Status: I don't think I'll continue writing this, so most likely discontinued. :/
It's a Love Story
"i don't need no other life, cold and complicated"
"I can't believe this," I grumbled to my best friend.
"What?" Sophie's voice crackled through the speakerphone.
"Well, first of all, that you're not here," I fumed. Today was my family's annual Thanksgiving dinner. Usually, I was able to survive the stuffy and pretentious affair with Sophie by my side and running flutes of champagne, but this year Sophie's parents had taken her down to fucking Georgia for the holiday. Which left me on my own to deal with my parents' gossipy friends. And their equally stuck-up children.
"I'm sorry, J," Sophie apologized. Then her tone brightened. "But hey. At least Connor will be there, right?"
I sighed in a morose kind of way and pushed my hair back in a weak attempt to make it look presentable. It's a bad sign when the thought of your boyfriend doesn't make you feel better, a little voice pestered in my head. I pushed it away. "Yeah, but so will Nicole," I instead answered, a bitter tone arising in my voice at the thought of my boyfriend's evil twin sister. Self-proclaimed Queen Bee and reigning biggest bitch of the school, Nicole had always been particularly nasty to me, for God knows what delusional reasons.
"Just ignore her," Sophie advised. "Seriously, she just wants attention."
"I know." But I couldn't help sighing again. Twisting silky strands of my blonde hair back, I picked up the two black Chanel barrettes that lay waiting on my dresser and used them to clip my hair back. I then took a step back to look at myself in the mirror. Dressed in a purple chiffon Marc by Marc Jacobs dress that fell mid-thigh and pale yellow Christian Louboutin heels, with my makeup carefully applied and my hair in soft curls, I looked just like the rich, snooty, WASPy princess I was expected to be. Except I wasn't that girl.
"Juliette, darling," my mother's staticy voice erupted from the intercom beside my door.
I turned away from the mirror and raised my voice half-heartedly. "Yes, Mom?"
"What are you still doing upstairs?" she hissed, sounding irritated. "The guests are arriving."
I briefly wondered how she could possibly go from raging alcoholic to playing the part of a perfect hostess in less than a week before replying dully, "Coming!" I waiting for her to click off. "Gotta go, Soph. I'll talk to you later."
"I'd like to make a toast." Christopher Lewis, my father, stood up at the table.
All heads turned to him expectantly. I stared him down, too. Christopher Lewis was tall and slim, with a well-built body and chiseled face, cropped golden blonde hair and overwhelmingly blue eyes that crinkled just the right way when he laughed and completely entranced anyone who spoke to him. To the unknowing eye, he was a perfect host and gentleman - he remembered everyone's name, welcomed each guest personally, enthusiastically told anecdotes that made everyone around him laugh and gaze at him admiringly. To the innocent bystander, he was an excellant husband - he held his wife's drink and carelessly tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow as though the gesture was completely natural and normal. As though they had a happy marriage.
All that was a lie. Underneath that polished front he put up to the rest of the world, he was full of secrets and lies. And it seemed that only I was able to see through his fake facade. Beneath it all, he was a power-hungry, money-driven and morally corrupt bastard. I knew for a fact that he regularly cheated on my mother on his frequent business trips, and he cared little what I did as long as I didn't "embarrass the family name". Whatever the fuck that meant.
"... thank you for coming and celebrating with us tonight," my dad was saying when I tuned back in. He raised his glass and flashed a charming smile at his audience. "So here's to another great year to be thankful for."
All around me, guests were raising their glasses, but mine sat untouched, as I rolled my eyes ever so slightly at how everyone was lapping up his load of complete bullshit. Maybe it was a good year for him, sleeping with young woman in various business capitals across the nation and earning money practically in his sleep, but here at home, with my mom having a near meltdown that left me with various responsibilities I was way too young to have to deal with, things were not okay. If I had one thing to be thankful of, it was that he spent more time away than with his own family, because at least it meant I didn't have to see him every day.
"Is everything okay?" a low voice penetrated my scathing thoughts.
I nearly jumped, startled. Seated next to me and gazing at me with a concerned expression was my boyfriend, who I had nearly forgotten about.
I looked up at Connor and rested my hand reassuringly over his. "Of course." I put on a smile. "Just - just thinking about some things."
He nodded briefly, his light blue eyes now distracted with something at the other end of the table. I remembered with a jolt the events of last year's Thanksgiving - Connor and I had snuck away from the dinner table to hide away in the kitchen balcony, where we had spent the time laughing like crazy and downing a bottle of champagne we'd stolen before our escape. But now... things felt so different. I'd been so busy juggling college applications with trying to keep my mom from hitting the booze again, and that, coupled with how I couldn't seem to bring myself to talk to him about any of my recent problems, made me feel like we were almost drifting apart.
I looked down at our hands, clasped together on the table, and my mind instantly flashed back to about two weeks ago, when Wolff had held my hand at the hospital. Then, my heart had thudded so hard it felt like it would break through the ribcage enclosing it. There was a kind of roaring in my ears that blocked out everything but the sound of dun dun, dun dun, as the most important vessel in my body, all entangling veins and codes and blood, went wild when his long artist's fingers entwined with mine easily, naturally, as though my hand belonged in his. My breath had grown shallow; I felt a warm flush creeping up to my cheeks and it was all I could do to keep a natural face when his beautifully hazel eyes met mine. But right then, seeing my hand encompassed in Connor's, I felt... absolutely nothing.
"Juliette!" Connor suddenly whispered urgently.
I looked up, flustered, to see majority of the table gazing at me oddly. Shit, had I said something out loud? "I'm sorry, I was just - ah - distracted," I excused myself nervously.
"I was just asking, darling," trumpeted Mrs. Eleanor Longchamp, a loud, garish woman who gossiped constantly and wore an outrageous amount of rouge on her heavily botoxed face, "what colleges you're intending on applying to?"
"Oh." I let go of Connor's hand to reach for my glass of wine. "There's a couple I'm interested in... I'd love to go to the Rhode Island School of Design."
This revelation was met with politely blank stares. "But, dear, isn't that an art school?" Mrs. Longchamp whispered the last two words as though they were some kind of profanity.
I blinked at her. "Well, yes."
My dad laughed heartily at the head of the table, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "Of course, Juliette will be applying to Yale," he boomed. "It's my alma matter, and I'm very close friends with the dean."
I flushed, feeling beyond embarrassed. Money, privledge, and Ivy legacies were all familiar to every guest seated around the table. But suddenly, wanting to go to an art school was something shameful, abnormal?
My dad stood up casually, perhaps sensing the dirty looks I was throwing him. "I'm just going to grab this great wine I've been saving; I'll be back in a second."
I waited a minute or so before standing up and excusing myself quietly. I stormed out through the side door, my heels making a comforting click click noise on the marble. Letting the door swing shut behind me, I found my dad not at all near the wine cellar, but rather standing at the fireplace mantle in the living room.
The minute I stepped in, he turned around to face me, as though expecting me. "Yes, Juliette?"
"Dad," I began right away, "why did you say that inside? I don't want to go to Yale. I've never wanted to."
He gave me a surprised look. "Yale is my alma matter," he reminded me. As if I needed any reminding.
"Yes, Dad. I know." I surpressed an exhasperated sigh. "I just don't think you should have said that, since I want to go to RISD. Not Yale."
He looked at me with the slightest reproach, as if I was saying something absolutely outrageous. "Why on earth would you want to go to an art school?" He shook his head slightly as though trying to make sense of it himself. "Yale is more appropiate for you."
"Dad--" I began, but he cut me off.
"Listen, Juliette, I won't have my only daughter shlepping off to some art school. When is art going to help you?" he said sharply. "I know what's best for my family. Which includes you going to Yale."
My jaw nearly dropped to the ground, and all my anger of the day finally bubbled over and spilled out in a horrible, furious rant. "Dad, you know what's best for our family? You don't know shit about anything that goes on around here! All you care about is what other people think of us. Maybe, if you spent just a little bit more time actually with us, you would know that I don't give a shit about going to your fucking alma mater. And you would know that just two weeks ago, I had to take Mom to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. Because she's an alcoholic, and it's all your goddamn fault, because you're never around."
I stopped to see his reaction to what I was sure to be earth-shattering news. Instead, he was standing there mulling it over, as though someone had asked his opinion on an expensive wine. "I'll have to make sure she stops drinking in public," he finally responded. "I don't want other people to get a bad impression."
For a second, I was in such complete shock that I literally couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at him. Was he actually serious? He didn't want people to get a bad fucking impression?
'You know what, Dad?" I said when I finally found my tongue. "You're the biggest dickhead I know."
And with great satisfaction, I turned away from him, not even waiting to see his response, and walked up the foyer to the front door. And even though no one else was there to witness it, it felt pretty damn good to slam the door shut behind me.
"What?" Sophie's voice crackled through the speakerphone.
"Well, first of all, that you're not here," I fumed. Today was my family's annual Thanksgiving dinner. Usually, I was able to survive the stuffy and pretentious affair with Sophie by my side and running flutes of champagne, but this year Sophie's parents had taken her down to fucking Georgia for the holiday. Which left me on my own to deal with my parents' gossipy friends. And their equally stuck-up children.
"I'm sorry, J," Sophie apologized. Then her tone brightened. "But hey. At least Connor will be there, right?"
I sighed in a morose kind of way and pushed my hair back in a weak attempt to make it look presentable. It's a bad sign when the thought of your boyfriend doesn't make you feel better, a little voice pestered in my head. I pushed it away. "Yeah, but so will Nicole," I instead answered, a bitter tone arising in my voice at the thought of my boyfriend's evil twin sister. Self-proclaimed Queen Bee and reigning biggest bitch of the school, Nicole had always been particularly nasty to me, for God knows what delusional reasons.
"Just ignore her," Sophie advised. "Seriously, she just wants attention."
"I know." But I couldn't help sighing again. Twisting silky strands of my blonde hair back, I picked up the two black Chanel barrettes that lay waiting on my dresser and used them to clip my hair back. I then took a step back to look at myself in the mirror. Dressed in a purple chiffon Marc by Marc Jacobs dress that fell mid-thigh and pale yellow Christian Louboutin heels, with my makeup carefully applied and my hair in soft curls, I looked just like the rich, snooty, WASPy princess I was expected to be. Except I wasn't that girl.
"Juliette, darling," my mother's staticy voice erupted from the intercom beside my door.
I turned away from the mirror and raised my voice half-heartedly. "Yes, Mom?"
"What are you still doing upstairs?" she hissed, sounding irritated. "The guests are arriving."
I briefly wondered how she could possibly go from raging alcoholic to playing the part of a perfect hostess in less than a week before replying dully, "Coming!" I waiting for her to click off. "Gotta go, Soph. I'll talk to you later."
"I'd like to make a toast." Christopher Lewis, my father, stood up at the table.
All heads turned to him expectantly. I stared him down, too. Christopher Lewis was tall and slim, with a well-built body and chiseled face, cropped golden blonde hair and overwhelmingly blue eyes that crinkled just the right way when he laughed and completely entranced anyone who spoke to him. To the unknowing eye, he was a perfect host and gentleman - he remembered everyone's name, welcomed each guest personally, enthusiastically told anecdotes that made everyone around him laugh and gaze at him admiringly. To the innocent bystander, he was an excellant husband - he held his wife's drink and carelessly tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow as though the gesture was completely natural and normal. As though they had a happy marriage.
All that was a lie. Underneath that polished front he put up to the rest of the world, he was full of secrets and lies. And it seemed that only I was able to see through his fake facade. Beneath it all, he was a power-hungry, money-driven and morally corrupt bastard. I knew for a fact that he regularly cheated on my mother on his frequent business trips, and he cared little what I did as long as I didn't "embarrass the family name". Whatever the fuck that meant.
"... thank you for coming and celebrating with us tonight," my dad was saying when I tuned back in. He raised his glass and flashed a charming smile at his audience. "So here's to another great year to be thankful for."
All around me, guests were raising their glasses, but mine sat untouched, as I rolled my eyes ever so slightly at how everyone was lapping up his load of complete bullshit. Maybe it was a good year for him, sleeping with young woman in various business capitals across the nation and earning money practically in his sleep, but here at home, with my mom having a near meltdown that left me with various responsibilities I was way too young to have to deal with, things were not okay. If I had one thing to be thankful of, it was that he spent more time away than with his own family, because at least it meant I didn't have to see him every day.
"Is everything okay?" a low voice penetrated my scathing thoughts.
I nearly jumped, startled. Seated next to me and gazing at me with a concerned expression was my boyfriend, who I had nearly forgotten about.
I looked up at Connor and rested my hand reassuringly over his. "Of course." I put on a smile. "Just - just thinking about some things."
He nodded briefly, his light blue eyes now distracted with something at the other end of the table. I remembered with a jolt the events of last year's Thanksgiving - Connor and I had snuck away from the dinner table to hide away in the kitchen balcony, where we had spent the time laughing like crazy and downing a bottle of champagne we'd stolen before our escape. But now... things felt so different. I'd been so busy juggling college applications with trying to keep my mom from hitting the booze again, and that, coupled with how I couldn't seem to bring myself to talk to him about any of my recent problems, made me feel like we were almost drifting apart.
I looked down at our hands, clasped together on the table, and my mind instantly flashed back to about two weeks ago, when Wolff had held my hand at the hospital. Then, my heart had thudded so hard it felt like it would break through the ribcage enclosing it. There was a kind of roaring in my ears that blocked out everything but the sound of dun dun, dun dun, as the most important vessel in my body, all entangling veins and codes and blood, went wild when his long artist's fingers entwined with mine easily, naturally, as though my hand belonged in his. My breath had grown shallow; I felt a warm flush creeping up to my cheeks and it was all I could do to keep a natural face when his beautifully hazel eyes met mine. But right then, seeing my hand encompassed in Connor's, I felt... absolutely nothing.
"Juliette!" Connor suddenly whispered urgently.
I looked up, flustered, to see majority of the table gazing at me oddly. Shit, had I said something out loud? "I'm sorry, I was just - ah - distracted," I excused myself nervously.
"I was just asking, darling," trumpeted Mrs. Eleanor Longchamp, a loud, garish woman who gossiped constantly and wore an outrageous amount of rouge on her heavily botoxed face, "what colleges you're intending on applying to?"
"Oh." I let go of Connor's hand to reach for my glass of wine. "There's a couple I'm interested in... I'd love to go to the Rhode Island School of Design."
This revelation was met with politely blank stares. "But, dear, isn't that an art school?" Mrs. Longchamp whispered the last two words as though they were some kind of profanity.
I blinked at her. "Well, yes."
My dad laughed heartily at the head of the table, drawing everyone's attention back to him. "Of course, Juliette will be applying to Yale," he boomed. "It's my alma matter, and I'm very close friends with the dean."
I flushed, feeling beyond embarrassed. Money, privledge, and Ivy legacies were all familiar to every guest seated around the table. But suddenly, wanting to go to an art school was something shameful, abnormal?
My dad stood up casually, perhaps sensing the dirty looks I was throwing him. "I'm just going to grab this great wine I've been saving; I'll be back in a second."
I waited a minute or so before standing up and excusing myself quietly. I stormed out through the side door, my heels making a comforting click click noise on the marble. Letting the door swing shut behind me, I found my dad not at all near the wine cellar, but rather standing at the fireplace mantle in the living room.
The minute I stepped in, he turned around to face me, as though expecting me. "Yes, Juliette?"
"Dad," I began right away, "why did you say that inside? I don't want to go to Yale. I've never wanted to."
He gave me a surprised look. "Yale is my alma matter," he reminded me. As if I needed any reminding.
"Yes, Dad. I know." I surpressed an exhasperated sigh. "I just don't think you should have said that, since I want to go to RISD. Not Yale."
He looked at me with the slightest reproach, as if I was saying something absolutely outrageous. "Why on earth would you want to go to an art school?" He shook his head slightly as though trying to make sense of it himself. "Yale is more appropiate for you."
"Dad--" I began, but he cut me off.
"Listen, Juliette, I won't have my only daughter shlepping off to some art school. When is art going to help you?" he said sharply. "I know what's best for my family. Which includes you going to Yale."
My jaw nearly dropped to the ground, and all my anger of the day finally bubbled over and spilled out in a horrible, furious rant. "Dad, you know what's best for our family? You don't know shit about anything that goes on around here! All you care about is what other people think of us. Maybe, if you spent just a little bit more time actually with us, you would know that I don't give a shit about going to your fucking alma mater. And you would know that just two weeks ago, I had to take Mom to the hospital for alcohol poisoning. Because she's an alcoholic, and it's all your goddamn fault, because you're never around."
I stopped to see his reaction to what I was sure to be earth-shattering news. Instead, he was standing there mulling it over, as though someone had asked his opinion on an expensive wine. "I'll have to make sure she stops drinking in public," he finally responded. "I don't want other people to get a bad impression."
For a second, I was in such complete shock that I literally couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at him. Was he actually serious? He didn't want people to get a bad fucking impression?
'You know what, Dad?" I said when I finally found my tongue. "You're the biggest dickhead I know."
And with great satisfaction, I turned away from him, not even waiting to see his response, and walked up the foyer to the front door. And even though no one else was there to witness it, it felt pretty damn good to slam the door shut behind me.
♠ ♠ ♠
Thanks for reading. Sorry if this wasn't the most interesting of chapters, BUT I assure you all, the next chapter is definitely the one you've all been waiting for. ; ) I'm excited for it.But before that, seriously guys, I hate silent readers. I think it's really rude to subscribe and not comment. So I'm asking for a minimum of 10 comments before I update again. I'm not asking much, it's not even a fourth of my subscribers, but I would appreciate it if I get feedback.
pee. es. I will most definitely be changing the story title to 'Something' by the next update. Just a heads up.