Hearing her say the word family stings. I know she means us here at the table, but I can’t think family without thinking about the Mackenzies. I haven’t spoken a word to them since the split, even though they’re right across the street. Smith’s house used to be my refuge when the walls in this house started to cave in. Now I can barely look at his house without feeling sick to my stomach.
The worst part is that I’ve never wanted to talk to Fiona more than I do right now. I want to cry on her sofa and tell her how hard I tried to be happy on the road with Smith. He tried too. I know he did. The fighting was both of our faults. I want to tell her that she was right, and that I should’ve listened to her. She told me that compromising my happiness for Smith’s would only lead to resentment on my part and distrust on his end.
If you knew you didn’t want this kind of life, why didn’t you tell me, Pen? I can’t walk away from the magazine now. I can’t let Marcus and Donovan down because you’ve finally decided to be honest with me.
I relive that final argument with Smith nightly, and I’d give just about anything to talk about it with Fiona.
“Shall we talk money, then?” My father clears his throat. “I assume that you and Smith didn’t have much of a chance to put money away while you were caravanning around the country like a pair of vigilantes.”
“No.” I take another sip of coffee. “Well, unless you can put a price tag on crystal figurines from gas stations.”
“Excuse me?” My father groans.
“You said yourself that we were vigilantes.” I shrug. “The only places we visited besides concert venues were gas stations, and crystal figurines were the easiest things to hide in my bra when we shoplifted.”
“I’m switching you to decaf.” My mother grabs the coffee cup from my hand.
“Do you have any money to live off of or not, Penelope?” my father asks. “It’s a simple question.”
“Of course she has money,” Nana Rosie interrupts. “She’s past twenty-five now. She has access to the trust I set up for her.”
“I thought I had to finish college to have access to that,” I say. “That’s what Phoebe had to do.”
“The trust was set up so that you could access it upon graduation from college or after you turned twenty-five,” Nana Rosie says. “I thought your parents told you that.”
“I guess it slipped our minds,” my father says, none too convincingly. “Anyway, back to my original question. Penelope, what kind of savings do you have?”
I can’t go back to my father’s original question. At least, not without yelling and some choice words. The trust funds that Nana Rosie set up for my sister and me are sizable to say the least. I mean, they’re chump change to the Hilton sisters, but they’re still sizable. Phoebe was able to afford to go to Oxford with hers and not have to work for her first year in London.
If I’d had access to that kind of money last year, my life could look completely different right now. Smith and I would’ve had options. I wouldn’t have needed to work two jobs. He might not have ever applied to Digital Slap, and if that never happened . . . maybe he’d be here now. No. We’d be back in Dubai with his parents, and everything would be OK.
“Penelope, are you still with me?” my father asks. “I need to get an understanding of your finances.”
“You mean I could’ve had access to that money for an entire year?”
Neither of my parents make eye contact with me. Suddenly, they’re both very interested in their pies.
“Penelope, what matters is you have access to it now,” Nana Rosie says. “You can use that money to restart your life.”
“Dad.” My voice comes out like a growl. “Dad, why didn’t you tell me that I had access to my trust last year?”
“I told you it was an oversight.”
“Bullshit.”
“Penelope Banks,” my mother snaps. “I will not tolerate that kind of language. Your father and I made the decision to keep quiet on the trust because we worried about something like this happening.”
“Something like what, Mom?”
The answer dawns on me the second the question leaves my lips. Divorce. She’s talking about my divorce. My parents didn’t want me to have access to my trust, because they thought Smith and I would end up divorced, and since we didn’t have a prenup, a divorce would entitle him to half of it.
“Penelope . . .” My mother trails off. “We just—”
“Thought I’d get a divorce.” My gaze flickers between my mother and father. “You two hoped my marriage would fail.”
“We never hoped for that, Penelope,” my father says softly. “But we had to protect you in case it did. Smith’s family has made it very clear that they don’t believe in helping their children succeed, and we couldn’t bear the thought that your trust—the money your grandmother worked to ensure your future with—would end up funding his schemes.”
“You don’t know Smith at all, Dad. And the both of you don’t know Jasper and Fiona either.” I push out my chair. “Because if you did, you’d know that they’d give Smith the moon if he wanted it. Smith doesn’t ask for anything from his parents. He wants to achieve his own success based on his own name and merits. And his future isn’t a scheme. It’s brilliant. You’re both just too big of snobs to see it.”
“We did what was best for you. If that makes us snobs, so be it.” He crosses his arms over his chest in defiance. “That boy may not be OK with taking money from his parents, but if he’s willing to abandon his wife after a year of marriage, I have no doubt he’d be fine with taking her money too.”
“I need some air.”
“I can’t believe this.” My father tosses his napkin on the table. “Your mother and I moved heaven and earth to get you home the moment you told us you were in trouble. Mind you, we hadn’t heard from you in months because god forbid you remember to call us when everything in your life is going fine. And now, while we’re in the middle of helping you sort through your mess, you have the audacity to insult us in our own home, on Thanksgiving no less. This is unacceptable, Penelope. I won’t tolerate it. If you’re going to stay under this roof for any length of time, you will treat your mother and me with respect, and trust that we have your best interests at heart.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dad.” I grab my cardigan from the coat rack. “Don’t worry. I’ll be in by curfew.”
I punctuate my outburst by slamming the front door behind me. The thwack is magnified by the marble floors on the inside and the ceramic tiles on the patio. It was a satisfying sound when I was a kid. The final word between my parents and me, and it was all mine. But now as I lean against the mahogany door and look up at the evening sky, I don’t find any satisfaction in what just happened. The feeling is the exact opposite. Disgust.
I’ve been home only a few days, and already I’ve reverted back to being the worst version of myself. If this is me now, what am I going to look like in a month? The thought sends a shiver down my spine. I bundle myself up in my cardigan and walk down the driveway, careful not to let my gaze cross the street.
I will not look at Smith’s house.
I will not add crying in the middle of the street to my embarrassing list of Thanksgiving accomplishments. I will make a left the minute my feet hit the sidewalk, and I will shield my eyes like a horse on a track if need be. My feet are already almost there. I can do this. If there is one screwup I will not make tonight, it’s looking at Smith’s house. I will—
“Penny?”
I look up, and there she is. Fiona’s lounging in one of her pool chairs, surrounded by an assortment of votive candles. I wave like a fool, frozen in place, unsure of what to do or say.
“It’s a new moon. You know what a new moon means, don’t you?” Fiona unravels herself from the cocoon of knitted blankets piled on top of her. She grabs a tea light and a small slip of paper from the table next to her chair. “Come here.”
I hesitate. As much as I want to talk to Fiona and listen to whatever nuggets of universe wisdom she has to share, I don’t think I can stand on Smith’s lawn and keep it together.