
Marissa smiled. “Of course.”
I inhaled. “I don’t really like—”
“We’ll come back to that,” Marissa said lightly, already flipping the page.
Of course we would.
Music came next.
Apple didn’t wait for permission. “I’ll perform the pieces from my Juilliard submission. People loved them.”
“Perfect,” Marissa murmured, making a note. “We’ll schedule your performance halfway through the evening, once everyone’s arrived.
I nodded once. It wasn’t worth commenting.
Decorations.
Apple tapped at swatches of gold and cream. “These colors make everything look elegant.”
“They’ll photograph beautifully,” Marissa agreed.
I reached toward a darker palette set off to the side. “Maybe something less—”
Marissa didn’t even look at me. “Let’s stay consistent, sweetheart.”
Guest list.
She flipped to a page already filled out. “I’ve invited a few Juilliard contacts and their families. Some donors. People from the conservatory circle.”
Apple beamed.
“What about classmates?” I asked.
Marissa waved her pen vaguely and then reached for her tea.
“Of course all your classmates are on the list.”
She took a sip, eyes skimming the next page of the binder.
I watched her for a moment, then said lightly, as if filling the silence, “By the way—where’s Dad been lately?”
Her hand froze midair.
Apple blinked. “Yeah. He’s been coming home really late.”
I kept my voice neutral. “I was just wondering if he’s working on a big project or something. He’s barely around.”
For half a second, Marissa didn’t breathe.
The smile she’d been wearing didn’t fall, but it tightened, stretched thin across her face.
“He’s busy,” she said. “The company’s been demanding lately.”
Apple frowned. “Busy how?”
Marissa set the cup down with more force than necessary.
“Deadlines. Clients. Expansion talks. You know how these things go.”
Apple accepted that instantly, nodding and returning to her phone without a second thought.
I didn’t.
“Must be exhausting,” I said softly.
Marissa’s jaw tightened. “It is.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying her.
Did she have a clue?
Was she afraid of history repeating itself?