“How could you let me believe Hector did this?” Mom doesn’t answer right away. “Just because you made me doesn’t mean I’m a character in one of your books. You know that, right? You can’t just rewrite something if it doesn’t suit you.”
“Of course I know that, Matthew. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“You don’t want to see me hurt?” Incredulity is a furious dragon in my stomach, breathing fire into my lungs. “Where was that concern when Sarah made me stop seeing Lukas because it would ruin your TV show and his career? Where were you when I tried so hard to hack it at NYU but my mental health was spiraling and getting in the way of doing any work? Where were you when I was so heartbroken over Baz and Spencer that I bought a fucking island? Where wereeitherof you?” I’m crying free-flowing tears now in front of this entire establishment, and they need to see it. Even if it is being captured on more than a dozen phones. “Did you know they did an opening monologue about me onThe Late Show? Your son is a literal punch line.”
“That was a silly throwaway joke,” Dad counters.
“My life is a silly throwaway joke?” That hammers into my head. “Mom, you say you didn’t want to see me hurt, but I’ve been hurting for a long time, and you’ve chosen not to see it. I finally find someone who saw that hurt and didn’t make me feel bad or wrong or ashamed, and you let me piss away our relationship on your reputation.”
“Arelationship?” Mom asks, stunned.
“Please don’t pretend like you didn’t know.”
She swallows audibly. “I swear to you, I did not.”
I shake my head. “Even so.” I shrug. “That’s a poor excuse.”
The desserts piled high between us, blocking my view of her whole face, only serve to remind me how sweet I found this life before when it was really nothing more than a never-ending, unhealthy sugar high. I should’ve known there’d be a crash this big.
I stand, hitching my dignity onto my back, wrapping myself in my coat. “I’m out of here. And don’t you dare try to follow me.”
“Matthew.” Dad makes my name sound like a threat.
“I don’t want any part of this any longer.” I hold my head up high. “Merry Christmas.”
Chest heaving, heart staccato, I turn on my heel and begin my march out of the Palm Court, leaving the rest of the room with a whole lot to talk about in my wake.
Chapter 37
Maxim pulls up to the curb of Bentley’s Kent Avenue apartment complex. My adrenaline is still surging.
From the back seat, I peer up at the luxury waterfront building that has the geometric appearance of a child’s lopsided Lego tower if the Legos were made of glass. This will be the perfect hideaway while I regroup. I paw the spare key in my coat pocket. Bentley’s still in Aspen, so I’ll have the place to myself.
“Is this not the right place, Mr. Prince?” Maxim asks when I’ve stalled too long.
“No, this is it. Thank you, Maxim,” I say, using his name for a change. It’s the least I can do for how I treated him previously. I wish I had money to tip him, but the new wallet with its cards and cash was left behind on the table at the Plaza. I know there’s no going back for it now. “I want to say I’m sorry for how rude I’ve been these last few years. I know this is a thankless job even when your passengers are kind, and I’ve been…less than. So, yeah. I know it doesn’t mean much, but I’m sorry.”
He nods, uncertain. The way Hector was when I apologized for, well, anything and everything. “Apology accepted, Mr. Prince.”
“Please, call me Matthew,” I say, no longer wishing to be referred to by the same moniker my father uses.
My father.Maybe names like that create distance. That’s why Grandma, Gramps, and the residents of Wind River did that with Mom.Dadis too close to the heart.My fatherrecognizes a bloodline, but separates us.
I say to Maxim, “Oh, and my parents told me to tell you to take the rest of the day off. You shouldn’t be working on Christmas.”
“Are you sure, Matthew?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “If they forget, tell them I insisted.”
Maxim smiles at me, probably the first time he’s done so for real. “Thank you, Matthew. Have a wonderful holiday.”
“You too.”
With a gentle honk, Maxim waves and pulls back into traffic. I’m left alone, shrinking underneath this architectural anomaly. A tiny reprieve waits for me inside.
The doorman checks my name on the approved-guests list. Despite Bentley not being home, I assure him she authorized my visit, fudging some remark about watering plants. A lie seems the least of my worries right now.
I take the speedy, aerodynamic elevator up to one of the top floors. The doors spit me out a few apartments down from Bentley’s. A skunky weed smell permeates the place. A Mariah Carey song blasts through the floor above. This building has always been a party place. A hot spot where zillennials’ mommies and daddies bankroll their modeling careers and dubious start-ups. Day drinking and drugs are only ever a knock away.
