My phone is quiet for so long I start to worry she’s ignoring me. When it finally vibrates again, my heart does a leap, kicking me hard in the rib cage. My brow wrinkles as I peer at the dropped pin she sent, but I don’t get a chance to work out what I’m looking at before another message pops up beneath it.
Blondie
Meet me here tomorrow @ 11am. Bring and don’t be late or I reserve the right to draw a dick on your face with permanent marker
This time, I can’t hold it in. I bark out a riotous laugh that evolves into another until I’m completely in stitches.
It’s almost as if Blondie is reading my mind, and it takes nearly a full minute for me to compose myself enough to type back a coherent response. When I do, a broad smile pulls at my lips as the Pokémon theme song plays in my head.
Me
Whatever you say Jigglypuff
“A mansion tour?Seriously?” I groan, peering over my shoulder at the admittedly luxurious property with disdain. “If I wanted a history lesson on the Vanderbilts, I’d just ask my mom. She’s, like, second or third cousins with them or something like that. I’m not entirely sure what that makes me—the whole second and third cousin once removed thing has always confounded me—but Idoknow we’re related. I think. I could be confusing them with someone else.”
Blondie rolls her eyes as she pushes me through the door to the Breakers Welcome Center, where we join the end of the line to check in for our tour of the largest and supposedly grandest of the historic mansions in Newport. I can’t remember the last time I willingly waited for something, let alone somethingI don’t want to do.Usually, I would name-drop that I’m a Navarro, andcut to the front of this bullshit line, but alas, I doubt Blondie will allow me to use my billionaire status for evil.
“This is the Vanderbilts we’re talking about,” she scoffs. “Who could youpossiblybe confusing them with?”
I lift a hand to my chin and release a long, contemplative hum. “The Vanderpumps, maybe? It would explain why my mom hate-watches their show every week.”
A tiny furrow forms between Blondie’s brows. “How do you know she hate-watches it and doesn’t just…watch it? You know, because she likes it?”
“Oh, my sweet summer child,” I coo, affectionately patting her on the top of the head. She smacks my hand away, and I grin. “First, my mother despises the majority of our distant relations. Second, something you should probably know is that my mom is the definition of a Karen. Hate-watching is theonlyway she watches TV because it empowers her to complain about everything. The only exception isThe Great British Bake Off, but that’s only because she has a massive lady boner for Paul Hollywood.”
Blondie blinks those lovely eyes at me. “I find it disturbing you would use the phrase ‘lady boner’ while referring to your mother. Also, I have no idea who Paul Hollywood is, so I literally have zero reference for your comment.”
Shock grips me at this revelation, and I immediately pull out my phone, Google Paul Hollywood, and turn the screen around to face her. “Nothing?” I ask when Blondie doesn’t react.
“Baking shows aren’t really my thing,” she says, shrugging.
I snort. “Okay,Bake Offis everyone’s thing.”
Blondie just shakes her head. “Not mine.”
It only now occurs to me that, while we previously discussed movies, our personal taste in television programs has yet to come up during any of our dates. But then, we do spend the majority of our limited time together throwing verbal hands, andthere are only so many hours in the day, so I suppose it was unavoidable we’d eventually miss out on something important.
I cross my arms, assessing her unflinching expression with narrowed eyes. “If you aren’t streamingBake Offlike the rest of the civilized world, whatdoyou watch?”
The line moves forward before she can answer, and we’re suddenly greeted by an older man wearing a blazer embellished with the Newport Mansions logo.
“Good morning, sir. Miss,” he adds with a genial smile at Blondie. “Have you pre-booked your tickets for today?”
Blondie holds up her phone and shows what I’m assuming is a booking confirmation email to the man, who then directs us to a nearby counter, where we collect our printed map of the mansion and are advised on how to proceed with the tour. As we exit the Breakers Welcome Center and head for the property’s eastern entrance as instructed, Blondie pulls an off-brand earbud case from the pocket of the Balmain denim skirt I bought her.
“Wait, we aren’tactuallydoing the tour, are we?” I ask, genuinely aghast at the idea. Walking around this old house is one thing, but listening to some boring old troll talk about boring old history stuff while we do it? I shudder at the thought.
“What, afraid you’ll learn something?” Blondie challenges, raising one eyebrow. At my disgusted expression, she laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s just for appearances.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” Following her lead, I pull my own (not off-brand) earbuds out of my jeans pocket and pop them in my ears.
We trail a small group in front of us into a large entry foyer that Blondie informs me in a hushed breath is called the Great Hall. Four massive chandeliers and an ornate gilded ceiling hang overhead with intricate motifs patterning the walls on all sides of us. It’s beautiful—a work of art, some might say—but to me, thesurrounding marble and stone is too cold. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of my own home. Or rather, my parents’ home. To me, that house has become little more than a prison, which is why I’ve made it a point to return there as little as possible since I started attending Conwick. While the aesthetic isn’t remotely similar, it has the same discomforting coldness—the same vast emptiness. Kind of like a show home, everything in its designated place. Almost like no one actually lives there.
To be fair, it certainly doesn’t feel like they do anymore.
“Why do you look so constipated right now?” Blondie asks.
I glare at her, defensively crossing my arms. “Of all the things we could’ve done this weekend, you picked this…why?”
