Chapter 9 Lexie
The frayed edges of the flannel blanket have been there since I was a kid.
On nights my mom couldn’t afford a babysitter, I’d trace its worn edges while watching cartoons, eating dry cereal, and waiting for her to come home.
Over the years, it became a lifeline for me—wrapped around me as a frightened kid, a lonely teenager and during late-night study sessions.
It was even draped over my lap when I opened the letter offering me a full-ride scholarship to St. Benedicts University in Boston.
But when I went to college, I left it behind at my mom’s.
The moment I stepped onto campus, I wanted, needed, a new life with nothing tying me to the past—including my beloved blanket.
It felt like my history was somehow imbedded into the fabric, that each thread carried a restraint that taunted me with the threat of failing and returning to the life I was desperate to escape.
As I tug the blanket over my mom’s chest now, I feel those same tattered threads and wonder if somehow, deep down, I knew back then I’d land in the place I am now.
“It’s freezing in here. I think you should turn up the heat,” I say, and step over to the thermostat. Ugh. It’s freaking January, not even fifty degrees outside, and my mom has the heat turned off.
“Ah, nothing that a warm cup of tea won’t fix,” she says, waving me away, but not pulling the blanket off her chest. “You hungry, honey? I can make us a couple of ham sandwiches.”
I shake my head. I’m actually famished, but I refuse to eat my mom’s food, knowing she works way harder than me to get those groceries.
And—not that I’d ever tell her this—but I ate one too many (a thousand too many) of those sandwiches growing up, and now the sight of ham on wheat makes me want to vomit.
The local news plays on the small TV in the background as I grab the fresh bottle of scent-free lotion I brought over today and sit next to my mom on the faded green couch. The broken springs dig into my back as I shift into a spot. “Give me your hands.”
“You’re always fussing,” she says, her wrinkles deepening around her tired eyes as she smiles and holds her hands out.
My mother has the hands of a ninety-year old woman.
They carry this cracked, reddish-gray tint from thirty-plus years of handling cleaning supplies and bleached towels.
She only started wearing latex gloves in the last decade or so, which seems to irritate her almost as much as the chemicals.
I pump a few droplets into my hand and start massaging.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. When I got my scholarship, I knew that our lives would change.
If I worked hard, which I was absolutely prepared to do, I could graduate in a little over three years.
I’d take the max amount of credits, work in the school coffee shop, study my ass off, and when I was done, I’d get my mom out of this place.
I’d make enough money to finally upgrade her to a one-bedroom, maybe even something with a view.
I’d get a job, work through my masters, then a PsyD, and eventually she’d reduce her work hours.
And once my practice took off, she’d be able to retire altogether.
All of our dreams, the hard work, the sweat, would finally, finally, be worth it.
I thought the scholarship of my dreams was the break I needed.
But I was wrong. Sophomore year, I landed the break of a lifetime when my dormmate dropped out of school in the middle of the semester leaving vacant her student aideship with the revered, highly sought-after mentor, Dr. George K.
Astor. Someone whose books were not only textbooks at our college, but required reading across multiple Fortune 500 leadership teams. And he chose me to fill the open position.
Me. A scholarship kid from Queens, with nothing but a truckload of ambition.
I’ll never forget the way he smiled at me, how the crinkling around his eyes fanned to the gray at his temples, how he’d pull off his glasses and look at me, so thoughtfully, seeing me when I’d been invisible for so many years.
He even took time from his insanely packed schedule to read one of my papers and invite me to visit after hours for one-on-one tutoring sessions when campus was quiet.
But the real privilege came on a Friday evening when Dr. Astor invited me at the last minute to be his guest at a university fundraising event.
He promised to introduce me to some people and help me start building my future.
I couldn’t believe that he’d chosen me out of all his students.
For the first time since starting school, I began to believe I could really make it in this field.
I was momentarily conflicted, though, because I was supposed to meet Theo at the same event for a date.
An actual, real date. A few days earlier, at the coffee shop, he and I had a run-in.
I’d accidentally knocked into him while cleaning up some tables and dropped a half-filled latte on the floor.
I thought he’d do his typical staring at me with disgust, make a hurtful remark, and walk off as if I was unworthy of his time.
But, he surprised me. He’d stayed. He even helped me clean up.
For the first time, we had a real conversation.
Having his undivided attention, I was on cloud nine.
I mean, Theo Astor was paying me attention.
Me! He asked about my classes, I mentioned how hard it was to land an internship as a sophomore, he laughed when I told him I was in the middle of St. Ben’s infamously hellish Chem 101 monotone lecture, which required ingesting a bucket of caffeine to sit through without falling asleep. After a while, I loosened up.
We didn’t chat long, and he’d left as soon as we’d finished cleaning. An hour later, I got a text from an unknown number asking if I was free the following Friday.
I let them know they had the wrong number, only to get an immediate response: “I’ll give you exactly one guess who this is.
Actually, I’m too impatient. It’s Theo. I’ve got something that might solve your internship problems, but you’ll have to meet me next Friday.
One-time offer. My kindness doesn’t extend far.
” It wasn’t exactly the most romantic way to ask me out, but holy shit, Theo had been thinking of me!
But when Dr. Astor asked me to go to the event with him, I couldn’t turn down the opportunity. In my trembling excitement for my date with Theo, I forgot my phone in the dorm, but asked Dr. Astor to text Theo, to let him know I couldn’t make it because I’d accepted his invite.
Theo never spoke to me again.
I tried to shake off my disappointment and forget Theodore Astor even existed. Until he forced his way back into my life and sabotaged everything the following week.
And now… I’m planning his wedding. What sort of fucked-up underworld am I living in?
I should have said no. I should have known from one look at Theo last week, in his designer clothes and perfect haircut and smug face, that he was going to be trouble.
Our firm is just like a bar—we can refuse service for any reason.
But I need that promotion. My mother’s future depends on it.
I sold my soul. I pray to Christ it was worth it.
As I switch to massaging my mom’s left hand, I push away any other thoughts of what happened back in Boston and focus on what’s going to happen these next six months.
It’s been three days since Theo cornered me in the hall, and I cannot shake what happened.
I still feel the heat of his chest against mine, the way my body singed with fear, the sharp masculine cedar and salt scent filling my nose.
I cannot understand why, if he truly doesn’t remember me, he wants me to be his lead planner.
Yes, he overheard my conversation with Justin.
But is that enough of a reason? Keeping me close because he doesn’t trust me?
Although I’ve never been in his position, coming from a wealthy, powerful family and marrying into an even wealthier and more powerful one. Maybe this is just what happens with the billionaire boys’ club—you’re surrounded by distrustful people you need to keep close.
“Drink your tea before it gets cold,” Mom says, nudging at the mug.
I take a few sips, but it’s not needed. My insides are on fire. I thought that I’d buried this rage. Did anger simmer beneath the surface over the years? Yes. But I was like a hibernating bear. The fury dulled. Muted, even.
At least I thought.
But when Theo stepped into my office, the cave opened. Everything in me burst out and the monster I’ve been suppressing wants out.
“So, I need to tell you something…” Mom starts, and I immediately freeze.
“Hey, that wasn’t an invitation to stop,” she says, bumping my arm.
I resume rubbing her hands and hold my breath.
“Now, I’m gonna tell you, but you can’t freak out, okay?
You promise me right now, otherwise I’m keeping my lips zipped. ”
“I promise,” I say, but it’s a lie. The only time my mother has ever said “I need to tell you something” was when I was ten years old and she told me my father died.
She looks at the lotion bottle, not at me. “I’ve been having some dizzy spells and last week they had to call the hotel on-call doctor and—”
“Jesus Christ, Mom! Last week?” The guilt already buries me, and she hasn’t even finished what she was going to say.
A few months ago, I decided to move closer to work at my mom’s insistence.
For five years, I’d been spending almost three hours round trip every day to work at this office.
With the move, I shaved off almost an hour a day from my commute, but now, I was further away from her.
I asked myself over and over if I was making the right move, and what if something happened…
“Now listen here, Gemma Lexie Welch,” she says as she pushes herself up. Yikes. Even though I changed my name years ago, I know my mom is serious when she breaks out my birth name. “You promised you wouldn’t freak out. One more word and I ain’t gonna finish telling you what happened.”
I swallow the urge to ask every single detail.
As she tells me about sporadic dizziness, and the hotel doctor rushing to help when she passed out in the room she was cleaning, I hold back brimming tears.
The doctor took her blood pressure, gave her an ice pack, and told her to schedule an appointment.
She says she’ll do it in the next month, which means she absolutely won’t until something else happens.
“Enough of that. I only told you in case I drop dead. You can’t blame me for never telling you nothin’,” she retorts.
I’m still worrying over my mom’s health when the news anchor’s sudden shift in tone pulls me back into the room.
“Coming up next. A source close to Henry and Mariette Barlowe has announced the engagement of their youngest daughter, Annabelle Barlowe…” I leap up to grab the remote.
“… to Dr. Theodore Astor, son of author and speaker Dr. George K Astor, and—”
Click.
My mom’s head snaps to the television. “Did I just hear the name Theodore Astor?” Her eyes turn as cold as the bitterness in her tone.
“Oh, I, ah, maybe, here give me your hand.” I pump a few more drops of lotion in my palm and reach for her wrist, but she pulls back.
“A Barlowe is marrying that conniving piece of shit? He doesn’t deserve to marry anyone. That man is nothin’ but evil.”
I avoid her eyes. She’s not wrong. If I think I’ve held a grudge all these years, it doesn’t even compare to my mom.
My mom is one of the gentlest people you’ve ever meet.
To a fault. Our family motto is work hard and maintain the peace.
You bow your head, you serve, you stay the fuck quiet.
But after what happened in Boston, mama-bear mode kicked in and she saw blood.
She wrote unanswered letters. She took the bus to the public library and used their computer to send emails.
She stormed into the administration office and had to be escorted out by security, screaming about the “dirty fucking Astor family” who destroyed “her baby.” For months she tried to get anyone to listen, but people like me and my mom were not worthy of their time.
Our words were rendered silent. Finally, with her heart more broken than mine, she gave up.
So, yeah. My mom cannot know that I’m planning Theo’s wedding.
But part of me wants to tell her I have much bigger plans for Theo than just his wedding. Plans that I’ve been sitting on for years, plans that have kept me alive during the darkest days, plans that make up for my humiliation.
And I’m just getting started.