We're Not Falling In Love, We're Just Falling Apart

“Who am I?” I asked out loud, taking a drag off my Parliament and starting at the blank computer screen in front of me. “Who the fuck am I?”

Good goddamn question.

I suppose the easiest answer would be Pepper Genevieve Wellington-Westford. A mouthful, I know. Blame that last bit on my mother who tends to marry for sport. Something that usually means nothing to me but extra presents on holidays and a fat increase in my bank account. This marriage however, number five, came with a little extra “bonus” in the form of a brand new stepsister and a move back to my beloved hometown of Manhattan. What joy is mine.

Not that I have anything against Evelyn, or Robert for that matter, I just really, really, really didn't want to be sent back to Constance Billard. Wasn't it bad enough that I'd endured six months of that heinous place back in freshman year? I had never been so thankful for my mother's absolute ridiculousness than when she eloped with Giovanni and whisked us away to Italy. What I wouldn't give to be back in Florence, to be back with Paolo...But I'm not. No. Instead I am stuck inside this gigantic penthouse of a prison trying to force myself to answer the age old question: Who the hell am I?

I was startled out of my reverie when there came a hesitant knock on my door.

“Pepper? It's Eve. Can I come in?”

I sighed. My Yale entrance essay would have to wait until later. Maybe after a good night's rest I would have a clearer idea of how I wanted to answer.

“Yeah,” I called, stubbing out my cigarette. “The door's not locked.”

I heard the knob turn and my stepsister entered the room dressed head to toe in designer and looking far too fancy for a Wednesday night.

“Oh fuck,” I said, upon seeing her outfit. “That gala thing is tonight isn't it?”

She laughed and gave me a sympathetic smile.

“You need help getting ready?”

“Nah,” I said, dismissively, already rifling through one of my three walk in closets. “It's just some lame thing for Bass Industries, right? I'm not going to spend hours getting ready so I can stay for five minutes, eat some lame crab and brie filo, and be appraised by pretty much every wannabe socialite on the Upper East Side.”

I finally found the dress I wanted and pulled it from it's hanger. I'd had this particular Rebecca Minkoff for ages and hadn't found an opportunity to wear it. Tonight seemed ideal.

“Isn't that a little short?” Evelyn asked as I stripped down to my La Perlas and pulled the scandalously short black dress over my model-thin frame.

I appraised myself in the mirror as I added a little eyeliner to my electric blue eyes and fluffed up my waist length golden brown hair.

“No little black dress is ever too little, Eve,” I said, giving her a brilliant smile. “Remember that. Now see if you can find my new Louboutins. I have to fix my bangs, this rainy weather is killing my hair.”

Ten minutes and some YSL lipstick later, I was ready to go.

“Oh darling,” my mother said with a sigh, when we joined her and Robert in the foyer. “Couldn't you have worn something a little more appropriate? Maybe that new Valentino I got you?”

“I like this dress just fine,” I answered with a demure smile, sliding my lucky Cartier charm bracelet over my left wrist. “I think maybe you need to be a little less close-minded.”

I shot Evelyn a conspiratorial smile and flashed her the flask of whiskey I'd just stowed in my purse. Her hazel eyes widened a little and I suppressed a laugh. Tonight was about to get a lot more interesting.