Page 59 of Backlash

“Girl, love is the only inexhaustible resource in this world,” she says. “If you need more, demand more. You deserve it. And that man? He wants to give it to you.”

She heads back to her desk, leaving me with a half-read manuscript and a vice grip of emotion coiling around my heart. Maybe she’s right. Turning my attention back to the book and hoping I can clear my head after Sterling’s impromptu distraction, I find the present he left me. Digging past the tissue, I find a note.

Lucky,

I thought about getting you a fancy red pen, but there’s no room for mistakes with that. So here’s your very own editorial pencil. Shape your story however you want and don’t be afraid to make mistakes. You can always erase them.

At the bottom of the bag, there’s a single, sharpened red pencil. I twirl it in my fingers before laying it next to the manuscript. I can’t help reading more into this gift and his note. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. He knows that. If only it was as easy to erase them as a bad sentence. I don’t know if I can trust Sterling, but I do know that this thing between us—it can’t be erased, mistake or not. He’s right. It’s time to revise my situation.

I’ve been waiting my whole life—waiting to be free, waiting to be wanted, waiting for him. I’m done waiting. It’s time to do some editing. Because this is my town, my life, my heart—and he’s going to have to earn his place in each of them.

16

Adair

The Past

On Thanksgiving morning, I follow the scent of pumpkin and cloves to the kitchen where I find Felix pulling a pie out of the oven. Most of today’s cooking is being handled by Sadie, our cook, and her staff, but Felix always handles the desserts. He’s in the holiday spirit, sporting an apron embroidered with orange and yellow leaves.

“Tell me you made one for breakfast,” I beg, breathing in the heavenly scent.

“You’re predictable.” He pulls a cookie sheet holding a small hand-pie out of the lower oven and places it on a trivet on the counter.

“And you’re the best.” I grab it greedily, but regret it when it singes my fingertips.

“Every year.” He shakes his head.

“Speaking of, who are the guests of honor this year?” I blow on the hand-pie, knowing from experience that I’ll burn my tongue if I don’t wait.

The holidays are a time for the MacLaines to show off our wealth, under the premise of hospitality, of course. The season starts with inviting someone—usually a business associate of my father’s—to share Thanksgiving dinner. Then, a week before Christmas, we host a huge party at Windfall, the scale of which grows larger and increasingly ludicrous every year. On Christmas Eve, we open presents, so that the next morning we can fly off to a family vacation planned by my mother. Last year, we spent the week leading up to New Year’s Eve in London. This will be the first year I’ll wake up on Christmas morning with nowhere to go. Suddenly, I don’t feel like eating my pumpkin hand pie. It’s usually the perfect start to the holiday season, but now everything’s different.

“Your in-laws, or future in-laws, will be here for dinner. I expect they’ll be around for most holidays now,” Felix says.

I wrinkle my nose. “Fantastic.”

Felix shoots me a look.

“What?” I say defensively. “They’re so boring. Ginny’s dad spends all his time telling vaguely racist jokes, and her mom is like a walking game show. She just tells you how much everything she owns costs her. ‘See this bracelet,’” I mimic her, “‘Ronald paid five-thousand dollars for it. We just bought a new Lexus and upgraded the trim.’ Ugh, it’s so weird.”

“Why do you think she does it?” Felix asks gently.

Ginny’s family is well off by most standards. Her dad is a prominent doctor in Nashville and her mother a homemaker. They were probably at the top of their social rung before their daughter met by brother. “I don’t know. To impress us?”

“To fit in,” he says. “Consider how overwhelming all of this is.”

My shoulders slump, not because I’m inaccurately describing the Higginboth family, but because I’ve spent the last few months having Sterling open my eyes opened to just how extreme our family’s wealth is. “I just wish…”

“Don’t wish. Act,” he advises. “Maybe you can make them feel more comfortable.”

“Okay,” I promise. I grab my hand pie and head back to my room, wondering what would make Sterling more comfortable. Honestly, I can’t imagine him ever feeling like he fits here—and that’s a bigger problem. I’m not sure I want him to fit in here.

Dinner is a formal affair held every year at three p.m. sharp. This allows the women to starve themselves all day in preparation for consuming so many calories, while ensuring the men have time for cigars and brandy. Some things never change. I opt for a deep red dress with long sleeves that end in dainty bell cuffs and a full skirt, but forego the standard heels in favor of the pair of gold velvet flats I wore for last year’s Christmas party. Opening the drawer to my nicest jewelry, I freeze when I spot the small ivory notecard. Familiar curly handwriting is scrawled across it.

Darling, I’m so proud of you and I can’t wait to see you graduate from Valmont in four years. These are probably a little much for campus, but I thought of you.

My hand shakes as I lift the card to find a pair of delicate golden earrings shaped like flower blossoms. On a thin wire hook in the center of the blossom’s bell, a brilliant opal dangles. My birthstone. How long had these been waiting for me, untouched? Since August, at least. Mom must have put them there around the time I was getting ready to start at Valmont. I tuck the card back in the drawer. It will be the last one I ever get, I realize. Staring at the earrings, I finally pick them up and hook them, one at a time, into my ear. I check the mirror, discovering that they catch the copper of my hair, reflecting a dozen shimmering hues.

The alarm on my phone goes off, warning me that I need to head down to the table. I drag my feet on the way. When I reach the landing to the stairs, my father is at the base, glowering at me from his wheelchair.