Page 42 of Choosing Us

Me

I’ll see you at the airport.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Simon, we need a moment before we exit, please,” my mother calls out to the driver.

“Of course, Mrs. Morgan-Lane. I will stand at the door for your signal.” The driver is far too gracious toward my mother, and I take a deep breath to keep my features neutral. It’s too early in the evening to lose my cool with my mother already.

I just want this evening to be over.

I’m sure Sampson does as well. It’s the day after Christmas, and he’s driving us around while my mother calls him the wrong name. He has been their primary driver for at least five years, and she can’t be bothered with getting his name correct.

But I am not my mother. “Thank you, Sampson. And I promise, we will try to be as brief as possible this evening so you can get home to Michelle.” He gives me a soft smile in the rearview mirror before he steps out into the winter chill of New York in December.

My mother tuts. “Honestly, Harlow, I don’t understand why you insist on being so chatty with the help.”

“Oh, like getting their names correct?” I mutter, despite my attempts to not give her any fuel for the inevitable holiday fight we are overdue for.

Some families have fun holiday traditions that bring them closer together as a family, but the Lanes’ traditions include wearing uncomfortable clothes, going to the right events to be seen with the right people, and faking the joy of the season. Even gift giving is done in front of others, never just the three of us at home, simply spending time together.

I don’t want to spend the holidays like this. I don’t even want to spend them with my family at this point in my life, but they’re all I have.

“What was that? I’m quite sure I misunderstood you.” Astor Rose Morgan-Lane snaps her compact closed after touching up her already perfect professionally applied makeup. She’s a beautiful woman—and her plastic surgery team ensures she always will be—but her eyes lack the warmth and softness that a mother should have when speaking to another person, let alone their only child.

“Let’s get on with it, Astor,” my father drawls as he continues to scan whatever social media app has his attention this evening.

Mother nods at him, and I realize I’ve been set up and trapped by these two.

I sit up a little straighter as it dawns on me that my parents have a plan for whatever this little chat is, and I may need to plan an escape route.

“Harlow. This evening is important to your father and I, and you are a reflection of us, despite your misgivings about us and all that we have done to support you and your endeavors over the years. Your father and I would like to see some actual effort this evening, and maybe even finding something you could bid on to financially support the … the…” If she could move her face, she would look confused, but again, those plastic surgeons earn their keep with my mother.

“The Greater New York City Area Coalition for Better Leaders for Tomorrow,” Father supplies, and I fail to hold back the squeak of laughter that escapes.

“Did they run out of room on their naming application or were they just hoping for a ridiculous name?” I giggle as my mother glares at me—as best she can without the ability to move most of her facial features.

“I helped come up with that name, Harlow. The Lane family is one of the premier sponsors.”

I nod and already know the answer before I ask. “And what is the mission of this organization that is so near and dear to your heart?”

Mother is speechless.

She has no clue what they do, but I bet she knows every person that is expected to be here tonight.

And not just that, but Mother likely knows everything down to who is cheating on their spouse, who is quietly going on a vacation to come back with a new face, and whose children are being set up for advantageous marriages.

“It doesn’t matter. They do wonderful and important work. But I want to see some actual support from you, Harlow. It looks bad enough you barely come back to attend our events, so please step it up tonight. And if you are worried about the financial aspect, your father will cover whatever bid you place.” I look to my father, and he is nodding along, before she adds, “And, if it isn’t too much to ask, there are a few gentlemen I’d like to personally introduce you to tonight.”

There it is. The real reason for this pep talk.

She brushes a piece of hair off my face in a shockingly kind gesture, but my walls are not coming down that easily. “Although I do wish you would have let my stylist dress you, or at the very least done your makeup. You have so much potential.”

“I have no interest in meeting anyone with a romantic notion tonight, Mother, but thank you for the near compliment.”

“I didn’t give you a compliment.”

“I know.” I turn and reach to the window, tapping twice with my knuckles in my mother’s signature fashion. The windows are tinted so dark that Sampson won’t be able to tell the difference between my mother’s knock for an entrance and my knock for a rapid escape.