Jesus Freaks: The Prodigal (Jesus Freaks #2)(51)

The use of the term “rich” is superfluous in the context I grew up in. Everyone here has money. We live in one of the wealthiest communities in the United States for G—cripes sake, but still kids will focus on how much their parents have, in an effort to develop some sort of pecking order amongst themselves.

But, as far as Trent is concerned, everyone considers him rich. His dad is some famous hair product mogul whose creations are frequently touted on the red carpet as “the absolute best thing ever.” His mother is an entertainment lawyer who rubs elbows with Hollywood royalty on a regular basis. How we ever ended up together makes less and less sense to me the more time I have away from the relationship, but it was what it was.

I never asked to go to fancy parties with him and, honestly, I think that’s what he liked most about me. In spite of the fact that I refused to ever have sex with him, he knew I wasn’t dating him to get close to Hollywood big shots. It just never occurred to me to care, but he did have a history of dating girls who would do whatever he wanted them to do just so they could stay with him long enough to attend some gala, product launch, or other event. Then once they got what they wanted from entertainment royalty, or when they were rejected, they left him. He always made it seem like he was the one who ended the relationships, which was kind of true if you look at the girls he got involved with. By choosing them at all he was essentially sealing the deal on their romance from the start.

With us it was different, though, which is why, I guess, he was so “different” once we broke up. I have no idea what he’s like now since we haven’t spoken in person more than a handful of words to each other since he graduated high school a year before me.

“Oh, come on,” Mollie begs, bouncing on the edge of her bed like a puppy with a full bladder. “Screw him. Everyone is going to be there. You know that because you went to one of those parties the year you guys dated, when he was a senior and his brother came home from college. The whole damn school goes. Everyone who’s graduated, anyway. And we are those people now. We’ve been invited. It’s Facebook official.” She’s so serious in her delivery that I have to laugh.

“Why do you want to go?”

“Because I want to be cool,” she admits unabashedly. “I want to rub my Ivy League education in everyone’s face in the classiest way possible.”

I roll my eyes. “Everyone we graduated goes to somewhere fancy, Moll.”

“Right,” her eyes glisten mischievously, “and only some of them actually got in. I’m one of them, and they know it. My parents are self-made wealth, Kennedy. There’s no old money there, and certainly no prestigious university.

She has a point. Her parents made a name for themselves in the catering world, working together to create sugar art like you’ve never seen. It’s a wonder that Mollie is only a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her parents met working at a restaurant in the city just out of high school. They were each attending community colleges nearby and started focusing on business classes. Once they honed their cooking and baking skills, and obtained their associates degrees, they opened up a little dessert shop in the Meat Packing District back when no one wanted to be there even when the sun was up.

I don’t have to spell out how that played out. They’re enormously successful with their brand stamped on bakeries up and down the Eastern seaboard. They cater celebrity weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs, and almost everything else you can imagine.

But, they didn’t buy their daughter’s way into Yale, which is not something every classmate of mine can claim. Mollie worked her a—butt—ass off to get there, and is loving every second of doing it on her own accord.

I narrow my eyes. “Fine,” I concede. “But only if you don’t wear any Yale clothing. Be nonchalant.”

“Yahoo!” Mollie yelps, arms raised overhead. “And, duh. I need to be classy about it.”

“Great,” I mumble. “Help me, too. I’m going to be a nervous wreck. Wait, who am I kidding? Who the hell is going to care that some Southern pastor happens to be my birth father?”

Mollie chuckles. “Most of them are Jewish anyway, so wouldn’t they just kind of feel bad for you, or something?”

I shake my head. “I’m sure that was offensive, somehow.”

Mollie slides into her walk-in closet to begin her wardrobe selection for our new plans for tomorrow night, and I take out my phone. I feel bad that I haven’t connected with my roommates in a couple of days.

Me: Hey you, how’s your Thanksgiving going? Have you decided if you’re going to that party tomorrow night?

Eden: Food is sooooo good :) And, I think I’m gonna go. I have some friends who don’t drink who are going anyway, so we’ll stick together and can leave if it’s lame. What about you?



Me: I’m going. It’s at my ex-boyfriend’s house. This house.





On a whim, I copy and paste a Google image of Trent’s parents’ estate.





Eden: :-o Are you serious? Is he famous, or something?





Me: He thinks he is ;)





Eden: LOL. Be careful.





Me: You, too. Text me tomorrow and let me know how it goes.