Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
With every step, it feels like my feet are stuck in cinder blocks while a mini tornado swirls in my stomach.
Dad turns to me, those broad, trophy-earning shoulders lifting with a sigh. “How are your classes going?”
“They’re going.” I nod, gripping the table behind me.
“I’m setting up that internship interview for you, Will. You know they’re going to ask about your grades.”
As usual, no one can see past the achievement-driven haze in this family, particularly not my dad. He thinks I want the life he’s prescribed for me, probably because I’ve tried so hard to convince my parents and myself that I do.
“All they care about is my last name,” I deflect. My grades are less than stellar at the moment, but I’m certainly not going to be the one to bring that up.
“That name only gets you so far,” he says, frowning.
I cringe internally. “I’m . . . getting by.”
“Are you really? Because I’m not sure how you’re staying focused while doing this.” He holds out his phone and gestures over it.
I reach for it, but I already know what he’s found.
It’s a miracle it took anyone this long. An Instagram following of nearly a hundred thousand is no small accomplishment. Who knew an account about color analysis and which celebrities are wearing their true season would blow up so much?
My thumb trembles as I scroll through the grid of posts. “I know they say everyone has a doppelganger, but this is wild. She looks just like me.”
“Willow.”
“What do you want from me, Dad?” I scoff, handing him the phone. “It’s just an Instagram page. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Willow.” He sighs, the sound of it weighted by disappointment. “I just want you to be successful.”
And all I want is to make him proud by being who I am, but I always come up short.
His head hangs, an inhale lifting his broad shoulders as he finally looks into my eyes. “No more changing majors. I said I’d pay for this degree, but only if you finish it. Promise me there won’t be any more distractions,” he demands, gesturing back to the phone.
The urge to appease him is strong, but I press my lips together and stare back at him, hoping that maybe this time he’ll catch a glimpse of the spark that’s dwindling inside me.
I want to tell him about the call from Fiona Sterling, to watch his eyes light up when he hears that I’ve been selected from a thousand other hopeful applicants.
Because an accomplishment of this magnitude should mean something.
But I might as well save my breath, because it won’t mean anything to him.
My brain finally kicks into damage control, and the words string themselves together as I take a step toward him and lay my hand on his big, burly chest. “This isn’t a big deal. I’ll get it done, and I’ll make you proud…I promise.”
“I know you will, sweetheart. You’d be unstoppable if you’d just finish something.” His hand gives me a brief squeeze, his words leaving a sting as he walks away.
I never intended on being known as a quitter, but my track record hasn’t exactly painted a different picture.
I sigh as I follow my dad to join the buffet line. Glancing around the open-plan kitchen, I realize I’m a bright coral enigma engulfed in a sea of beige. I don’t know why everyone in my family wears neutrals like they’re on the set of a western movie.
If any of them had the boldness to wear a shade beyond “sad oatmeal,” maybe I wouldn’t stand out so much. But being born into this family means pledging your life to trophy worship and zero personality in your wardrobe.
A few of us step forward with the kind of hesitation you’d expect before a firing squad.
It’s really not that bad—we’ve only had one case of food poisoning.
But this is where Aunt Sheri’s purse comes into play.
Lined with a ziplock bag, it’s the lifeboat for those who can’t stomach Mom’s experiments but don’t want a repeat of last year, when everyone refused to try her casserole.
Aunt Sheri is now the most popular member of the family and the treasurer of our biggest secret.
Mom stares down each person who approaches the array of food.
There’s a twinkle in her eyes that I can’t help but admire.
She knows she’s no Michelin-star chef, yet she’s here, boldly daring anyone to utter a word about her culinary attempts at finding purpose after retiring from coaching figure skating.
I scan the room for a seat while comparison-heavy conversation floats around. I pass by my uncles bickering over their recent fish catches on one side of the table, only to hear a gathering of cousins bragging about their run times on the other.
No matter where I go, I can’t escape this world of one-upmanship.
I’m halfway through the sports journalism major that’s slowly killing me with every lecture I attend.
And that’s after switching from sports management, which was before changing over from sports medicine.
There was also sports marketing before that.
To fit into this family, you either join those adding trophies to the line or become well-versed in discussing the skills that got them there.
And I’d rather give away my Poshmark Christian Louboutin heels than do either of those.
I’ve wanted to change my current major so many times, but the one thing holding me back is that look in my father’s eyes, the one that says I’m a disappointment.
Plus, there’s the bit where I’d need to pay him back for an unfinished degree.
So now I juggle both, the thing I can’t quit, and the thing that makes me come alive.
But Fiona’s call is the hand pulling me out of the swamp I’ve been drowning in, offering me a chance at happiness.
Quitting my degree and pursuing image consulting would still leave my family disappointed, but at least I’d feel alive.
And if I want to go any further and take on in-person clients, I’ll need training.
I may have only applied for Fiona’s scholarship after my best friend Hayley basically forced me into it, but now that this opportunity is in front of me, I can’t pass up the chance to learn from the industry icon.
The irony is that the one pursuit I’ve never lost interest in is also the same thing my family doesn’t take seriously.
Color and style are something I finally don’t want to quit, yet my guilty passion has become my biggest secret.
I’ve been working harder than ever, fumbling my way through earning a degree I don’t want while I spend every spare second pouring myself into mini courses and growing my social media, and it’s given me more of a sense of purpose than ever before.
And I’m actually good at it. Hayley has let me tweak her closet, pulling together outfits for job interviews and presentations, and I’ve watched her glow with confidence.
Can I help it that, as much as I try, I’m not interested in any of the things my family values so highly? Or that I can’t seem to evoke the required devotion into my family lore?
Other families take vacations. We take podiums.
That’s a direct quote from my dad.
I settle on an open seat beside my cousin Emily and her new boyfriend, Kyle, aka Dr. Nose Job, intrigued by this non-sports-related addition to the Memorial Day family gathering.
Does he know about the trophy-driven circus he’s entered into? Or is the man unfazed by being in the wrong career for this family, one that requires evidence of athletic accomplishments and a uniform of some color variation of cat vomit?
God, I hope it’s the latter. It would be nice to have someone to look up to.
Emily is poking at her salad with her two-inch, warm nude-colored nails.
The shade does nothing for her obviously cool skin tone, making her appear grey and pasty.
She pauses as her eyes graze over my dress and up to my face, lifting a fork and three talons briefly in my direction. “Kyle, this is my cousin, Willow.”
“Hey.” I smile before Juliet shuffles in beside me.
Great—now the man whose literal job is making people beautiful can compare me to the deluxe version. At least I’m better dressed than my sister is.
Kyle turns to Juliet after Emily introduces them. “Juliet, this might be a weird question, but…is your nose real?”
Juliet giggles. “As real and original as they come.”
“Wow. Can I touch it?”
“Kyle,” Emily huffs. “You’re doing that thing…”
“Babe, she’s got the perfect nose. It’s research.” He shrugs.
Juliet lets out another gentle puff of laughter. “It’s fine, I’ve been told I have great features. Prod away.” She shimmies her shoulders, turning her nose up and leaning an inch closer to Kyle.
Emily resumes poking at the same piece of lettuce as she lazily scrolls on her phone, her nails making a tapping noise.
“Can you breathe?” Kyle questions.
“Uh…yup.”
“Amazing.” He lifts his hands, letting them fall to his man-spread thighs like he can’t believe her nose does what it should.
“So interesting how different features run in the same family,” Kyle muses, his eyes bouncing between my face and Juliet’s. Emily snorts.
Rude.
“So, Kyle, play any sports?” I ask, deciding I’ve had enough of his cataloging my physical discrepancies. “Any notable accolades?”
He lifts a forkful of pink sludge into his mouth. It takes an effort not to laugh at the shudder that runs through his body as he swallows.
“I paid my way through medical school with a football scholarship,” he declares after a second and winks like he knows what I’m really asking. “What’s your field of excellence?”
Again with Emily’s snort. Our similar age means we’ve competed our entire lives, and she’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a true rival. Maybe she’s more of an enemy, since I make the effort to be friendly, while she’s always had a snide remark or some tiny jab to throw at me.
“See those trophies?” Emily gestures behind us, and Kyle nods over another grimace of potato salad. “Willow’s only addition is the itty-bitty thing at the end. She’s trying the academic route now. How many years have you got left, Will?”
That freaking trophy has tormented me. And the nickname.
“And what was your last little horse trophy for, Em? Dressage?” Juliet chimes in, the smile she flashes not reaching her eyes. “Remind me, when was that?”
“I had an injury,” Emily grinds out.
“Seven years ago, wasn’t it?” Juliet lifts one of her perfect brows, ice in her glare.
“Jules, didn’t you just get back from a trip?” I cut in. I love that Juliet is defending my pitiful standing in our family—like I said, sweetest human ever—but every time she sticks up for me, she only highlights my shortcomings.
“We all did.” She clears her throat, her smile turning genuine.
“The cousin white river rafting one. It’s one even you could manage.
You should join us next time. Most of us brought a partner to raft with, but you don’t have to.
They have single rafts, too” She smiles before delicately spearing a piece of lettuce.
“Willow? On a rafting trip?” Emily scoffs. “She’d have to keep a date first. But you’d probably have trouble deciding who to bring, wouldn’t you, Will?”
Sure, I may be a bit of a serial dater, but my dates are casual and fun.
And maybe it’s because I’ve met most of them through my dad, but none of the polo shirt-wearing guys I’ve dated have ever made me consider a real relationship, especially since they tend to think white sneakers pass for dress shoes.
Keeping things surface level is how I like it.
That might make me seem flaky, and yes, like a quitter, but no one gets hurt this way.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I give her a tight smile.
“Nothing,” Emily shrugs, snuggling up to Kyle and acknowledging him as a person for the first time today. “I don’t think you’d last a day on one of our trips, is all, even if you convinced a guy to join you.” A cruel arch tilts her lips as she lifts one brow.
My cheeks flame with heat at her cutting words, but I nod and force another half-smile.
Starting a debate over my reasons for sitting out this year’s family hike will only amplify my feelings of not measuring up.
Emily is too practiced at cattiness, and I’m just a tad too vulnerable to pull off a decent comeback.
I also suspect she thinks I’m judgey, but I just can’t help seeing things the way I do and wanting to appreciate beauty in its many forms. I’m an artist, not an athlete, and on some level, Emily probably envies that.
I stand and lift my chin as I push my shoulders back, deciding to find Giorgio and a quiet space where I’m safe from someone pointing out all my shortcomings.
“Excuse me, there’s an Italian who needs me,” I say, marching out of the room.