The Cousins(59)

“Your mother has interesting taste,” Donald said diplomatically, returning his eyes to the sculpture. “Though I must admit, I don’t see a family here.”

Not surprising, Allison thought. Donald Camden was the classic lifelong bachelor. He probably didn’t see families anywhere. “Are you Mother’s escort for the evening?”

“I have that honor, yes,” Donald said with a small bow.

Allison pursed her lips against another wave of nausea that, thankfully, passed. She gave him her best smile. “We’re all looking forward to tonight.”

“As you should be,” Donald said formally. “The Story family never shines so brightly as it does during the Summer Gala.”





I can’t resist. Once I’m all decked out for the Summer Gala, in a perfectly fitted dress and borrowed diamonds—actual diamonds, for crying out loud—I text a picture to my mother. Headed for the gala, I type.

Her reply is instantaneous. Oh, Milly, that’s wonderful! You look beautiful! How is Mother?

I stare at my screen for a while before replying. That’s a loaded question. In the end, all I type is, We haven’t had much chance to talk yet.

Tell me everything once you do! Mom writes back.

I will, I reply, before slipping my phone into the pocket of my dress. This dress is the most perfect article of clothing I’ve ever worn—not only because it’s beautiful and fits me like a dream but also because it has deep pockets that hold a phone and a lipstick without ruining the line of the skirt.

Aubrey comes back from the bathroom, where Brittany, who’s working as a server tonight, took her to apply makeup because the lighting is better. I wasn’t sure what to expect, since Brittany’s a big fan of smoky eyes and bold lips for herself, but she used a light hand with Aubrey—just mascara, a hint of rosy blush, and lip gloss. It’s perfect, but Aubrey’s eyes are clouded with doubt when they meet mine. “Too much?” she asks.



“Not at all,” I say. It hits me then, like a punch to the stomach, that I should’ve been the one to do Aubrey’s makeup. I should have offered in Kayla’s Boutique, after I saw how uncomfortable she was with the whole process. But I didn’t, because I was still twisted with resentment over what had happened at brunch with Mildred.

It’s made me snappish all week, and Aubrey defensive, and now there’s this distance between us that I can’t seem to close. Even though I want to—much more than I want to be Mildred’s favorite grandchild. That feels like the poisonous apple in “Snow White”; a gift given with malice that I’ll instantly regret accepting.

So why does it still hurt that I can’t have it?

I push the thought away and tell Aubrey, “You look beautiful.”

She smiles shyly. “So do you. Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

I have a sudden urge to grab her hand, to shake off all the tension of the past week and go back to being a team. I don’t know how either of us will get through tonight, let alone the rest of the summer otherwise. But before I can, Aubrey plucks a handbag off her dresser and darts into the hallway.

Jonah has already left. Carson Fine told us this morning that Mildred was sending a different type of car tonight—one that would accommodate ball gown skirts without wrinkling them—but that it would only fit two in the backseat. “You’ll need to be driven separately,” he explained. “Aubrey and Milly in one car, and Jonah in another.”



“Why don’t I just ride in front?” Jonah had asked.

Carson looked scandalized. “That’s not how it’s done.”

The whole thing is ridiculous, especially considering the dorms are a five-minute walk from the resort. But whatever Mildred wants, Mildred gets. So when Aubrey and I make our way outside, a gleaming car is parked right out front, and a chauffeur in full uniform—white gloves included—pulls the back door open. “Miss Story. Miss Story-Takahashi,” he says, nodding to us in turn. “Good evening.”

I stifle an inappropriate laugh. “Good evening,” I echo, sliding into the seat. The interior of the car smells incredible, like a combination of expensive leather and winter forest. Across from me, a console holds two chilled glasses of champagne. I settle my skirt around me as the chauffeur closes the door, then escorts Aubrey to the opposite side of the car.

When I’m satisfied that my skirt won’t wrinkle, I grab one of the champagne glasses and take a long sip. It would be rude not to.

Aubrey lowers herself carefully into the seat beside me, eyes widening when she spies my glass. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” she asks.

I know—I know—that she’s only asking because she’s nervous about tonight. Not because she’s judging me, or thinks she’s better than me, or any of the other uncharitable things that start buzzing through my head. But I down half the glass before answering coolly, “I think it’s a great idea.”

“Milly.” Her open, freckled face is troubled. “I hate this.”



“Hate what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she means, because I hate it too. Somehow, though, the same resentment that’s been curdling our interactions all week makes me tip my head and gulp the rest of the champagne. “Lighten up. It’s supposed to be a party,” I say, putting my empty glass down next to Aubrey’s full one. Then I see the tears forming in her eyes.