Chapter 7

Three days after my parents left, Elliott showed up.

He stood outside my apartment door, holding a bouquet of white roses and a box of pastries from that bakery I loved. He was wearing his black cashmere turtleneck—the one I always told him he looked best in. His hair was slightly messy, falling perfectly over his eyes. He looked devastatingly handsome.

"Sweetheart, come on, open the door. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His muffled voice drifted through the door. "If you don't open up, I'm just going to sit in this hallway until you feel bad for me."

I unlocked the door and let him in.

He walked inside, taking a quick, almost imperceptible glance around my tiny, seven-hundred-square-foot rental. A tiny flinch of his brow, gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a warm smile.

He sat on my small sofa and took my hand, his thumb stroking the back of it. "Have you had time to cool down? The invitations are out, the venue is locked in, and the deposit is paid. If you're still mad, I'll make my mother call you and apologize herself."

I pulled my hand back. "Elliott, let me ask you something."

"Anything."

"If my mother weren't a housekeeper—if she were a university professor—would your mother have demanded she serve her soup?"

He went quiet for a beat, then let out a soft laugh. "Freda, my mom is just old school. She treats everyone like that. It has nothing to do with what your mom does for a living. And honestly..." He paused, looking at me with gentle pity. "Class differences exist. It's not something I can personally erase overnight. But I chose you. Isn't that what matters?"

"I chose you." He had said those words so many times before. Every time, they sounded like charity.

"You chose me, so I should be grateful?"

He frowned. "Why do you have to put it like that? That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

He took a deep breath, stood up, and walked over to the window, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Freda, I mean that the gap between our backgrounds is a real, objective thing. The fact that I don't care about it—doesn't that show how much I love you? But you can't expect my mother, or my entire family, to just pretend that gap doesn't exist."

I looked at his profile against the window, feeling a strange, hollow calm wash over me.

He was being entirely honest. He did love me, but his love came with a quiet, persistent condition: I was expected to be grateful for his tolerance.

"Elliott," I said, "if one day you couldn't paint anymore, if you lost every dime you had, do you think my parents would make you wait on them?"

He turned around, blinking. He had clearly never considered the question, because in his world, such a downfall was an impossibility.

"They wouldn't care about your bank account or your family name," I continued, "because you'd be the person I chose. But your family cares. And deep down, so do you."

For the first time, his composure cracked.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his phone cut him off. He glanced at the screen and stepped into the corner to answer it.

"Hey, Mom... Yeah, I'm at her place. We're talking."

"Don't worry, she's just hurt. I'll smooth it over."

"Right. Don't cancel the invitations. Send them out."

He spoke with his back to me, his voice lowered, but in the quiet room, every word was crystal clear.

I stood up and pulled the front door wide open. "Get out, Elliott."

He hung up, a flash of genuine panic crossing his eyes. "Freda—"

"I'll give you my final answer about the wedding soon."

He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed. He walked over and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. "Fine. I'll give you some space. But Freda, please remember... I really do love you."

After the door clicked shut, the faint scent of his expensive cologne lingered in the air. I walked over to the trash can and dropped the white roses inside.