Julia #3
“You raised me to smile while people asked questions they have no right to ask. You raised me to know which fork to use, which donors hate each other, which wives can’t sit together, which men need to feel interesting before they write a check. You raised me to be useful.”
My mother’s voice is quiet. “That is unfair.”
“Maybe.” I look at her then. “But it isn’t untrue.”
Her face tightens.
My father steps closer. “And now you believe the Contis are different?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. You are working for them, spending time with Dante again, defending the position at dinner as if Mario Conti personally rescued you when you never even came to me.”
“I didn't want a job from you.”
His eyes narrow. “And why not?” he says, almost a warning in his tone. “I've awarded you every privilege in life, and you would throw it back at me like this?”
“Oh, don't be dramatic,” I say. “I didn't want a job from you because I wasn't interested in you looking over my shoulder, which I knew you would do. In fact, Conti Enterprises is probably one of the few places you couldn’t do that, which is why it’s perfect.”
“I always knew that Conti boy was a bad influence.”
My head snaps slightly toward him.
“And how did you make that jump?” I ask incredulously.
“He is trouble.”
“He is kind to me.”
“He has too much money and no supervision.”
“Which makes him no different than half the boys you’ve thrown at me my whole life, including Harrison.”
My father’s eyes flash. “Careful.”
“No,” I say, and the word surprises us both.
“Dante has never been cruel to me. He has never used me. He has never made me feel stupid for trusting him. Which is more than I can say for Harrison Winthrop the damn third. So if you’re going to stand here and tell me Harrison was a better influence because his family has a cleaner image and better table manners, I’m not going to agree with you, because God knows their money isn’t cleaner and neither is ours. ”
“Don’t you speak of our family that way,” my father says at the same time that my mother presses a hand to her chest and says, “No one said Harrison was perfect.”
I look at her.
Perfect.
That word, in this house, is almost funny.
“You liked him because he photographed well,” I say.
My mother goes pale with anger. “That is a horrible thing to say.”
“Did either of you like him? I mean, actually like him? Or did you like what it said about me that he chose me? Ambitious Harrison, running for Senator now, but he had his eye on the White House, and you knew it. You liked that, didn’t you?”
My father’s voice drops. “Enough.”
That word in that tone used to work better on me.
Tonight, it only makes me tired.
“It’s far from enough,” I say. “But I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.”
My mother looks toward the hall. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m going home.”
“This is your home,” she says.
I look around the sitting room. The flowers.
The paintings. The polished silver frames with family photos chosen because they match the room.
There is a picture of me on the mantel from my college graduation.
My smile is perfect. My father’s hand is on my shoulder. My mother is beside me in pale blue.
Everything in this room looks exactly the way it is supposed to look.
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
My mother’s face changes, and for one second, I almost regret the words.
Then my father says, “Where are you going? Back to whatever apartment Dante found for you?”
The cruelty in it is polished, but it is still cruelty.
“I found my own apartment.”
My mother says his name again, sharper this time. “Patrick.”
He ignores her. “You think you are proving independence by attaching yourself to a family like the Contis?”
“I am not attached to them.”
“You work for Mario.”
“Yes.”
“You are running around with Ricardo’s son again. You expect me to believe the Contis do anything without purpose?”
I do not answer immediately, because the honest answer is no. I do not believe that.
But I also do not believe my father does anything without purpose, and at least the Contis are honest about their sharp edges.
“I expect you,” I say carefully, “to stop treating my life like a case you can manage from the bench.”
His face hardens. My mother looks exhausted all at once.
“Julia,” she says. “Please. Sit down. We can discuss this calmly.”
“Yeah, until I dare speak on my own behalf, right? I don’t want to discuss it calmly. I don’t want to discuss it at all.”
“You cannot simply refuse to talk about your life with your parents.”
“I can refuse to be cross-examined.”
My father laughs under his breath. There is no humor in it. “You are being childish.”
“Maybe,” I say. “So I’ll go be childish in my own apartment.”
I walk toward the foyer.
My mother follows me first. My father stays behind for a few seconds, then follows too. I collect my coat from the closet before Paul can appear and do it for me. My hands are steady, which feels like a small miracle.
“Julia,” my mother says behind me.
I turn.
She stands at the edge of the foyer, beautiful and controlled in a cream dress, her hair smooth, her earrings tasteful, her expression caught somewhere between despair and something more complicated.
“You don’t have to make everything so difficult.”
The sentence hurts more than my father’s sharper ones.
Because she means it.
Because part of her still believes I am choosing difficulty, as if leaving Connecticut, ending the engagement, starting over, and sitting through that dinner were all acts of rebellion instead of survival.
“I’m not trying to make things difficult,” I say.
“Then what are you trying to do?”
I put on my coat.
“I’m trying to breathe.”
She says nothing.
My father steps into the foyer behind her. “If this is about Harrison—”
“It isn’t about Harrison,” I say.
The lie is quick. Too quick.
They both hear it.
I do not correct it.
“It’s about me,” I say instead. “For once.”
My father’s expression shifts again, and I know there will be consequences for this conversation. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But my father does not like losing authority, especially in his own house.
“Think carefully about the people you are choosing,” he says.
I hold his gaze. “The people I’ve chosen to associate with during the day are no different than the ones you associate with in the shadows. I’m just not a hypocrite.”
With those final words to make the color seep out of my father’s face, I open the door myself and step out into the night before either of them can answer.
The air is cooler now. Damp and heavy with the smell of cut grass and flowers. I walk down the stone steps, past the perfect planters, toward the car waiting at the curb.
No one follows me. I’m almost sorry for it because at least it would mean something.
I slide into the back seat and close the door.
Only when the house disappears behind the trees do I let my shoulders drop.
My phone is in my hand before I realize I have reached for it.
There are no missed calls. No messages from Dante. No work emergency from Mario’s office. Nothing from anyone who has any idea what just happened in that house.
I should be relieved.
Instead, I stare at the dark screen and swallow against the tightness in my throat.
Then I lock the phone, set it in my lap, and look out the window as the car carries me away from my parents’ house.