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“Chilly morning,” Gerald comments, glancing past me at the yard.
“Looks that way,” I agree.
“Girls complain I keep the heat too low this time of year.”
I’m not sure if he’s looking for an agreement or not, so I just say, “I run warm.”
He chuckles, then hands me a steaming mug.
“Thanks,” I reply, hiding the wince when I lift my arm to take it. My shoulder’s tweaked from the cramped sleeping position too.
“You didn’t wind up doing much with that chemistry degree.”
“Uh …” I swallow some hot coffee, scalding my tongue in the process, buying myself some time to reply.
Again, it wasn’t really a question. Or a condemnation. Simply a statement. There’s no obvious indication of how I’m supposed to answer.
I don’t think Collins’s daddislikesme. I caught him smiling a few times last night. And I had done well in his classes, wanting to prove to myself I was capable of succeeding at something I wasn’t set toinherit, so he has no reason to think I’m a slacker. But I knocked up his daughter. There’s no way I’m one of his favorite people.
I like how he’s broaching the topic though. Giving me an opportunity to talk rather than making assumptions.
“A chemistry degree didn’t fit in with the rest of the plan,” I finally say.
I knew before I started college—before I started high school—that I’d wind up working at Kensington Consolidated, not in a lab.
Gerald nods. “Does my daughter fit in your plan, Christopher?”
I’d know the seriousness of his question from his tone alone, not just his use of my full first name.
I hold his gaze as I answer, “Sheisthe plan, sir.”
“Good morning!”
Amanda bustles into the kitchen, grabbing an apron off a hook by the fridge and breaking the heavy moment. I didn’t notice last night, but a copy of the sonogram is displayed next to the college calendar. The sight makes me smile.
“What can I get you for breakfast, Kit?” she adds.
Before I can reply, Gerald asks, “You like eggs?”
I nod, and Collins’s dad squeezes my shoulder. I hide another grimace.
Something that looks similar to approval glimmers in Gerald’s eyes as he heads toward the stove. “I’m making eggs, Mandy.”
Rather than drive straight home after dropping Collins off at her apartment, I head to my mom’s office. It’s a Sunday, but I’m not surprised to see her car parked in the garage.
When I walk into the headquarters of rouge—my mom’s fashion label—she’s standing in the middle of a tornado.
I lean a shoulder against the doorway, watching as she directs fabric samples one way and a rack of jackets in the opposite direction.
Growing up, I witnessed my mom work a lot more than my dad. Bash, Lili, and I all went to school in New York, spending more than half of the year here, and Dad was often called back to the West Coast for work. Since both rouge and her magazine,Haute, were New York–based, I saw more of Mom’s work up close.
A lot of my friends resented their parents’ busy schedules. Hated how they were rarely around or hardly involved.
I love my parents. But I also respect them. I saw how hard they worked to juggle being present and being successful.
A balancing act I’m going to have to figure out for myself soon. The hours I’m currently logging at the office are going to be difficult to sustain come May.
My mom spots me a second later and smiles, holding up one finger and mouthing,One sec.