The Fix (The Carolina Connections, #1)(62)

Ugh.

We wouldn’t want to go crazy and wear peek-a-boo lace or down-to-there necklines or, well, a color that actually stood a chance at catching someone’s eye, now would we?

How inappropriate.

I didn’t know how I was going to make it through another one of these yawn fests without at least something sparkly to look at. Come on, people! It was as if the invitations had read “Attire: Funereal Chic.” My gaze swept the room—black, black, black—ooh, charcoal! Wait, red! Oh, just the exit sign—my bad.

I was stuck in this receiving line of sorts with nary a glass of champagne to keep me entertained. My only small act of rebellion was wearing the sexiest, skimpiest pair of lilac lace panties I could find, but they were completely hidden under my (modest, of course) black sheath Dior gown. I had forgone the delicious red patent leather Manolos—the poor things were stuck at home in my closet, probably happy they didn’t have to endure this evening’s event.

“Shut up, Fiona! Positive thoughts, please,” my inner voice, Guilt, reprimanded.

Oh, right. Sorry.

So right now, you might be curious as to why I was the reluctant center of attention at this function, and you may even sympathize with me for having to stand here sans champagne and bored out of my mind (sexy panties aside). But in a minute, you’re going to agree with Guilt and think I’m a bitch.

You see, when all these people approach my parents and say, “You must be so proud,” what some of them really mean is, “You’re so goddamn lucky and a tiny part of me resents the shit out of you.” But it would be unseemly to actually say that so they always go with the former comment.

Regardless of etiquette, behind their eyes I can always see the envy along with the effort it takes to not let it show. They would give anything, and I mean anything, to have a daughter like me.

I know, what a bitch, right?

But it’s the God’s honest truth. Many of these couples would trade their very lives to have what my parents have—a daughter who survived childhood cancer and lived to tell about it.



“I thought that went exceptionally well, didn’t you?” my mother asked as she perched on the sofa next to me, her makeup still flawless and her blond up-do as elegant as it had been five hours earlier.

“Definitely,” I agreed, removing my shoes to massage my sore feet. I mean, I may not have gotten to wear the Manolos but I wasn’t a heathen or anything—I had still worn a pair of stilettos. At five-feet and a quarter (you bet your ass I’m including that extra quarter inch), I always wear heels—the higher the better.

Fact: adults don’t take short people seriously. So I do anything I can to even the playing field. If I had a nickel for every time I’d been patted on the head by some patronizing asshole, I’d be—well, I’m already rich, so let’s just say I’d be disgustingly rich.

To be fair, I, myself, am not actually rich, but my parents are. And they both evidently got straight As in preschool because they are awesome at sharing.

We have this odd relationship where I just exist and they are so tickled that they throw money at me. That, in and of itself, would be pretty pathetic, but along with the money, they also throw unwavering love, affection, and support in my direction and I hope I do a halfway decent job of returning the same to them. Lots of people say they have the best parents in the whole world, but I actually do. And that, in short, is why I can never say no when they ask for my help with The Foundation. That and my ever-present companion Guilt, of course.

“Ah, there are my beautiful girls!” my father said as he entered my parents’ massive living room. He’d loosened his bow-tie and removed his tux jacket and was now looking between us and the screen of his smartphone. “Guess how much we netted? Just take a guess!” From his excitement, the answer was clearly a good one.

“$350,000?” my mother guessed.

“Um, $375,000 and Barbara Rogers’ hotel keycard—I hear 80 is the new 40,” I said, earning a nudge from my mother.

My dad looked at me with the most serious expression he could muster. “Fiona, you know I won’t go older than 75—at that point they’re more housecat than cougar.”

I giggled—what can I say? I’m a daddy’s girl. Did I mention how awesome my dad is?

“So, drum-roll please,” he said and my mother and I dutifully tapped our respective sofa arms. “$432,350!”

Mom and I enthused appropriately and my dad went to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of champagne—finally, I was going to get some bubbly!

“Totally exhausting, but so worth it,” my mother sighed as she let herself relax back into the cushions of the stylish gray sofa, her formal gown somehow remaining completely un-rumpled. I propped my stockinged feet on the designer coffee table and pretended not to see the chastising glance aimed at me. “This is going to make such a difference—I think this may put us over the top to get the new MRI for Children’s.”

We speak in shorthand around here where medical terminology, facilities, and organizations are so ingrained in our everyday dialogue that I often wonder if we need complete words at all. We’re like a depressing version of a teenage text exchange.

Everything is “WBC,” “ALL,” “SCT,” “Children’s,” and “County” to name just a few. And it’s a good thing because if we used all the actual terms, we wouldn’t ever have time to finish a conversation. For instance, saying “ALL” is a lot easier than saying “acute lymphocytic leukemia,” which just happens to be the disease that has defined and redefined our lives over and over.