Shame curdled in my gut. I’d never, ever shared that sentiment with anyone, and hearing it aloud made my skin prickle with guilt. I didn’t come from a bad family. They were judgmental and had high expectations, but they weren’t physically abusive. They’d paid for my college education in full, and I grew up in a nice house with nice clothes and nice vacations. Compared to a majority of people, I lived an incredibly privileged life. But our lives were our own. There would always be people who were better and worse off than us.
That didn’t make our feelings any less valid. We could acknowledge how good we had it in some respects while criticizing other parts. To his credit, Christian didn’t condemn me for being an ungrateful brat. He didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he waited for me to finish with no judgment in his eyes. “I would freak out if that actually happened, but it’s the fantasy of having another family out there that’s more…like a family, I guess. Less competition, more emotional support.” I traced the rim of my mug with my finger. “Sometimes, I wonder if my sister and I would be closer if my parents hadn’t pitted us against each other so much. They didn’t spend a lot of time with us because they were so busy with work, and the time they did spend with us was focused on whichever child they could brag about the most. The one who had the best
grades, the most impressive extracurriculars and college acceptances…Natalia and I were so busy trying to outshine each other growing up that we never connected with each other.” A sad smile touched my lips. “Now she’s a vice president at the World Bank and I’m unemployed, so…” I shrugged, trying not to picture dozens more family dinners where I sat in shame while my parents gushed over my sister. That was, if I was even invited to future dinners. After my fight with them, I wasn’t so sure. “I never fit in with my family even when I was employed, anyway. They’re the practical ones. I’m the one who spent my childhood staring out the window daydreaming about fashion and travel instead of stacking my resume with college-boosting activities. When I was fifteen, I created a manifestation board for Parsons, my dream college, and covered it with photos of the campus and a mock acceptance letter I typed up.” My smile turned wistful at the memory of my optimistic teenage self. “It worked. I received an actual acceptance letter my senior year, but I had to turn them down because my parents refused to pay for such an ‘impractical degree.’ So I ended up at Thayer.” I didn’t regret it. If I hadn’t attended Thayer, I would’ve never met Ava, Bridget, and Jules. Still, sometimes I wondered what would’ve happened had I attended Parsons. Would I have skipped the D.C. Style chapter of my life? Maybe. Would I already be a designer with multiple fashion shows under my belt?
Less certain but probably.
“Take this from someone who’s seen plenty of competitors come and go over the years,”
Christian said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You can’t measure your success based on someone else’s progress. And I’ve met your family. Trust me, it’s better that you don’t fit in.” I let out a small laugh. “Perhaps.” It felt good to get all that off my chest, and it helped that Christian and I weren’t as close as I was to my girlfriends. It made me less self-conscious about the things I was sharing. Sleep tugged at the edges of my consciousness, but I didn’t want to go to bed when Christian and I were finally having a real conversation. The shoot didn’t start until late morning tomorrow anyway. Just half an hour more. Then I’ll go to sleep. “What about your family?” I took another sip of tea. “What are they like?” Christian never talked about his parents, and I hadn’t spotted a single photo of them in his house. “Dead.” The tea went down the wrong pipe. I spluttered out a series of coughs while Christian finished his dinner like he hadn’t dropped a bombshell with the casualness of someone mentioning their family was out of town for the weekend. “I’m so sorry,” I said once I recovered. I blinked away the tears from my coughing fit. “I…I didn’t know.” It was an inane thing to say because of course I hadn’t known, or I wouldn’t have asked, but I couldn’t think of a better response. I’d assumed Christian’s parents lived in another city and/or he had a bad relationship with them. I never would have guessed he was an orphan. “It happened when I was thirteen, so don’t feel too bad for me. It was a long time ago.” Despite his casual tone, his tight jaw and rigid shoulders told me he wasn’t as unaffected as he pretended to be. A deep ache blossomed in my chest. Thirteen was too young to lose one’s parents. Any age was too young. I might be upset and frustrated with my family, but if I lost any of them, I would be devastated. “They were your parents. There’s no time limit to grieving the loss of family,” I said gently. I hesitated, then asked, “Who did you live with after they…” “My aunt raised me until she died when I was in college.” Christian answered my unfinished question. “I’ve been on my own since.”
The ache spread until every part of me tingled with the need to comfort him. He wouldn’t respond well to a hug, but words could be just as, if not more, powerful. “Don’t pity me, Stella,”
he said, tone dry. “I prefer being alone.” “Maybe, but there’s a difference between being alone and being alone.” The former was the absence of physical company; the latter was the absence of emotional and interpersonal support. I liked being alone too, but only in the first sense of the word. “It’s okay to feel sad,” I added softly. “I promise I won’t tell anyone.” I didn’t ask how his parents died. I could tell we were already stretching the limits of his willingness to share, and I didn’t want to destroy the fragile intimacy of the moment. Christian stared at me with an imperceptible expression. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally said, his voice a shade rougher than usual. I expected him to end the conversation there, but to my surprise, he continued without me prompting him. “My father was the reason I got into computers. He was a software engineer, and my mother was a school administrator. In many ways, they were the quintessential middle-class American family. We lived in a nice suburban house. I played Little League, and every Friday night, we ordered pizza and played board games.” I held my breath, so entranced by the rare glimpse into his childhood I was afraid to breathe in case it broke the spell. “The only thing that didn’t fit into this picture,” Christian said, “was their relationship. My parents loved each other. Madly. Deeply. More than anyone else on the planet.” Of all the things I’d expected him to say, that didn’t even rank in the top thousand, but I swallowed my questions and let him continue. “I grew up hearing the crazy tales of their courtship. How my father wrote my mother a letter every day while he was studying abroad and trekked two miles to the post office in the mornings because he didn’t trust the university mailing system. How she ran away from home when her parents threatened to cut her off if she didn’t break up with him because they’d wanted her to marry the son of a wealthy local businessman instead. She eventually made up with my grandparents, but instead of throwing a big wedding, my parents eloped and moved to a little town in Northern California. They had me less than a year later.” The haze of memories darkened Christian’s eyes.