Seb
If irony had a sense of humor, it was laughing at me now.
After attempting once again to convince the only girl I’d ever really wanted that I wasn’t the same screw-up she remembered, and on Christmas Eve no less, here I was a few weeks later sitting in James’s Upper East Side brownstone while Hallie scrolled through photo boards for gala themes like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Midnight in Paris,” she said, turning the phone toward us. “Classy. Romantic. Posh enough for your father’s donors but not tacky.”
James wrinkled his nose as he reached for another beer. “Sounds like you’re planning a prom, not a ball.”
“It’s a fundraiser,” Hallie shot back. “You need people with money to enjoy themselves if you want them to open their checkbooks.”
I leaned back against James’s leather sofa, staring at the skyline through the massive window.
The city glittered, a vibrant tapestry of sights and sounds, alive and buzzing.
It was quite the change from the slower pace of Greenwich, where I’d spent the holidays, stuck in the very life I swore I wasn’t part of anymore.
I dragged a hand over my face and groaned.
“Why the hell do I have to plan this thing?” I muttered. “It’s for the food bank. I just wish people could show up, write the check, and let me get my hands dirty at the actual opening. The last thing I want to do is pick tablecloth colors.”
Hallie arched a brow at me, unimpressed. “Because your last name gets people in the door. Because your family has half of New York owing them favors. And because if you want this food bank to thrive instead of being a token charity project, you need donors to care. That means a gala.”
James smirked. “Translation: quit whining, Whittaker. You’re the pretty face. Smile, shake hands, let the rich ladies kiss your cheek, and let us handle the boring parts.”
I shot him a glare. “I’m not a fucking show pony.”
“No,” Hallie said, leaning forward, “but you are the only one who can convince people this matters and that you care about it. Which means, unfortunately for you, you’re stuck.”
It was infuriating, but I had to admit that she was right.
It was even more frustrating that a piece of me desperately wanted Roxie’s input on this plan.
During our childhood, I spent a lot of time listening to her dream of the future she wanted to build.
In those days, I was adrift, content with simply listening to her instead of trying to imagine my own future.
Now that I was working toward something I cared about, her absence made it feel hollow.
But she’d made it painfully clear at the Christmas Eve party that she wanted nothing to do with me.
James clinked his beer against my glass of water, breaking through my thoughts. “You look like you’d rather crawl into traffic than sit here.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst option,” I muttered.
Hallie rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible. You used to live for a good party and now you can’t even be bothered to tell me what alcohol you want at it. Honestly, I don’t know how Roxie put up with you all those years.”
My head snapped up, sharp enough to make her freeze. She had meant nothing by it; the words had just slipped out of her mouth. A careless comment. Still, my jaw locked.
James, of course, noticed. His smirk faded, replaced by a glance that landed somewhere between a warning and concern. He didn’t call me out, and I was grateful for that.
“Anyway,” Hallie continued quickly, shoving her phone toward James again, “this is the floral designer I was thinking of. Elegant, not gaudy. She worked on the Met Gala two years ago.”
“So, she’s expensive,” James laughed, leaning into her shoulder as they scrolled together. The two of them were a picture of easy partnership—bantering, bickering, but always on the same wavelength.
I leaned back into the couch, nursing my lukewarm water. The room blurred, my mind slipping somewhere else entirely. Back to Roxie, standing under those string lights at her parents’ house, smiling that sharp little smile that told me she’d rather eat glass than admit she still cared.
I ran a hand down my face. Christ.
“Sebastian,” Hallie said, drawing me back once more. “Are you even listening?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
James snorted. “At least he’s honest. Go ahead and add whatever you want, Hals. He’ll show up in a tux and pretend like he planned the whole damn thing, anyway.”
We all fell silent. Hallie was occupied with her pictures, James was finishing his drink, and I was gazing at the dazzling skyline outside, as though it held the solutions to problems I wanted to avoid.
How was it that when I finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life, something I was passionate about, I was still unsatisfied?
Unhappy with the result? Sure, I was proud of everything I’d put into planning this food bank over the last few months, the proudest I’d ever been of myself, but it felt like something was still missing.
The next morning, I skipped the meetings and calls Hallie had lined up for me regarding the gala and took the train downtown instead. No driver. No town car. Just me and a ball cap pulled low, trying to shake the taste of yesterday’s uneasiness out of my head.
The building was almost finished, its facade gleaming in the sunlight, when I emerged from the subway. The signage for the food bank was being lofted up into the sky by a pair of workers as they prepared to fix it to the front of the building.
Standing there, with dust rising from the ground and workers shouting over the bustle of moving furniture inside, it felt different. Real. I was seeing the fruition of the idea I’d bounced around inside my head.
I slipped past the few workers coming out of the building, ignoring the sharp glance from the foreperson until he recognized me and waved me through.
Inside, the air smelled of sawdust, cement, and fresh paint.
The shelves were already being constructed, lining the walls.
I could already picture them stocked with food and supplies that people in this community needed.
The industrial kitchen buzzed with workers in the back.
Working on the final touches to make it into something that could create some of the most incredible, nutritious meals for when we opened our doors for community dinners.
“You’re him, right?”
I turned at the voice. A woman stood just inside the doorway with two kids clinging to each of her legs. She looked hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she should’ve come in.
“I’m Sebastian Whittaker,” I said carefully.
Her face shifted, a nervous relief flooding it. “We live a few blocks over. My neighbor said … well, she said this place was supposed to be open soon. I just came to see if that was true.”
The little girl peered around her mother’s coat, eyes wide as she took in the nearly completed interior. “Is it going to be like a grocery store?” she asked.
“Something like that,” I said, crouching down. “Except you don’t have to pay. You just come in, and we’ll make sure you have what you need.”
Her tiny mouth formed a perfect “O.” She tugged on her brother’s sleeve, whispering something about cereal, and his eyes lit up too.
Their mother swallowed hard. “You don’t understand what this means,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly. “Sometimes we wait hours in line at the church pantry and by the time it’s our turn …” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Half the time it’s gone.”
I nodded, throat tight, words lodged somewhere behind the heaviness pressing down on my chest. Because she was right.
I didn’t know what it meant to them. Not even close.
I’d never had to want my entire life, and this family was standing in front of me with near tears in their eyes at the idea of having an opportunity to fulfill the basic needs I took for granted.
If I got enough donors and did the proper planning, we could have enough supplies to ensure that we wouldn’t run out when the line stretched around the block. We would have enough to spare.
“This place,” she said, stepping back and glancing up at the nearly finished sign outside, “it would change everything for us. This is right around the block from our home, and we wouldn’t have to trek all the things we need on the subway home from the church. We are so thankful.”
The boy suddenly grinned, gap-toothed and eager. “Can we come when it opens?”
I managed a smile, the weight of their hope pressing into me like stone.
“Not just come. You’ll be the very first in line.
Matter of fact, I want you all here the first night we offer a dinner.
We’ll seat as many people as we can but there will have to be a limit, and I plan to do a rolling sign-up.
But I want to make sure you get the first tasting.
Just speak to any of the volunteers when you get here.
They’ll make sure you go to the front of the line. ”
The boy’s eyes widened, his grin stretching ear to ear.
He tugged at his mother’s sleeve like I’d just promised him a trip to Disneyland.
She blinked fast, fighting to hold her composure, and murmured a “thank you” before steering them out the door, her voice thick with gratitude I wasn’t sure I deserved.
God knew I was far from a saint.
I stayed there a long moment after they left, crouched down on the dusty concrete floor, staring at the space that would soon become something real. Something that mattered to people.
This was something I got to be a part of.
This wasn’t about my family name. It wasn’t about the societal circles that I’d grown up in.
Despite hating the idea of having to attend a glittering gala where my father’s colleagues would clap me on the shoulder for being a “responsible young man,” I would manage for the evening because the result of it would benefit many other families like the one I just spoke to.
That gala wasn’t about me. It was about a mother whose shoulders sagged under the weight of needing to choose between food and rent.
And for the first time in my life, I felt like I knew exactly why I was here.
I stood, brushing the dust from my jeans, and walked the length of the space. The kitchen gleamed under fluorescent light—steel counters, new ovens, walk-in fridges. A place where meals could be cooked not just to fill stomachs, but to remind people that community still mattered.
“Mr. Whittaker?”
The foreperson jogged over, holding a clipboard. “We’re a week ahead of schedule. With any luck, we’ll be ready for the health inspection in plenty of time.”
“That’s great news. Keep me updated,” I told him, then shoved my hands into my coat pockets and slipped outside.
The late winter sun was blinding off the glass windows, the city roaring alive around me. And just like it always did, the chaos sharpened me, providing me clarity.
I pulled out my phone before I could second-guess it. Hallie answered on the third ring.
“You bailed on me this morning,” she said instead of a hello. “Do you know how many calls I had to make to find a good florist? And all I needed was your approval.”
“Book her,” I said simply.
Silence. Then, “I’m sorry?”
“Book her. Book whoever you need to. Just make it good. Make it big. I want it to be the event of the season, and I want it splashed all over the societal papers when it’s done. We’re about to bring back the Gilded Age with this one.”
Another beat of silence. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I have one favor to ask of you though,” I said.
“Anything,” Hallie replied instantly.
“I want you and Roxie to feature the food bank on your website. The restaurant too.”
Silence met me for a third time. This time, as I waited for her response, a prickly sensation crawled across my skin.
“Okay, but I’m not sure how I’m going to get Roxie on board …”
“Don’t tell her I asked,” I told her quickly. “Just let the place speak for itself. She doesn’t need to know. I don’t want her to see it because it’s mine. I want her to see it because I know she’ll love it.”
I stared back at the bold black letters being drilled into the front of the building. I knew exactly why I’d show up at that gala in a tux, smile plastered in place, shaking hands until I couldn’t feel my fingers.
For the people who would walk through those doors and never have to wonder when the next time they’d eat again would be.
And maybe it was also for the girl who once dreamed bigger than anyone I’d ever known and inspired me to do the same. The one I couldn’t stop wishing was here to see it with me.
Subject: I’ve Done It, Rox
From: princewhittaker98@
To: Roxanne-Kirsten-King@
Roxie,
I’ve done it. I’ve done it. I’ve created something on my own.
It’s all mine. But what makes it even better is that I get to share it with others in a way that will change their lives.
Without the Whittaker name being the only thing people will care about, although I may have used it to shake a few pennies from some donors’ pockets.
I only wish you were here beside me.
Sebastian xx