Chapter 5
Chapter Five
ISABELLE
I’m grinning as I stare at the Congrats, you published your event! message on my laptop screen.
This year, I’m hosting a small-scale fashion show, which is now less than four months away. It’s been my dream to do this since I was a teenager, and a glimmer of pride flashes in my chest because I’m one step closer to making it a reality.
I take out my mile-long to-do list. The only items I’ve ticked off so far are finalizing my designs, locking in a date and time, booking a venue, and publishing the event online.
With my budget, I rented a cute little warehouse in Manhattan for the night.
There’s still a ton of logistics left, like getting models, putting together my playlist, arranging catering.
I have plenty of time, but I want to look back on it and be proud that I put in my all.
I open Instagram on my phone and am about to switch to my business account to do a marketing post, announcing my event, when a post from one of my high school classmates catches my eye.
Summerhurst High Reunion.
A high school reunion? This is a first.
After reading the event details, I scroll through the comments. One from Aaron, tagging Jackson’s handle, stands out: Just in time for Jackson’s arrival!
I snicker. Jackson didn’t even graduate from Summerhurst High since he moved to London during our junior year.
Just as I’m about to click off the post, my eyes zero in on Jackson’s handle like it’s calling my name.
Don’t let the temptation get to you.
I swallow.
Just a little peek. It can’t hurt, right?
Don’t do it.
My finger promptly taps on his handle, and I let out a defeated sigh. So much for not giving in to the temptation.
There are a few photos from Jackson’s time in London, and he’s wearing a suit in most of them.
The rest, and the majority of his photos, are beautiful architectural shots—buildings, bridges, and cool-looking spiral staircases.
I don’t know if he took them, but if he did, he has a good eye for detail.
Scrolling down to his older posts, I notice there’s only one photo of his time at Summerhurst High—a smiling shot of him at one of our speech and debate tournaments.
I remember stalking his profile back when we were in school, and he had more posts back then, so he must’ve deleted most of his pictures from Summerhurst High.
My eyes squint at the tournament photo more closely, and I realize something.
I’m in the photo.
Specifically, I’m not posing with him, but I’m somewhere in the background, talking to someone.
My finger moves to zoom in on the photo, and that’s when I commit the biggest social media faux pas.
I accidentally like the photo.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
My eyes widening in horror and my heart skipping a beat, I immediately unlike the post, exit his page faster than an athlete sprinting across the finish line for a race, and pray with all of me to the social media gods that Jackson won’t get a notification from my little mishap.
To my dismay, a new Instagram message from username @JacksonCarter shows up on my screen less than thirty seconds later.
Jackson
Did you have fun stalking my account?
My embarrassment instantly disintegrates, a scowl taking over my face. Most people would let accidentally liking someone’s photo slide and act as though nothing happened. Not Jackson. He’s never going to let this go.
I’m still scowling as I type my response and hit Send.
Me
I was only looking for blackmail material
The little Seen note pops up in our chat thread, and I move from my desk to sit on my bed, holding my breath in anticipation.
However, after an entire minute of staring blankly at my screen, there’s still no reply.
Jackson left me on read when I might or might not have been hoping for another response from him.
Gah. What is wrong with me?
A new message appears on my screen.
Jackson
You really are secretly obsessed with me.
It is game on.
Me
Your ego keeps getting bigger
Jackson
Great to know that the 30 minutes I spend admiring myself in the mirror every day is paying off.
Me
You mean 300 minutes?
Jackson
Damn. You got me there.
A snort trickling from my mouth, I send him a thumbs-up emoji.
Moments later, there’s a new notification that @JacksonCarter has started following my account, coupled with another message from him.
Jackson
Bet you’re too scared to follow me back, Isabella.
I press my teeth together. Me, scared? As if. Game on. Challenge accepted.
With that, I head to his profile and aggressively tap the Follow Back button.
My phone starts ringing, and a heaviness wraps around my body when I see the caller is my mom. Jane Wong calling usually means business.
I take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, Isabelle.” Her brisk, no-nonsense voice rings out. “Are you free tonight at six? Your dad and I are planning a family dinner. Your sister says she has some important news to share.”
“Sure,” I say, ignoring the pang of dread that hits my stomach. “I have a work call at five, so if that goes overtime, I might be a little late.”
“For your barista job?”
“No, for my business. I’m getting my website redesigned and—”
“Just put that on my desk, thanks,” I hear Mom say to someone in the background. She must be working in her office and multitasking while talking to me.
“Never mind,” I mutter, more so to myself.
“What were you saying?” Mom asks.
I bite my lip. “It’s nothing important.”
You probably wouldn’t care anyway.
Growing up, I envied my peers who were close to their moms. My Asian mother was—and still is—strict and traditional, and it didn’t help that I broke her no dating in high school rule.
While I appreciate that we grew up in different generations and countries, I just wish she’d try to understand me more sometimes.
A pause ensues on the other end of the line.
“I have to go to a meeting now, but I’ll see you tonight.” Mom’s tone is softer this time—or maybe I imagined that—and then she ends the call before I can say goodbye.
I guess I’ll have to wait to see whatever news my sister has to share.
An overpowering spicy scent of perfume surrounds me as Ivy, my older sister and golden child of the Curtis-Wong family, props herself in the chair next to mine. She tosses her hair and faces our parents.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone!” she chirps. “Gosh, work was so busy today. I was in back-to-back meetings all day.”
Ivy and I have the same hair color—dark brunette, almost black—and same brown eyes. However, that’s where our similarities end. At five-eight, she’s five inches taller than me, and with her height and sharp cheekbones, she looks like a model.
Unfortunately, outer beauty doesn’t necessarily equate to inner beauty.
“That’s understandable,” Mom says.
I grab a pair of tongs from the oak dining table, serving myself some chicken breast and potatoes.
I ended up arriving on time for dinner, but I have a feeling that if I had showed up fifteen minutes late instead of Ivy, I would’ve gotten a lecture about the importance of punctuality.
“Hope work went well, Ives,” Dad chimes in.
Ivy beams as she helps herself to some salad. “It was good, thanks. How did the Robinson matter go today, Dad?”
“Well, I’m glad you asked.” Dad pauses as he glances around the table, presumably for dramatic effect. “Because the judge ruled in favor of my client,” he says with a wink.
“Fantastic news, honey!” Mom gushes. “All your hard work on that case paid off.”
“A wonderful outcome, Dad!” Ivy echoes.
“That’s awesome, Dad,” I say.
I have no idea what the Robinson case is about, but I know how passionate Dad is about his work, and I’m happy for him.
“Thanks, everyone,” Dad cheerily says. He turns to Mom with a proud look on his face. “Your mother actually has an exciting update, too.”
Mom straightens in her seat. “Well, yesterday, I received an invitation to speak at a panel event at Columbia Law School about cybersecurity in the legal profession.”
Dad’s grin is wide. “You’ll have to send us a recording of your talk.”
“That’s so amazing, Mom,” Ivy adds.
“It’ll be great to be back at our alma mater,” Mom says. “And, yes, the event will be recorded.”
In case it’s not already obvious, I come from a family of lawyers and high-achievers. My mom was an international student from Hong Kong, and she met Dad at law school. Ivy is also a lawyer and attended the same law school our parents did.
Growing up, Ivy would always be winning gold—whether it was school, grades, or extracurriculars—while I was just … there, mediocre and going for copper.
The only exceptions were the few times I beat Jackson at something. Ironically, despite the environment I grew up in, he was the only person who compelled me to be competitive academically.
“What about you, Belle?” Dad asks, cutting a piece of his chicken. “How’s your business going?”
I put down my fork and swallow the bite of chicken in my mouth. “It’s been good. I’m actually …”
Hosting my first-ever fashion show.
For some reason, the words become stuck in my mouth when I glance around the table. The look on Dad’s face tells me he’s listening, but there’s a raised brow on Mom’s face, and Ivy looks bored, picking at her vegetables with her fork.
What would my family think about my fashion show? Would they think it’s a bad idea since I’m only running a small business right now?
I bite my lip as an empty feeling forms in the pit of my stomach. “I’m … working on some new designs.”
Dad nods encouragingly. “That’s great, Belle.”
I give him a small smile. “Thanks, Dad.”
Ivy clears her throat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I think now might be the time to share my news.”
We all turn to her. My guess is that she got promoted at work or something.
Ivy leans forward in her seat, flashing her left hand for us to see. It’s only then that I notice the large diamond ring on her finger.
“Ben proposed to me last night! I wanted to tell you all in person. You can expect invites to our engagement party soon!”
Ivy met Ben at the law firm they both work at, and they’ve been dating for about a year. I’ve only seen the guy once or twice, and for some reason, he gives me weird vibes, though I can’t pinpoint exactly why.
“Oh my goodness, I’m going to be a grandmother soon!” Mom gushes, her face bursting with happiness and pride as she puts down her cutlery. “I can’t believe my daughter is getting married.”
Ivy laughs. “It’s going to be a while before we plan on having kids.”
“That’s such exciting news, Ives!” Dad grins. “Congratulations.”
“Congrats, Ivy,” I add.
“Thanks, everyone,” Ivy says.
There’s some more chatter about Ivy and Ben and the story of how he proposed to her while I sit there, munching on my chicken.
“How about you, Belle?” Dad suddenly asks me with a smile. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”
“I’ve been busy with work, and I haven’t put much effort into dating,” I say.
It’s not a lie. Between running my business, working at The Daily Brew, and now preparing for my fashion show, I’ve barely had time to meet new people, let alone go on dates.
Besides, it’s easier to just live vicariously through the love lives of my favorite fictional characters instead—at least I won’t get heartbroken that way.
Dad nods and gives me another smile. I think it’s supposed to be reassuring, but all I see are pity and sympathy. Or maybe I’m just too sensitive.
“Define busy,” Ivy mutters under her breath, so quiet that I don’t think our parents hear.
My grip on my fork tightens, but I tell myself it’s not worth it to let her get to me.
“Ivy is getting married, and you should start thinking about these kinds of things, too, Isabelle,” Mom adds, reaching for her napkin. “You haven’t been with anyone new since Oliver.”
A sharp, tense silence hangs in the air, save for the sound of the wall clock ticking. Discomfort slices through me like a knife, cutting me into pieces until I feel small and pathetic.
Two years ago, Oliver broke up with me over text, then ghosted me afterward. I cried myself to sleep for nights on end, wondering what I’d done wrong and why we couldn’t talk things out. He was my first boyfriend, first kiss, first everything, and we’d dated for six years.
My business was still in its inception stage, and it was the only thing that kept me going, motivating me to push through the sadness and work on building something future me would hopefully be proud of.
Now, Oliver’s just another blocked number on my phone. I heard he’d moved to San Francisco and then back to New York, but his life doesn’t concern me anymore.
“Come on, Jane. Don’t be like that!” Dad exclaims. “You know Oliver was an ass.”
A small smile creeps up my lips. Dad never swears, and I think ass might be the only exception.
Mom heaves a sigh. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s fine,” I quietly say.
Ivy jumps in and starts giving us an overview of her engagement party plans while I continue eating in silence, feeling like an outsider in my family home.
At certain points, I catch Mom staring at me with what I’m sure is a judgmental look in her eyes. Nothing I do will be good enough for her. From that day in senior year, when I told her I didn’t want to pursue a career in law, I was deemed a disappointment to the family.
And I’m not sure if that’s ever going to change.