Ugh. She always does this. Turns everything into a guilt trip. “I called the house last weekend, but Stacey said you were out, or busy or something.”
I spend more time on the phone with my mother’s personal assistant than I do with anyone in the family.
“Yes, well, I have a lot on my plate at the moment. The historical society is sponsoring a new exhibit at the State House, and we’re already planning the fall gala fundraiser for the children’s hospital. Still, persistence is everything, Mackenzie. You know that. You should have called again later that day.”
Of course. My mother has a personal staff and still can’t manage to return a call to her only child, but sure, that’s my fault. Ah well. It’s something I’ve learned to live with. Annabeth Cabot simply can’t be wrong about anything. I inherited that trait, at least when it comes to pointless arguments about donuts or whatnot. Those, I must always win. But unlike my mom, I’m fully capable of admitting when I’ve made a mistake.
“How is school?” she inquires. “Do you like your professors? Are you finding your classes challenging?”
“School’s great.”
Lie.
“My professors are so engaging, and the course content is really interesting so far.”
Lie. Lie.
“I love it here.”
Lie.
But there’s nothing to gain from telling her the truth. That half the professors seem to regard teaching freshmen as an act of spite, and the other half only show up to hand their TAs a thumb drive of PowerPoint slides. That my time would be better spent anywhere else, but especially on my thriving business. She doesn’t want to hear it.
The truth is, my parents have never been interested in what I have to say unless it’s something they’ve scripted themselves and forced me to read. In my father’s case, the daughter script is typically recited during public events and accompanied by fake, beaming smiles aimed at his constituents.
“I want you to apply yourself, Mackenzie. A lady should be worldly and well educated.”
For appearances is the unspoken part. Not for any practical purposes, but so the lady can carry on conversations at cocktail parties.
“Remember to enjoy yourself too. College is a seminal time in a young woman’s life. This is where you meet the people who will form your network for years to come. It’s important to build those relationships now.”
As far as Mom is concerned, I’m supposed to follow in her footsteps. I’m to become a glorified housewife who sits on all the right charity boards and throws parties to support her husband’s professional aspirations. I’ve stopped trying to argue the point with her, but that’s not the life I want, and eventually, hopefully, I’ll jump on another track and it’ll be too late for them to stop me.
For now, I play along.
“I know, Mom.”
“What about your roommate? What’s her name?”
“Bonnie. She’s from Georgia.”
“What’s her family name? What do they do?”
Because that’s what it always boils down to. Are they someone?
“Beauchamp. They own car dealerships.”
“Oh.” Another long, disappointed pause. “I suppose they do well with that.”
Meaning that if they can afford to put her in the same dorm room with me, they must not be dirt-poor.
I stifle a sigh. “I have to go, Mom. Got class in a few minutes,” I lie.
“Alright. Talk soon, sweetheart.”
I hang up and release the breath I was holding. Mom is a lot sometimes. She’s been heaping expectations and projecting herself onto me for my entire life. Yes, we have our similarities—our looks, our tendency toward impatience, the work ethic she displays with her charities and I apply to my business and studies. But for as much as we’re similar, we’re still two different people with totally different priorities. It’s a concept she hasn’t grabbed onto yet, that she can’t mold me in her image.
“Hey, gorgeous.” Preston appears with a smile, looking fully healed from his basketball injury and bearing a small bouquet of pink snapdragons, which I suspect are missing from a flowerbed somewhere on campus.
“You’re in a good mood,” I tease as he pulls me from the bench and tugs me toward him.
Preston kisses me, wrapping me in his arms. “I like getting to see you more now that you’re here.”
His lips travel to my neck, where he plants a soft peck before playfully nipping my earlobe.
I try not to raise a brow, because normally he shuns all public displays. Most of the time, I’m lucky to get him to hold my hand. But he’s never been an overly physical boyfriend, and that’s something I’ve learned to accept about him. If anything, the lack of PDA is a plus, especially when we’re around our families. I realized at a young age that masking my emotions and repressing my occasional wild streak were necessary survival tools in our world.