“You two are just fucking then? Is that what he tells you? He’s only using you. And you’re letting him.”
My father’s eyes lock with mine and I physically recoil, desperate to get away from him. Why is he acting like this? Saying such awful things?
“You changed your iCloud password because you’ve got something to hide,” he continues. “I thought I raised you better than this.”
“It’s not that I have anything to hide, it’s that you don’t trust me so you think it’s okay to invade my privacy! That’s not right.”
“I am your father. I can do whatever the hell I want. I made you.”
I jerk out of his hold, right as my mother appears in the hallway.
“What in the world is going on?” She is so calm. Like ice. Impenetrable.
“I’m leaving.”
“Going to the Lancaster residence?” When I nod, she smiles. “Have fun, darling. Don’t stay out too late.”
Daddy is gaping at her like a dying fish, his mouth opening and closing as if he can’t find the right words. “You’re just going to let her—leave?”
I march past him, stopping to give Mom a brief hug before I keep walking.
“You need to stop treating her like a little girl, Harvey. I’ve already told you this. The tighter you hold onto her, the more you’ll make her run,” I hear her say.
She’s so right. He keeps holding me too tight.
And I keep wanting to run away.
FORTY-EIGHT
WREN
I ignore my father the best I can for the rest of the week, which is…awful. It’s almost Christmas and my birthday, and I should be happy. Eager to spend time with my family and friends—well, Maggie—and creating new memories.
And while I am happy with certain aspects of my life, my relationship with my father is not one of them.
He cancelled the trip to Aruba with Mother’s encouragement. Instead of taking the next two weeks off as he originally planned, he’s back at the office, which means I don’t have to sneak out of the house when I want to leave, which is a relief. And I’m not just seeing Crew either. I also got together with Maggie on Tuesday. We met for lunch and she told me how she ended up having a miscarriage, tears streaking down her face when she told me.
My heart broke for her, but deep down, I wonder if she was relieved. At least she’s not forever tied to the man who manipulated and molested her.
If I’m not sleeping, or spending time with Mom or Maggie, I’m with Crew. Which means I’m with him almost every single day, and it’s wonderful. Perfect. We already used up all the film that came with my instant camera. I have a ton of photos of Crew with lipstick prints all over his chest and back. I took a couple of selfies with him of me kissing his cheek, my lips vibrant with color. He’s sent me a Chanel lipstick every day this week. My mother has enjoyed the gifts too, bringing them to me each time with anticipation dancing in her eyes. Pretty sure she thinks he’s worth keeping.
I feel the same way.
I’m with him now, and we’re shopping in midtown, strolling past the luxury designer shops, me having to stop and look in every single window, marveling at the gorgeous Christmas displays. Some of the stores are even worthy enough for me to walk into, though I really don’t want anything.
“Let’s go in here.” Crew steers me into the Cartier store. “I need to buy my mother something.”
“In Cartier?” I stop in the entryway and tilt my head back, taking in the cream-colored interior. The hushed quality of the room. The giant, sparkling chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
I’ve been in high-end shops before. Plenty of times, mostly thanks to my mother. But there are shops that are on a whole other level, and Cartier is one of them.
I feel like I’m in a sacred place. Like church.
“Yeah. This is one of her favorite stores.” He’s strolling slowly by the glass cases, the glittering jewelry beckoning. A salesperson says hello to him, using his last name and I’m impressed.
He walks into a store on Fifth Avenue and they automatically know who he is. What’s that like?
I help him pick out a necklace for her and we wait as they gift wrap it for him, me dawdling over the glass cases full of diamond rings. They glitter and sparkle, mostly simple bands paved in diamonds, though there are some larger rings included in the display.
Crew slides in next to me, his shoulder pressed into mine. “You like?”
“They’re beautiful,” I admit, wondering if I’m throwing him into a panic. What eighteen- -year-old boy wants the girl he’s spending all of his time with looking at diamonds?
“Not as pretty as you.” He nudges me. “You haven’t seen yourself naked in my bed only wearing lipstick. Now that’s beautiful.”
My cheeks warm and I duck my head. He took a photo of me the last time we were alone in his room. The sheet draped over my lower half, my hair covering my breasts, the bright pink lipstick coating my lips as I posed for the camera without smiling. Completely natural. He convinced me I was the prettiest he’d ever seen me in that moment, and I believed him, trusting him enough to let him take that photo, nerves jangling deep inside me the entire time.
He studied the photo once it developed, an undecipherable look on his face. When he finally lifted his head, his gaze finding mine, I saw so much—emotion in his eyes.
It was almost scary.
Then he attacked me and I sort of forgot all about it.
Until right now.
“Want to go to Chanel?” he asks, once the salesperson hands him his shopping bag.
“Do you want to go to Chanel?”
“I want to watch you walk around Chanel if it makes you happy,” he says.
“Are you my dream man?” I rest my hand against my chest and bat my eyelashes, making him laugh.
“Fine. I’m partial to their lipsticks. And the girl who wears them.” He kisses me and takes my hand, leading me out of Cartier.
We’re entering the store minutes later, the imposing security guards standing at the entrance watching us as we walk by them.
“Do you own a Chanel bag?” Crew asks me.
“I have a black wallet on a chain I got for my sixteenth birthday. My mother owns a few and I want them, but she won’t give them to me.” I laugh. “I don’t blame her.”
“I’m surprised your father hasn’t bought you a bag,” he murmurs as we stop in front of the counter, staring at the various bags on display. “If you could have one, what color would it be?”
“Pink,” I say without hesitation. “A mini flap, I think. I don’t want it to be too large.”
“You’ve been thinking about this.” Crew sounds amused, and I smile at him.
“Every girl at prep school dreams of a Chanel bag at one point or another, don’t you think?” I make a face. “I sound like a rich snot.”
“You are one,” he teases, his expression turning serious when the salesperson approaches us.
“May I help you?” She’s a tall, reed thin blonde with deep red lips and a French accent.
“Do you have any pink bags? Specifically, the mini flap?” Crew asks, like he shops for Chanel bags every day.
“Let me check.” She turns her back to us as she slides open the compartment that holds an exorbitant amount of Chanel bags.
I wander around the store while Crew waits, stopping at the various displays. The shoes and the jewelry and clothing. It’s all so beautiful, like little pieces of art. But if I’m going to invest my money, it’s going to be on items that are actual art, not designer clothing or accessories.
I can’t lie though. I do love the occasional designer item.
When I come back to stand beside Crew, I see that there are three pink bags sitting in front of him on the counter, the saleswoman hovering nearby.
“Which one do you like best?” he asks me.
The mini flap size is a deeper pink than I would like so that’s out. There’s a medium Boy bag that’s gorgeous, but it’s more of a hot pink, and I’m not a fan of the heavy chain strap.
There’s a medium flap bag in lambskin with silver hardware that is the most gorgeous pale pink. I pick it up, admiring it before I unlock it and peek inside.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe, setting the bag onto the counter.