Chapter 20 - Naomi
I take the ring off as soon as I get home, placing it back in its little black box and shoving the box in my underwear drawer. I curl up on my bed, eyeing my dresser suspiciously.
This is too much.
I knew this was a bad idea. ‘Welcome to the family’?! It sounds like something an Italian mafioso would say. What have I gotten myself into? What will happen when we have to ‘break it off’? What will Max say to them? What will they say to me?! I didn’t know how connected—how rich—they were before all this. I had an idea, but I didn’t know. Would they be vindictive? Would they go after me?
We should have worked all these things out beforehand. Now it’s too late. We can’t go back. I’m part of the family now, for fuck’s sake!
I jump up, heading to my kitchen. I stand in the middle of the room with one hand on my hip and the other on my forehead. I stare at a spot on the wall, thinking of nothing and everything all at once.
My phone rings, and I practically jump out of my skin. My heart races until I see Meg’s number on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“How’d it go?”
“Oh my god,” I answer, sinking into a chair. “Meg, they gave me a family heirloom.”
“What?!”
“Yeah. His grandmother’s ring.”
Meg laughs. “So it went well, then.”
“This is such a bad idea.”
“Well, yeah, obviously,” she laughs. “I could have told you that days ago. In fact, I think I did tell you that days ago. Maybe the first time I saw that little flirtation between the two of you.”
“There’s no flirtation,” I say.
“Yeah, right. And Ariana is a celibate monk.”
I laugh. “Fine. But we agreed. Business is business. No sex. No kissing in private.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true!”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m not doing anything with him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Meg.”
“Naomi.”
I huff, and try to stop the smile spreading across my face. “I’ll tell you everything at work tomorrow.”
“Bring the ring, I want to see it.”
“I’m not bringing that ring anywhere. Can you imagine if I lost it? I’m terrified of wearing it anywhere.”
“Send me a picture, then.”
“Okay,” I grin. “See you in the morning.”
I hang up and bite my lip. Clutching my phone to my chest, I tip-toe back towards my bedroom. I look at the dresser, breathing deeply. Shaking my head, I gather the courage to open my underwear drawer. I fish out the little black velvet box and put it on top of the dresser. I flick on a light and take a picture of it, sending it to Meg and Ariana.
It only takes a few seconds for them to answer with exclamations about size and carats and cost. I shut the box up again and stuff it back with my undies, curling up in bed and answering the texts. My eyelids are heavy and the panic in my chest has subsided with my friends’ help when my phone buzzes again. It’s Max.
Goodnight, beautiful. Thank you for tonight.
I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t skip a beat. I smile despite myself and answer him right away, putting my phone on the nightstand and closing my eyes. I see his face painted on my eyelids, and the way he looked in that crisp white shirt of his. I see the cut of his jaw and the way his biceps bulged against the fabric of his top.
Sighing, I try to ignore the tendril of desire that curls in my stomach every time I think of him.
I wake up to banging on my door.
“Naomi! Naomi, open up!”
I frown, rolling over in bed and squinting at my alarm clock. Six in the morning.
“Naomi! I know you’re in there!”
“Mom?” I mumble. Is that my mother’s voice? What is she doing in the city? What is she doing at my house?! The banging on the door continues until I stumble out of bed and wrap a housecoat around myself.
“Coming!” I yell, and the banging subsides. I rub the sleep from my eyes and stifle a yawn as I make my way to the door. I shuffle along the rug, listening hard for noise on the other side of the door.
I open my door and my mother rushes past me in a flurry of anger and outrage.
“Finally! I’ve been knocking on your door for ages!”
“I was asleep.”
“What is this about?!” She says, brandishing a newspaper in front of me. Her hands are shaking and I can’t make out the headline.
“What’s what about?”
“This!” She says, waving the newspaper harder. “You’re engaged?! To Max Westbrook?!”
My heart drops to my stomach. My throat tightens and my palms get sweaty.
I need coffee. I can’t handle this right now.
I take a deep breath, looking at my mother’s disheveled hair and the anger flashing in her eyes. She looks down at the newspaper, handing it to me. I take it from her and see the headline:
Heir to Billion-Dollar Fortune Engaged to Physical Therapist
My heart hammers in my chest, and I avoid my mother’s eye. There’s a photo of me and Max leaving the restaurant last night. His parents are behind us. I remember the flashing of cameras and Max’s hand on the small of my back as he ushered me into his car, but I didn’t think that this would happen. I didn’t think I’d be in the news! Is this news nowadays?
“Did you drive all the way here to ask me about some newspaper article?”
“No,” she replies, taking a deep breath. “I have a doctor’s appointment this morning.”
“You never told me that. Your doctor’s in the city?”
“Stop stalling,” She stabs the newspaper. “What’s going on?”
My mother stares at me expectantly, so I take a deep breath and turn towards the kitchen.
“You want coffee?”
“No, I do not want coffee,” she proclaims. “I want you to explain what the heck is going on here! You never wanted to get married!”
“No, Mom,” I say as I spin on my heels towards her. “You never wanted me to get married because you don’t believe in marriage. You never actually asked me what I want!”
She looks taken aback. Her hand flies to her chest as her eyebrows jump up. Her mouth opens and then closes again, and I immediately regret my outburst.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right,” she says, a little bit more softly. “I’m just… I’m just surprised is all. I didn’t even know you had a boyfriend.”
She frowns and I turn back towards the kitchen to make some coffee. When the machine starts gurgling, I take a deep breath and face her again. She looks concerned. Her eyebrows are drawn together and her lips are pinched so tight that they’re just a thin white line across her face.
“Is this what you want?” She asks. I can hear the pain in her voice.
I hesitate. I could tell her the truth, but where would that get me? She’d never take the money if she knew what I was doing for it, and then this whole thing would be for nothing. And plus, the more people know the truth, the more likely it is that someone will find out, and then, once again, the whole thing would be for nothing.
So I don’t tell her the truth. Instead, I try to smile.
“Yeah, it is what I want.”
It should feel wrong, saying that. It should feel like I’m lying to my mother and lying to myself. But maybe the most surprising thing of the past week is that it doesn’t feel wrong. When I say that I want this, it feels like I’m telling the truth.
And that scares me more than anything.