What kind of mom claps her hands like it’s the best news ever?
To think I’d actually felt guilty about not spending enough time with them, when the truth is, they never try to spend time with me. When my dad offers to take me golfing, or my mom and Holly say we should all do lunch—they’re just repeating whatever it says in the script. Not a single one of them has bothered to follow up. No one has ever once pulled me aside to ask how I’m doing—how I’m really truly doing. No one has said anything original to me this whole, entire time.
They’re just like everyone else here in Tinsel Hills—interested only in how I can benefit them.
Plum is probably the closest thing to a friend that I have in this place. And it’s entirely possible she’s been trying to nudge me toward the truth all along—in her own highly judgmental, sarcastic way, of course, which made it all too easy to tune her out.
I consider calling her—Dougall insisted on adding her number to my new phone in case his battery ran out and he was desperate to reach her—but after the look she gave me tonight, just after the ring was revealed, well, even though she was the only one willing to tell me the truth, I’m way too embarrassed to call and admit she was right about everything.
As it turns out, I really am the worst kind of sellout.
Willing to turn my back on everything I knew and loved just so I could continue deluding myself.
My real parents would never have let this happen.
My mom would have been outraged.
My dad would have ordered Ezer to leave.
Even Holly wouldn’t have wanted me to make a fool of myself on TV.
Or maybe she would have. But at least she wouldn’t have acted like the someday ring was great news.
The Greentree Holly would have shaken her head and said, “Nick—seriously, are you really that big of an idiot?”
Just thinking about my Greentree family has me missing them so much. I think I finally realize that it’s better to be a real person than a flashy, hollow shell of one who lives a fake life. I roll off my mattress and barrel straight for the closet, where I plow through endless racks of designer clothes until I finally locate something from home. Then I slink back to bed with my hand-knit Christmas sweater clutched to my chest, relieved that I’ve managed to hang on to one small piece of the past.
There’s a tentative knock on my door, followed by my mom asking for permission to enter.
If I close my eyes, I can hold the moment and pretend it’s really her.
My Greentree mom.
But as soon as I open them again and see her perfect blond head poking in, the illusion is shattered.
“Nicky?” Her voice is so cloying it grates on my nerves. “You’re trending on Twitter again!” She grins brightly, like she’s the bearer of great news.
I roll my eyes and turn onto my side so I can no longer see her, but she doesn’t get the hint and comes around to perch right beside me.
“Nicky.” She runs a long, manicured nail over my sleeve and clasps my hand in hers. It’s the only real motherly act she’s displayed, and it makes me second-guess everything I was just thinking.
Maybe I’m just confused.
Maybe being constantly manipulated by Ezer has left me paranoid.
Maybe I was wrong about her.
Determined to give her a chance to prove she really does have my best interests at heart, I lift my chin to face her. But instead of saying something comforting, or even asking how I feel about everything that just happened, she crinkles her nose, takes a long withering look at the sweater still clutched in my arms, and says, “You’re not planning to wear that…are you?”
I look at the sweater, try to see it through her eyes—same way I used to see it—as a complete and total embarrassment, something better left hidden. But I can no longer get there.
I shake my head, figuring if I give her the answer she wants, then she’ll leave me alone. “After all, it’s better for me to trend on Twitter than my sweater, right?” I study her closely, watching as she fidgets and frowns. Ashamed by how I was so easily swayed by her actions, I failed to notice she was still empty inside.
She lets out a tight, high-pitched laugh and traces a nervous finger along the gold-and-diamond necklace I gave her. All the while she’s patting my arm like you do when you’re trying to appear comforting but all you really want to do is run far away and never look back.
Then she gets to her feet and heads for the door, acting like it’s merely an afterthought and not the true purpose of her visit when she says, “Oh, and, Nicky—do you think you could front me some money? I’m a little short, and I won’t have time to get to the bank now that the holiday rush has begun.”
The question hangs heavy between us. Both of us know the show pays her plenty—way more than my real family would make if they owned a whole string of Dashaway Home and Hardware stores.
Still, I just point to my wallet and watch as she clears it of every last cent.