“It was… acceptable.”
“Liar.” I leaned in, stealing a quick kiss.
“You know nothing about me.”
“Oh, but I do. You’re just a girl who doesn’t know she’s mine yet,” I said. Certain. “But you will.”
7
MICHELLE: TERMS OF ENDEARMENT
I woke the next morning to sunlight slipping through the blinds—and then I remembered. I squeaked, covering my face as I laughed at myself. I couldn’t believe how far I’d let it go. Worse, I hadn’t slapped his hand away because I didn’t like it. I’d slapped it away because Idid.If I hadn’t rallied for my virtue, I’d have lost it right there to a metalhead surfer with a wicked grin.
Not that it really mattered. This was the ’80s, not Victorian England. Most women didn’t make it to their wedding night with their purity intact. Besides, my family’s money would temper any man’s insecurities. No, the real reason I’d stopped was that I was getting too attached. There was something dangerously addictive about being wanted. I’d always been the consolation prize, second to my beautiful sister. But with Scott, it felt like he’d still choose me even if she were standing right there.
Not that it mattered. There was no version of my world where Scott fit. Still, forgetting him was going to be hard. I went to sleep thinking about him. Woke up thinking about him. Even my 3 a.m. bathroom break was basically sponsored by him.
“Ugh, stop,” I scolded myself, rolling out of bed, my pulsestill skipping. What was it about Scott? Around him, I didn’t recognize myself. I was fun, spontaneous. Reckless enough to make out with a man I barely knew.
My eye lingered on the vest draped over a chair. I’d forgotten I was even wearing it when we parted ways last night. Of course I’d have to return it—to the resort where he worked. Maybe I’d stay a while and watch him surf. I smiled, caught myself, and did it again.
A light rap at the door mercifully stopped the cycle.
“Miss Carver?” a voice said through the crack in the door.
“Yes?” I called out.
“Your mother is requesting a visit from you.”
And there went my good mood.
I loiteredin the doorway of my mother’s parlor, waiting for her to notice me. She was perched on a velvet settee, with her eyes trained on the latest edition ofTown & Country,one manicured finger tapping against the armrest in time with her disapproval. I folded my arms tight against my chest, trying to summon courage from somewhere. I had to tell her I wasn’t going back to Juilliard. That her prodigy, her polished investment, was a fraud, and that the building she’d donated wouldn’t be graced by my flawless performances. The thought twisted my stomach.
She turned a page, perfectly composed, perfectly indifferent, and then her eyes flicked up, pinning me where I stood. A thin, rehearsed smile slid across her face.
“Michelle,” she said. “There you are. Come sit. We have things to discuss.”
I went to her—careful. Cautious. We’d never had a warm mother-daughter relationship. Lydia Carver didn’t do warmth;she did icicles. I’d always feared her. Always. And now more than ever.
A letter sitting on the corner of my mother’s ornate side table caught my eye. The ivory envelope was sliced open. Juilliard’s crest glared back at me like a scarlet letter.
“You… you opened it?”
“Of course I did. I don’t have time for mysteries.” She looked back down at her magazine, turning the page. “I’ve already spoken with the Dean. Everything is handled. You’ll return in the fall.”
“No. You don’t understand. I—”
She lifted one slender hand, silencing me like a dog. “I understand perfectly. You’ve had your tantrum, and now it’s over.”
“It wasn’t a tantrum,” I said, words rushing out before courage abandoned me. “I’m not good enough, Mother. Everyone knows it. The professors, the students. You don’t know the way they look at me. They resent me for even being there because they know you and Daddy bought me a spot with your endowment. They don’t respect me. No one does.”
For a flicker of a second, I thought she might soften. But her eyes rose from the glossy page and were as sharp as ever.
“Then work harder.”
I blinked. “What?”
Her tone sharpened, each syllable clipped. “If you’re not good enough, practice until you are. Until your fingers bleed. Until the sound of the piano is carved into your bones. Do you think talent is all it takes? Discipline, Michelle. Discipline is what separates the great from the forgettable.”
