"Hey, Mom."
"Blair!" Her voice is a screech that forces me to pull the phone away from my ear. "Is it true? Tell me it’s true! Barb at the salon said her cousin works at the county clerk’s office and saw the paperwork!"
I sit on the edge of the bed, trying not to wrinkle the silk.
"It’s true."
"Oh my God!" She squeals. "A Hollis! Baby, you actually did it! You landed the big one!"
I squeeze my eyes shut.
"I didn't 'land' anyone, Mom. He's not a fish."
"Whatever. You know what I mean. I knew you were smart. I knew those years with Ryder weren't a waste. You were just climbing the ladder! And to trade up to the father? That’s... honestly, I didn't think you had it in you."
Her praise makes my skin crawl.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. This is the story I’ve been running from my entire life.
My mother spent her life swinging from man to man like a trapeze artist, terrified of hitting the ground. She measured her worth by who paid for her dinner. She disappeared into them, becoming a reflection of their egos until she forgot who she was.
And now she thinks I’ve done the same thing.
She thinks I’m her greatest success story.
"He's a billionaire, Blair," she gushes. "Do you know what this means? You're set. You never have to work again. You can just... exist. You won the lottery!"
"Mom, stop."
My voice comes out sharp, cutting through her rambling.
"What? I'm happy for you! This is everything we always talked about. Getting out of Mulberry. Finding someone to take care of you."
"I don't need someone to take care of me."
"Everyone needs someone to take care of them, baby. That’s how the world works. Men have the power, and we have the beauty. It’s a trade."
I look at the mirror again. The white dress. The diamond.
It would be so easy to agree with her. From the outside, that’s exactly what this looks like. The younger woman, the older billionaire. The transaction.
But then I think about the book on my nightstand. The first edition Gatsby he bought six months ago because he remembered a random thing I said when I thought no one was listening.
I think about the way he cooked pasta with me in the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his three-thousand-dollar suit just to feed me.
He doesn't look at me like an accessory. He looks at me like an obsession. Like an equal.
"It's not a trade," I say.
"Oh, honey, don't be naive?—"
"I'm not being naive. I'm telling you the truth. I didn't trap him. I didn't 'land' him. I chose him. And he chose me."
The air is dead on the other end of the line. She doesn't get it. She literally can't comprehend it.
"He sees me, Mom," I say, keeping my voice steady. "The real me. Not the version I present to the world so people like me. He saw me at my absolute worst—angry, vengeful, broken—and he didn't look away. He moved toward it. He didn't rescue me from my life. He just... joined me in it."
My throat gets tight, and I realize I’m crying. Just a little.
