Chương 13
That last part required discipline.
At ten thirty, Savannah texted.
Are you awake?
I replied yes.
She called immediately.
“Trevor is making pancakes.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“He says he can cook.”
“Can he?”
“No.”
In the background, Trevor yelled, “They’re rustic.”
I smiled.
Savannah lowered her voice.
“Mom called you?”
“Yes.”
“She called me too.”
“What did she want?”
“I don’t know.”
“That seems popular lately.”
“She kept asking whether I regretted changing the wedding.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Her answer came fast.
Then slower, “I regret other things.”
I sat down at the kitchen table.
Sterling was washing mugs at the sink.
“What things?”
“You really want the list?”
“Not before breakfast.”
“Fair.”
A pan clattered on Savannah’s end.
Trevor swore.
She laughed.
It sounded different from the laugh she used in videos.
Messier.
“I turned off my phone last night,” she said.
“Congratulations.”
“For six hours.”
“Heroic.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She paused.
“I woke up and there were twenty-eight emails from brands.”
I stopped smiling.
“Bad?”
“Mixed.”
“One pulled the campaign.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Two want to renegotiate.”
“Of course they do.”
“And one wants to turn the whole thing into a ‘real love over luxury’ campaign.”
I groaned.
“Please tell me you said no.”
“I haven’t answered.”
“Savannah.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
There was a small edge in her voice.
Good.
I did not want our new relationship to become me lecturing and her confessing.
That would only recreate Patricia with different furniture.
“I’ll stop.”
“Thank you.”
Another pause.
Then Savannah said, “Trevor thinks I should take a month off.”
“What do you think?”
“I think a month is impossible.”
“Financially?”
“Partly.”
That surprised me.
I had assumed her income was enormous.
Then again, revenue was not savings.
A public career came with managers, production costs, taxes, staff, contracts, and whatever else she had built around it.
“I employ four people,” she said.
“I can’t just disappear.”
“No.”
“And I don’t want to.”
“Also fair.”
“I like my job.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I considered the question.
“I know you like being good at it.”
She went quiet.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
Trevor said something in the background.
Savannah told him not to burn the second batch.
Then she returned.
“I think I like making things.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t know if I like being the thing.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I leaned back in my chair.
“You probably don’t have to figure that out today.”
“Trevor said the same thing.”
“He’s annoyingly stable this weekend.”
“Don’t encourage him.”
We both laughed.
Then Savannah said, “Mom wants us all to have dinner next Sunday.”
My smile disappeared.
“All?”
“You, Sterling, me, Trevor.”
“No.”
“I figured.”
“Are you going?”
“I said maybe.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what happens if I stop.”
I understood immediately.
Not the dinner.
The role.
If Savannah stopped being the daughter Patricia could display, manage, defend, and invest in, what was left between them.
“I’m not telling you not to go,” I said.
“I know.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“I know that too.”
For once, her understanding did not sound performative.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Were you always this mad at me?”
I looked toward Sterling.
He had finished the dishes and was now trying to remove a wine stain from a tablecloth with completely unjustified confidence.
“No.”
“Sometimes?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Do you want a percentage?”
“Maybe.”
“Forty.”
“Jesus.”
“Sometimes seventy.”
She laughed despite herself.
“Okay.”
“Sometimes zero.”
“That somehow makes it worse.”
“I loved you the whole time.”
Savannah went silent.
I immediately wanted the sentence back.
Not because it was untrue.
Because saying it exposed something I had protected with sarcasm for years.
Finally she said, “I loved you too.”
“Past tense?”
“Oh, shut up.”
I smiled.
We stayed on the phone while Trevor attempted another batch of pancakes.
Nothing important happened for several minutes.
Savannah complained about the batter.
I told her Sterling was attacking linen with club soda.
Sterling objected to the word attacking.
Trevor shouted that pancakes were chemistry.
It felt almost normal.
Not healed.
Not resolved.
Normal.
Monday morning returned me to work.
The internet had not forgotten our family, but it had mostly moved on to something else.
A few photographs from the sanctuary circulated online because guests had posted them.
The most shared image was not Marcus Vance or the ceremony.
It was Aunt Rosa holding the confiscated radio while glaring at Sterling.
She found this deeply satisfying.
By Tuesday, Savannah’s former assistant had released the screenshots.
The messages were real.
Patricia’s wording was worse than I expected.
Elena will complain, but she always comes around.
Savannah’s event has actual commercial value.
Do not let sentimentality interfere with the transfer.
I read those three lines at my desk.
Then I closed the post.
There was no new wound in them.
Only documentation of an old one.
Patricia did not call me that day.
Or Wednesday.
On Thursday afternoon, a courier delivered an envelope to my office.
No return address.
Inside was the original trust contribution agreement for my wedding.
Across the top, Patricia had written VOID in blue ink.
A cashier’s check for the exact amount Sterling and I had lost in nonrefundable estate costs was clipped behind it.
There was no apology.
Only a small note in my mother’s handwriting.
This should have been yours to decide.
I sat there with the check in my hand for a long time.
Nina came to the doorway.
“Bad?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded.
“Useful answer.”
Apparently everyone had decided to mock me now.
I looked at the amount again.
It would have been easy to accept it as proof.
Money had always been Patricia’s preferred language.
She gave when she could not say sorry.
She withdrew when she wanted obedience.
If I deposited the check without a word, we could both pretend a transaction had repaired something.
May you like
I took out my phone.
My thumb hovered over her name.
