She takes a beat. And the irony almost pulls a laugh out of me.
Done correctly.
I guess Margaret Adams is more of a “do as I say, not as I do” kind of mom, given the fact that her own marriage crumbled. My dad walked out on us with zero warning. Not so stabilizing when I was ten.
“Rosalind is more than suitable,” she continues, as if she hasn’t just said something unintentionally hilarious. Ormaddening. Or sad. “The Barringtons understand discretion. They share our long-term priorities.”
They. Our.
Not Rosalind’s and mine.
“But we need to move quickly. Time is running out. Rosalind is prepared. Call me.”
The message ends, and I drop the phone on the mattress, then scrub a hand over my face. She didn’t say the words out loud, but she might as well have.
Marry or lose control.
Control of future donations. Control of the programs and scholarships I’ve dreamed of creating. Control of whether or not the money does anything good.
Ever again.
Loren’s face floats before me, hanging on by a thread, but still reluctant to let me buy her a couple of burgers. And the truth is, I could still be generous on my teacher's salary. I might even convince her to let me pay for a meal now and then.
But without the trust, I can’t offer to build a new gym or theater.
Can’t afford to send her dad to Havenwood.
Come morning, Loren will probably be downtown, pursuing her application as a server. Host. Bartender. Whatever shifts she can stack between tutoring, lesson plans, and paper grading once the school year starts up again.
And that’s just her day job. Forget caring for her father. How much longer will he be safe at home by himself, assuming he’s not already at risk? Live-in help comes with an even higher price tag. Add that to the past medical debt she’s already drowning in.
If I could do something—anything—I would.
My mom wants to talk about stability? Fine. I want stability for Loren. For her father. And yeah, even for StonyPeak. I want to keep the donations going that I foolishly promised last fall. But I can only do that if I play the game. If I follow the rules.
If I marry Rosalind.
I try to pictureherface now, the exact shape of her smile, or the sound of her laugh, but Rosalind’s fuzzy. Which makes sense since we’ve only met twice. A couple of polite dinners with decent conversation. But that was years ago. Way before I fled the city for North Carolina. Before I got a degree in something I actually wanted. Credentials. Certifications. Then Harvest Hollow and Stony Peak High.
Loren.
Everything keeps circling back to that school. To her.
So … Rosalind. Right. She’s smart and polished. Kind, if I recall correctly. I don’t dislike her. I just don’t know her. Andshedoesn’t know that a piece of my heart already belongs to someone who has no idea she owns me.
I stand, pacing the length of my bedroom. The king-sized bed takes up too much space in this too-small house, and I stub my toe on the foot of it, hopping around, cursing at the pain shooting up my leg. At the helplessness of it all.
I face the mirror over the dresser, take in my gritted teeth. My hollow eyes.
No. I refuse to be helpless.
This is about responsibility, in the end. About using what I have to benefit the most people. If Margaret Adams wants to swing around a big stick of control, fine. I’ll bring out a bigger one. I collapse on the bed as the easiest solution settles in my gut like a boulder.
A big old Barrington boulder.
I’ll marry Rosalind. Not for myself, but for everyone and everything I care about. I’ll make her my wife, then spend the rest of my life going against my mother’s wishes.
Not for spite.