Later that evening, I get a text message from my mom saying that she can’t wait to see me for dinner. Shit. I completely forgot that I had made plans a week ago to have dinner with her and my stepdad. I consider trying to get out of it, but then decide that it’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth. Besides, I don't have any plans for tonight anyway, and the most I can push her off is a day or two.

I meet Mom and Mitch in their apartment on Fifth Avenue. They are in the city to catch Hamilton on Broadway and then they’re going back to Greenwich, Connecticut at the end of the week. I haven’t been here in two weeks, which is kind of a long time for us. Usually, I have a weekly dinner with them just to catch up on what’s going on. We established the routine when I started at Yale and it was nice to just keep going with it.

Mom opens the door and gives me a warm hug.

“You look great!” she says.

“You, too,” I say. And she does. She’s a small woman, about five feet five, with a short blonde bob like Marilyn Monroe’s. She’s tan and her eyes aren’t as tired as they once were. But that’s to be expected, I guess. Her life with Mitch has been considerably less stressful than her life with my dad. They got divorced when I was eight and she met Mitch soon afterward. He had lots of money and wasn’t shy about spending it on her. He wined and dined her and after they got married, she quit her job as a teacher.

Mitch greets me in the dining room with a scotch on the rocks in his hand. He isn’t much of a drinker, meaning I’ve never seen him drunk, but then again, a night doesn't go by without him having a drink either. He’s a few years older than my mom and has a few gray hairs around his temples. He’s quite attractive for a man his age, and he enjoys wearing expensive suits and shoes. When my mom pours us two glasses of red wine and hands me one, Mitch puts his arm around her and gives her a little hug. All of these years later, it is still clear to me that they are as in love as ever. The thought of that warms my heart. But it also gives me a little pang in the pit of my stomach. Unlike my mom, my dad has not been so lucky in love. He keeps mainly to himself and even if he does date on occasion, he has never introduced me to anyone in all of these years. I think he never got over my mom and still pines for her. He even keeps pictures of the two of them together on his mantel.

“How’s Annabelle?” I ask when we sit down for dinner.

Annabelle is Mitch’s daughter from his first marriage. Her mom died when she was very little and my mom basically raised her. I’m five years older than Annabelle and we used to be very close. But she started to pull away from me when she started high school.

The older that Annabelle got, the more difficult it became to maintain a relationship with her. She got kicked out of a couple of schools and started dressing entirely in black, painting her nails black and her face white. There aren’t supposed to be many goths around anymore, but Annabelle somehow found and embraced the culture. I keep thinking that she will grow out of it, but Mom and Mitch aren’t so sure.

“Her college applications are due in a couple of months,” Mom says. “I’m helping her fill them out.”

By helping her, I know exactly what my mom means. Annabelle isn’t interested in college and Mom and Mitch are insisting that she attend. So, Mom has taken it upon herself to fill out the applications.

“Where is she applying?” I ask, helping myself to a big portion of Caesar salad. Mom makes incredible homemade vegetarian Caesar dressing, which is to die for. It’s one of my favorite things to eat when I’m home.

“A lot of smaller liberal arts schools,” Mitch says. “I think those should be a good fit for her. We don't want her to get lost in a big school.”

I nod. That makes sense. Annabelle is rebelling, hating everything about our parents. Maybe going to a big school isn’t the best thing for her.

“Princeton?” I ask about Mitch’s alma mater. He shakes his head with disappointment.

“I’d have to buy them a building to get her in at this point. And I don't have nearly enough money for that.”

“Cornell might still work,” Mom says optimistically. “Or maybe Dartmouth. If they see her rebellion as a way of challenging social norms that she has grown up with.”

I nod.

“But we also have Oberlin, Middlebury, Bowdoin, and Davidson in North Carolina,” Mom says.

“Any safety schools?” I ask.

“She says that if she absolutely has to go to college, she doesn't want to go anywhere warm or too sunny. She seems to like Vermont a lot and Maine, so Mom is filling out applications to the University of Vermont and the University of Maine,” Mitch says, taking a sip of his scotch.

“Those sound like good options,” I say. I chuckle to myself, trying to imagine Annabelle at the University of Florida or Miami. All that fun in the sun has to become contagious at some point, right?

“Have you talked to her recently?” Mom asks. They both look up at me hopefully. I know that they think if anyone can connect with her at this point it would be me, but I shake my head and look away.

“No, not recently. I called her a few times and texted. But you know Annabelle. If she doesn’t want to be reached, then she can’t be reached.”

“We’re just so worried about her. I mean, you don't think she’s into doing drugs or anything like that?”

“She probably smokes pot, Mom,” I say.

“We know that. Most kids nowadays do anyway. But I don't mean pot. I mean harder drugs. I keep reading all this stuff about the opioid epidemic. The number of people who get hooked on prescription pills and then end up on heroin…it’s just frightening. And not just hooked. Many of them die. It’s so easy to overdose nowadays.”

I nod sympathetically. I don't really know what else I can do. The opioid epidemic is a real problem, but not one that I can really solve.

“That’s my only problem with those large state schools in New England,” Mitch says. “There are so many people suffering with addictions there.”

“Well, c’mon, let’s be fair,” I say. “It’s not like people in New York don’t also struggle with addiction. Do you think she’ll want to go to some school in New York City?”

Mom and Mitch shrug.

“Basically, she doesn’t want to go anywhere,” Mom says. “But we’re not willing to support her just lounging around doing nothing all day. She needs to get an education. So, if she wants us to continue to support her, she’ll have to go to college. And I’m not sure that New York City is the best place for her. Too many distractions, if you know what I mean.”

Of course, I do. Especially, for someone like Annabelle. Annabelle was always a lot more outgoing than I was. While I was happy to spend my days with my head in a book, Annabelle needed to be out there socializing with other kids. She’s a social butterfly. Actually, she’s a lot like Caroline. But something must’ve happened when she got to high school to make her shut down so much and start to rely exclusively on a very small group of kids for friends.

“Okay, enough about your sister,” Mitch says when it’s time for the main course. The grilled salmon looks delicious. I help myself to a generous portion and get some more Caesar salad as well. “Tell us about you. How’s your job? What’s new?”

Ah, me. Hmm, where do I even start? Well, since we last met, I auctioned myself off to the highest bidder, made more money than most people make in five years, and quit my job to focus on writing romance. Oh, yeah! And I also started dating a billionaire who likes to tie me up. But I can’t very well come out with all of that at once. I try to think of somewhere to stagger the conversation and reveal just enough of the truth so that I’m not lying without actually telling them anything.

“I haven’t seen any of your recent quizzes,” Mom says. “I love taking them! Can you forward me some?”

Mom has always been very supportive of my writing. She loves to read any stories that I publish and has been a devoted taker of all the BuzzPost quizzes that I made up. Shit. I guess this is as good a time as any to tell them that I’m not working there anymore.

“Actually, I quit that job,” I say, taking a sip of my wine.

“What? Why?” they ask almost in unison.

“I didn’t like my boss. She’s the daughter of the owner of BuzzPost and she was just…too demanding. Plus, writing quizzes wasn’t exactly my dream job.”

“But that’s a great company. They’re really up and coming, Ellie. You could’ve worked your way to better assignments,” Mom says.

“Oh, c’mon, writing quizzes? After going to Yale, you really think that’s the best she could do?” Mitch asks Mom. “Besides, now she can really think about going to law school.”

I take a deep breath. I don't know what’s more annoying. Mom being overly supportive of my writing and being upset that I wasn’t at my crappy entry-level job anymore or Mitch seeing this as an opportunity to shove law school down my throat once again.

“No, I don't want to go law school,” I say as clearly as possible. “I definitely want to be a writer. And I’m working on something now.”

“You are?” Mom’s eyes light up.

“Well, yes. Something longer.”

“That’s wonderful. I’d love to read it when it’s done.”

And there lies the problem, I say to myself.

“Actually, it’s a book. A novel. But I’m not sure if it’s…for everyone,” I say. I want to say it’s definitely not for you, but that would sound too rude.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve been doing some reading and there are lots of people who are self-publishing nowadays. And their books are doing quite well. Selling really well, I mean.”

“So, you’re planning on self-publishing your book?” Mom asks. “Don’t you want to at least submit it to some agents? Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

Shit. This isn’t exactly the direction that I wanted the story to go in. I didn’t mean to go into this whole self-publishing direction. That’s just something that I have been thinking about on my own, but not something that I needed to share with them at this point. How the hell did it just slip out?

“It’s not really mainstream kind of stuff,” I say after a moment. “What I mean is that it’s a romance. There is a huge indie romance community online. Lots of readers and they love these self-published authors. So, I want to try my hand at writing something like that.”

“Romance?” Mom asks with a sour expression on her face. I look over at Mitch. He’s not much of a reader for pleasure and I doubt that he even knows who Danielle Steel is. But, Mom, who is a lover of the crime fiction genre, definitely doesn’t approve.

“I didn’t plan it that way, but then I started writing and it really became a full-fledged romance. Just thought I would try something new,” I say. “Besides who knows? Maybe it will actually sell unlike my other stories.”

“Oh, Ellie.” Mom shakes her head. “I love your short stories.”

“I like them, too,” I say. “And I can still write more in the future. But for now, I really want to focus on something that someone else will enjoy. I’ve been reading a lot in the genre and it’s really dynamic. There’s so much experimentation. The authors are really trying new things. The style of narration, for example, is miles ahead of what’s going on in literary fiction. Plus, the amount of sexual content…is liberating.”

I choose my words carefully. I don't know exactly how to approach the topic, but being straightforward is probably best. My parents aren’t exactly prudes, but I’m also not entirely sure if they are well-versed in just how explicit some of it gets.

“You know me,” Mom says. “I’ve never read Fifty Shades of Grey, but-“

“Yes, I know,” I interrupt before she gets the chance to continue her thought. “But those kind of books are really popular. And you wouldn’t believe how many regular people, mostly women, are making a really good living writing that kind of fiction. I mean, they don't have publishers and they’re doing it all on their own. I still have a lot to learn, but I’m reading lots of books and blogs and even thinking of signing up for a course on book marketing. There’s a lot of work involved.”

“So, is this why you quit your job at BuzzPost?” Mitch asks, finishing his glass of scotch and pouring himself another.

“Not exactly,” I say. “But yes, it’s a big part of it. I was sick of writing those quizzes. And they weren’t paying me much anyway. The thing is that I think I can really do this. I mean, why not? I can write fast and I can write compelling characters. And maybe someone will want to read them?”

A part of me regrets going into the whole business plan so early in the process. In reality, there are tons of books on Amazon that no one reads and that’s not because they’re not any good, but because the authors don’t have the right marketing plan. And I have no idea whether my approach to marketing will actually result in sales. But I also wanted to share with my parents what I’m actually doing instead of harping on the fact that I no longer work at BuzzPost. Besides, I can’t very well go into what happened at the yacht and how much money I now have in my bank account. We will have to go into that a bit slowly.

“Well, I don't think there’s any harm in trying,” Mitch announces, much to my Mom’s dismay. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? You crash and burn and then actually give law school some thought?”

He says the last bit in a joking manner, but I know that he’s not joking. He’s dead serious about what I should be doing with my life. He used to push me to look for a job in banking, saying that he could place me in one of the biggest investment banks around and put me on the track to make a comfortable six figures within a year or so, with bonuses. But when I rejected that idea, then he came up with law school.

I appreciate his input, of course. But not his approach. I mean, I know that he just cares about me. And we have more in common with one another than he does with his real daughter, Annabelle, but that doesn’t mean that he knows what’s good for me in life. I have to make my own decisions and live by those decisions. I have no idea how romance writing as a business will work out. All I know is that I love writing, and I love the idea of someone actually reading my work. I used to write a lot of short stories and submit them to literary magazines, which no one reads in the first place, except for other starving writers. And that’s if they even got accepted, which most of the time they didn’t. And the thought of having readers writing me and telling me how much they enjoy my work just seems too good to be true.

“Well, enough about work,” Mom says, changing the subject. “What else is going on with you? Caroline?”

I shrug. “Nothing much. Caroline is Caroline. Having a lot of fun as usual.”

“You know you could learn a thing or two from her,” she says. “I know that she can be a little flaky at times, but her carefree nature makes it easier to live life, you know?”

I nod and hang my head a bit. Mom is a worrier and it’s in her nature to worry about her only daughter.

“I’m carefree,” I say as convincingly as I can.

“You? Are you serious?” Mom asks with a scoff.

I can’t stand the criticism anymore, even if it’s veiled in a compliment. “So, on one hand you’re worried that I’m not pursuing my calling as a serious writer. But on the other, you think I should be less serious and more carefree? So, which is it?”

I rarely come out and say exactly what I mean to Mom or Mitch for that matter. Mainly because I don't like confrontation and I would much rather just listen to their advice and then do what I think is right.

“Well, I just mean…” Mom starts to say. I wait for her to continue, but I clearly caught her in a trap. “You know what I mean.”

I know that you just need to criticize me in some misguided effort to make me more of a person that you think I should be, I want to say. But I keep this bit to myself.