“Told me what?”
My dad discharges a heavy sigh, sending his wife a reproachful look before settling his gaze on me. “Jill, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this.” If his tone was solemn when he was warning me about Max, it’s downright grim now. “I didn’t want to tell you tonight, but…”
My heart thuds in anticipation of what’s obviously bad news. “God, Dad. But what?”
“Your culinary school fund … It’s become unavailable.”
“Unavailable?”
Meredith winces as he amends, “It’s gone, Jill. The money is gone.”
It feels like there’s a lump of yeasty dough expanding in my throat. “Gone? How?”
My parents exchange a glance doused in guilt. “It went toward Meredith’s medical expenses. Our health insurance doesn’t cover fertility treatments, and Mer’s been through years of them. The costs became a mountain of debt, and that money was sitting in an account, collecting pennies of interest. It only made sense to use it.”
My mind’s racing, and I feel, suddenly, like I’m going to be sick.
“Otherwise,” Dad’s saying, his voice far away, “we’d be so far in the hole, we’d never climb out. That’s no way for a family to live. I know you were counting on that money, but using it to help cover Mer’s infertility treatments was the most responsible choice.”
Gone.
Thousands and thousands of dollars, saved for years and years. Money earmarked for me. For the International Culinary Institute. For my Grand Dipl?me. Now funneled toward my stepmother and the leech baby who’s holed up in her belly.
My eyes burn. I can’t believe my education wasn’t a priority. A consideration. I can’t believe they emptied the account without a word about it to me.
“Jill, I’m so sorry,” Meredith says quietly.
“I know this is a surprise,” Dad says, “but you have more than a year to make the money back. We’ll do everything we can to help.”
Make the money back? Laughable. I’ve got a savings account of my own funded by my True Brew paychecks. It might get me a plane ticket to New York.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “I really am.”
The compulsion to run, to bury myself in my bed and stay there through the weekend, weeping until I’m emptied of tears, is nearly unbearable. This is a blow, a dream-shattering, destiny-crushing blow. My breath comes shallow, like I’ve been punched in the gut.
“You understand, don’t you?” my dad says.
I don’t understand—not even a little bit, and not even when I try to view his news objectively, through my most altruistic filter. My emotions boil over, riotous and wrathful. “No, I don’t understand! You’ve ruined everything—my whole future!”
Meredith moves to touch my hand, but I snatch it out of her reach. This is her fault just as much as it’s his.
“Jill, it’ll work out,” my dad says.
“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything! God, Dad, how could you do this? How could you not tell me?!”
He flounders and I wait, my hands balled into fists, desperate to hear how he’ll justify his actions, this secret he’s been keeping for who knows how long.
He’s opening his mouth to respond when the doorbell rings, sparing him an explanation. The relief that washes over his face is infuriating.
“Probably the Holdens,” Meredith says, eyeing Dad. She looks like she’s seconds from laying into him—because he didn’t tell me about the money, or because her party’s in danger of being ruined? “Marcy said they’d come a few minutes early. Would you let them in, Jill?”
I balk, huffing out a petulant breath.
“Please,” Meredith says.
I only do as she asks because I can’t stand to look at her or my father another second.
I march toward the foyer in a daze of dashed aspirations. I’m tempted to veer off course, to detour to my room, to blow this stupid party off completely—it’s not like commitments mean anything in this household—but then it occurs to me that Max is likely standing on the front porch, and the prospect of seeing him keeps my feet moving in the direction of the foyer. If anyone can distract me from what just happened in the kitchen, it’s him. I swallow past the brick of disappointment lodged in my throat and swing the front door open.
Most of the Holden clan stands before me. Marcy’s all smiles; she hired a nurse to sit with Bill while she spends the evening at our house, a rare reprieve from her husband’s care. Ivy’s filling in as her date, and it’s entirely possible Marcy bribed her for the privilege of her company. The oldest Holden offspring, Zoe, who acts fifty-six instead of twenty-six and lives an hour north, stands with her husband, Brett, whose parents are watching Oliver while they get their Bunco on. And then there’s Max.
“Hey,” I whisper, feeling raw and exposed.
There’s a weird moment of silence during which they all just stand there, staring at me, and I wonder if they can see, somehow, my life’s goals lying in fragments at my feet.
Marcy passes Ivy the bottle of wine she’s holding and reaches out to hug me. “Jill! You look lovely, sweetie.”
I return her hug, savoring its momentary comfort, then greet the others in turn, forcing a wooden smile. Brett, carrying a casserole dish with pot holders, bends to kiss my cheek and says, “I hope you were in charge of desserts.” Zoe, in a buttoned-up gray cardigan, sweeps my hair over my shoulder and says, “You really do look nice.” Ivy, wearing a ruby-red bustier and skinny jeans, dark hair mirror-shiny, gives me a quick once-over before saying, “Who’re you trying to impress?”
I lift my chin indignantly. “No one.”
She glances at Max, then back to me. “Whatever.”
I’m glad when she brushes by, taking her superiority with her, but now Max and I are on our own. He hangs back, dressed in jeans and a blue cotton button-down. Hatless, with a five o’clock shadow, he looks … good. His mouth bobs open, like he has something to say but can’t retrieve the words. He closes it after all, letting his eyes travel over me—my made-up face, my loose hair, my cuter-than-average outfit—and my heart loses its footing.
When I’m sure I can’t survive his scrutiny another second, he says, “Your dad’s not hiding around the corner, waiting to kick my ass, is he?”
My dad. God.
I shake it off—the loss, the hurt, the anger, the confusion. I’ll deal with it, think about it, feel it tomorrow, when I’m alone, but tonight maybe I don’t have to—not if I’m with Max.
He leans closer and whispers, “Really, is he cool with me being here?”
“It’s fine. Meredith wouldn’t have invited you if it wasn’t. Still, it might be best if we steer clear of him.”
“Oh, believe me,” he says, stepping into the house, “I plan to.”