Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning when I get downstairs, the Mornings’ house manager, Caleb, is coming inside with one armload of packages and a vase of white roses. The card attached to the roses is boldly addressed to the bride and groom. I stop, waiting for him at the end of the hall.
“Oh, hey, one of those should be mine.”
He examines the packages in his arms, then lifts one arm slightly. “Right here. Second one, looks like.”
I lift the first package, addressed to Marlie, and grab mine, then carefully ease the first one back down. “Thanks. Do you…need any help with these?”
His shoulders roll back, and he hums with amusement. “Thanks, but I’ve got it. Believe it or not, this is a light day.”
He moves past me, and I watch as he makes his way around the corner, down the hall, and up the stairs. Shortly after, I follow, making my own path to my bedroom. I tuck the box inside my suitcase for safekeeping, and a small bit of relief settles low in my stomach.
Downstairs, the breakfast table isn’t set. Instead, Rachelle announces she’s taking her girls out for brunch, her tone bright and cheery—a stark contrast to my own worry. It seems they’ve just been waiting for me.
After gathering our things, we follow her lead to the car like baby ducks, piling into her Lexus.
The morning sun burns my eyes as Rachelle backs down the driveway, belting Ariana Grande.
I force myself not to squint, painfully aware of Rachelle’s eyes on me through the rearview mirror, terrified she might mistake the reaction as a grimace.
I hate myself for still feeling so terrified within this family’s orbit. I belong here. I know I do. And yet, my hands twist in my lap—a small, useless attempt to anchor myself. I always feel like I’m auditioning for my role here, like someday they might tell me I’ve been replaced.
Until then, every movement must be measured, every smile timed.
The restaurant is empty—awkwardly so. Our footsteps echo on the hardwood. The chairs scrape loudly as the waiters pull them out for us. Rachelle moves with ease, her energy commanding the space. I feel a twinge of pressure, an urgency to match her presence, even if the effort is futile.
Once we’re seated, she orders sparkling water and mimosas for the table. She beams at us, almost unattainably elegant, skin glowing from her latest skin treatment.
When the waitress brings our glasses and a selection of artisanal breads with butter, I subtly move my mimosa glass aside, wondering how I’m going to pull off avoiding it all morning without drawing suspicion.
The flute glints in the light, almost accusingly—a beacon of quiet obligation and a reminder that every move I make here is under scrutiny.
Vic is the first to take a bite of the bread.
“Okay, girls, tell me what’s new with each of you. I feel like this week’s been so busy we haven’t had time to chat, just us.” Rachelle clasps her hands in front of her, leaning forward against the table. Her eyes dance over our faces, finally landing on Polly.
“Well.” Polly presses her lips together, resting her chin in her hand. She closes her mouth, clicking her tongue. “Umm… Oh, did I tell you Monty’s grade just did a little class election? He ran a campaign for president, and he won.”
“He did?” Rachelle’s eyes sparkle, a smile tearing across her face. “Oh, of course he did. He is his father’s son.” She taps her nose, then points at Polly. “Those boys…”
“He was very excited.” Polly’s shoulders bounce with a light chuckle.
“Oh, I mean, it doesn’t mean anything—you know, just silly kid stuff.
But I loved seeing him trying for something.
He ran…oh, let’s see…on kids being allowed to…
talk…yes, to talk while they’re walking in line to lunch and being…
able to…um, oh, oh, to choose their own seats in class. ”
Rachelle claps her hands together in front of her face.
“Oh. How precious! I always told Pierce that Preston really should’ve gone into politics.
But you know, he’s had his eye on the prize all his life with the company.
Who knows, maybe Monty will be the one. Pierce Montgomery Morning”—she draws her hands out into a larger square with each word of Monty’s name—“would look great on a campaign sign.”
Polly shifts in her seat. Tugs at the collar of her shirt. Her smile tightens at the edges. “Yeah, maybe.”
Rachelle’s gaze shifts to the next seat—mine. “And, Astrid, how are things with you? Are you still kicking ass and taking names at the nonprofit?”
All eyes at the table fall on me. I dust breadcrumbs from my fingertips and finish chewing.
I’m surprised Simon hasn’t already filled either of his parents in on this.
I didn’t lie to Pierce before because he didn’t outright ask about my job, but I also couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth.
“No.” My face wrinkles with the disappointment I still feel down to my core.
“They downsized in the fall, and the department could only sustain one communications lead. My friend Bonnie needed the job more than I did.” I shrug one shoulder, the lie slipping off my tongue as easily as I could’ve hoped. It doesn’t even taste bitter.
Marlie gives me a pitying look. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I know how much you loved your job.”
“And how good you were at it,” Polly says, patting my hand. “Is there… I mean, could something financially be done to help? A donation? Or…”
“No.” I cut her off quickly. “No. That’s so kind of you, but it’s really okay. I think we all saw the writing on the wall for a while.”
Rachelle draws in her bottom lip. “That’s a shame.”
My eyes twitch through my forced smile. “I was sad for a while, but it just means more resources can go to the kids rather than salaries. I can’t be mad about that.”
Rachelle gives a slow, thoughtful nod, her gaze falling to the table.
She draws in a deep breath, sitting straighter.
There’s a sort of calculation in the pause, something polite and quiet but unmistakably there.
“Well, it’s honestly for the best.” She gestures around at the empty restaurant as proof, a reminder we don’t go anywhere without renting the place out first. “Given your new status.” She wrinkles her nose playfully.
“Of course, if you ever just want something to do for the fun of it, we can find plenty of positions for you within the company. You’ll have trouble working anywhere in public now that you’re a Morning. ”
She’s not wrong, I know. Being a Morning adds several new layers of complications into my life.
Not only with my job, but with the way Simon and I have to move through the world now—how every decision has to be weighed against the family’s best interests, by what the media might say.
How something as simple as the restaurant we’re seen at can have massive implications for his family’s company stocks.
Hell, the fact that his family has company stocks.
All of this is new to me. Foreign. Most days, I still feel as if I’m wearing someone else’s life, waiting for the seam to split.
“Or…” Rachelle’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “I suppose you’re not actually a Morning yet, are you?” She blinks at me, eyes wide and innocent, imploring.
I force a smile, my throat suddenly dry from the bread as my eyes search my sisters-in-law’s, though no one but Rachelle is looking at me now. The silence around the table tightens, and we all pretend not to notice. “In every way that counts, of course I am.”
She rests her chin on her delicate fingers. “Though not legally.”
I could argue, point out that Simon and I are legally married and that makes it as legal as necessary, but there’s no use prolonging this conversation. I know what she means. “No, I still haven’t changed my name.”
Rachelle gives a small sigh, but Marlie cuts off whatever’s coming next. “Mom, did I tell you about Warren’s fraternity brothers’ trip?”
With that, the conversation shifts back into comfortable territory and, at least for the moment, the focus is off me. Relief loosens slightly in my ribs, even as the conversation echoes in my mind, lingering like a smudge I can’t quite wipe away.