I can hear the smile in his voice when he answers. “Okay.”
We hang up a minute later, logistics exchanged, nothing heavy said.
But when the call ends, I sit there staring at my desk, heart beating a little faster than before.
Not because I rushed.
Because I chose.
And that feels different than restraint.
Chapter Twenty Three
The Gala
Sierra
Ican tell myself I’m fine right up until the moment I step out of the car and the cold air hits my lungs like a warning.
The building is lit up like it’s hosting royalty. Warm light spilling through tall glass doors, valet line moving with practiced ease, a stream of people in black tie and long gowns flowing toward the entrance like they’re headed somewhere celebratory instead of somewhere sharp.
It’s the biggest donor gala of the year. That’s what my mother calls it, every time, like the wordbiggestis supposed to mean something to me beyond:show up, smile, don’t embarrass us.
I smooth my hands down the sides of my dress anyway. Deep purple. Floor length. The kind of fabric that looks expensive and feels like it’s trying to choke me by association. I wore my hair up because my mother hates it when it’s down. I wear earrings I don’t love because she picked them out and made a comment about my ‘tired face’when I tried to say no.
Everything about this is a performance. Even the way I breathe.
My father walks ahead like he’s escorting me to my own sentencing. My mother hooks her arm through mine with a grip that reads affectionate to anyone watching and feels like ownership to me.
“Remember,” she says, voice light, smile already set in place. “Tonight is important.”
Tonight is always important.It’s always some dinner, some fundraiser, some event where their friends are watching, and my job is to be proof that their family is still polished enough to be admired.
“I know,” I say.
My mother’s nails press into my skin on my arm. “And don’t start with me tonight. Not here.”
I keep my face neutral. I keep my mouth closed and my eyes forward.
I can do that. I’ve done it my whole life.
The entrance is elegant, a check-in table with staff in matching attire, a string quartet playing near the stairs, rows of floral arrangements that probably cost more than my rent. People laugh too loudly, and hug too tightly, talk about donations like it's a sport.
My mother’s smile widens as soon as we cross the threshold. “Linda!” she sings, as if she hasn’t spent the last three days complaining about Linda’s hair extensions and the way she flirts with men half her age.
She glides toward a group of women in glittering gowns, and my father falls into step beside her like he’s been trained for this. And I’m pulled along because that’s what I am. An accessory to the name, the brand.
I shake hands. I accept compliments and condolences on my marriage. I respond with the correct amount of warmth and humility. I laugh at jokes I don’t think are funny. I pretend I’m not counting the minutes until I can disappear into a bathroom stall and breathe.
The room is enormous, transformed into something that feels like a movie set. Round tables draped in white. A stage at the far end with a podium and screens showing the university crest.
And I tell myself I can make it through this.
I tell myself I can. Then I see Sarah.
She’s across the room, stepping through the crowd with that composed posture she wears like armor. She looks beautiful, ofcourse she does, because she is. It’s effortless on her, the way she can make formal look like it was made for her specifically. A black dress that fits like confidence, hair styled down in loose waves, and earrings that catch the light when she turns her head.
She’s with someone and my stomach drops so fast I swear I feel it in my knees.
