Chapter 9 Holly #2
“Then I'll make it clear that's not the case. That she's exceptional regardless of who she knows.” I meet his eyes. “Your daughter is one of the most talented people I've ever worked with. The Durst Group would be lucky to have her. With or without me.”
Michael studies my expression. “You believe that.”
“I know it.”
He nods slowly. “Okay then.”
“Okay?”
“I needed to hear you say it. That you see her value.” He glances toward the dining room where Holly's helping Rebecca with dessert. “She doesn't let people take care of her. Doesn't ask for help. Always thinks she has to do everything alone.”
“I know. She'll spend thirty minutes debating centerpiece heights but won't mention she skipped lunch to meet a vendor. She'll ask my opinion on a seating chart but not whether she's taking on too much.” I pause. “I'm learning to pay attention to what she doesn't say.”
Michael claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Now come on, Rebecca made her famous apple pie and if we don't get back out there, Tom will eat your slice.”
HOLLY
After dessert, Marie drags Evan to the wall of family photos.
“That's Aunt Holly at my age,” she says, pointing. “And that's her at her first recital. And that's when she won the planning award at school.”
I'm helping my mom in the kitchen.
Evan's studying each photo.
“What was she like?” he asks Marie. “At your age?”
“Mom says she was bossy.”
“Organized,” Emma corrects from the couch. “We call it organized now.”
“She made everyone play school at recess,” Marie continues. “And she was always the teacher.”
Evan smiles. “That sounds right.”
“She's still bossy,” Marie stage-whispers. “But in a nice way.”
My mom notices. “He's good with her.”
“He's good with kids in general.”
“That's not what I meant.” She hands me another dish. “He's interested. In you. In understanding who you are.”
“Mom—”
“I'm just saying.” She's smiling. “It's nice. Seeing someone curious about my daughter instead of impressed by her.”
She pulls a loaf of bread from where she's been keeping it warm in the oven, wrapped in a towel. “I'm sending him home with this.”
“You don't have to—”
“Hush. I'm doing it anyway.”
Twenty minutes later, we're saying goodbyes. Marie makes Evan promise to come back next weekend for the final performances. My parents insist he take the bread. Emma hugs me and whispers, “He's good. Really good.”
Tom claps Evan on the shoulder and says, “Drive safe.”
Then we're out in the chilly December air, walking to Evan's car.
“I'm sorry about the billionaire thing,” I say. “Marie didn't mean—”
“It's fine.”
“It's not fine. That was awkward.”
“Holly.” He stops walking and we turn to face each other. “Your family had a right to know. I should have told them sooner.”
“You don't owe them anything.”
“I do if I'm going to keep showing up to family dinners,” he says. “Which I want to do. If that's okay.”
“It's okay.”
He reaches out, brushes something from my shoulder that may not have been there.
“We should go,” he says. “It's a long drive back to the city.”
My phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. I glance at the screen: messages from Emma.
Emma
That went well
Except for the part where we found out your fake boyfriend is a BILLIONAIRE
I look up. Evan's watching me.
“You’re right, let’s go.”
EVAN
“You know you don't really have to come back next weekend, despite everyone asking,” Holly says about ten minutes into the drive. “You've fulfilled your phase-one obligation.”
“I know.”
“So you're coming back because ... ?”
“Because I said I would.” I glance at her. “Also, I promised Marie I'd teach her more tap.”
“You're teaching my niece to tap dance.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No. It's unexpected.”
“Good. I'm tired of being expected.”
I'm gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. I see her glance at my hands.
“What did my dad say to you?” she asks. “In the kitchen?”
“How did you know he said something?”
“Your knuckles are white.”
I loosen my grip. “He asked if being with me was going to help your career or make people think you're only successful because you're dating a billionaire.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“The truth. That I don't know. That there's risk. But also that you're exceptional with or without me. That anyone who can't see that is an idiot.”
“Evan—”
“He's right to worry. I've been so focused on who I should introduce you to that I haven't thought about how it might look. What assumptions people might make.”
“People are going to make assumptions regardless,” she says. “That's not your fault.”
“But it's my world. My wealth. My connections.” I pause. “If it hurts you—”
“It won't.” She says it with certainty. “Because I'm good at what I do. Like you said, anyone who sees my work will know I earned my success.”
I turn to look at her. “You're sure?”
“I'm sure.” She pauses. “And honestly? If someone's going to judge me for dating someone wealthy, they weren't someone I wanted to work with anyway.”
A beat of silence passes. We are almost back to the city.
“My dad likes you,” Holly says.
“How can you tell?”
“He asked you hard questions. He only does that with people he thinks might stick around.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “And if I want to stick around?”
“Then you'll have to endure more family dinners where my niece announces your net worth to the table.”
“That seems fair.”
A few minutes later, I pull up to her apartment building.
“Tuesday,” I say. “Still picking you up at six? First official fake date in my world, a dinner with the board president. Do I know romance or what?”
“Every girl’s dream,” she says. “
Six is fine.” She reaches for the door handle, then pauses.
“Thank you, Evan. For tonight. For coming to dinner, for handling the billionaire thing, for—” She stops. “Thank you.”
“Holly, you don’t need to keep thanking me.”
“Yes, I do.” She opens the door, cold air rushing in. “Because you keep showing up. And that matters.”
Then she's gone—heading into her building. I sit in my car and watch her disappear through the lobby doors. Why did I have to remind her that this is fake?
I'm in my apartment, jacket off, when my phone buzzes.
Holly
Did my mom give you bread?
I look at the loaf on my counter, partially covered in Rebecca's kitchen towel.
She did. I’m eating it now.
At midnight?
Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about today.
Good thinking or bad thinking?
Good. Definitely good.
It's good, right? The bread?
It's incredible.
She'll be thrilled. She stress-bakes when she's worried about something.
What was she worried about?
You. Whether you felt welcomed.
I stare at that message.
Tell her I felt welcomed. Tell her the bread is the best thing I've eaten in months.
I'm not telling her that. She'll send you home with a whole bakery next time.
I wouldn't complain.