Page 10 of The Debutantes
Mom runs a full-time business designing dresses, and the debutante market is her biggest. Every Maid or Queen worth her salt wears a Genevieve Johnson original, Lily included—and sure, I’m a little jealous sometimes that I have to share Mom’s designs, but I’m so proud of her. Because I know how my mom comes off to people. I’ve heard the other Maids giggle about her at rehearsals. They think she’s some ridiculous, sycophantic Southern belle who’d do anything to please the powers that be. But what they don’t see, what I wish they could respect, is that even though Mom can be a lot, she’s not the butt of a joke. She’s a shark with a goal, and she knows exactly what role she has to play to get there.
And so do I.
Straightening my spine, I focus on my mission: find Wyatt, figure out what Lily saw, and fix the catastrophe that this ball has become. Mom said Wyatt was getting the car, so I make my way outside.
I find them faster than I expected. They’re standing on the path that leads to the main country-club entrance, but something seems wrong. Lily’s glaring at Wyatt, her arms folded, and his hands are shoved deep in his pockets.
“I told you I’m fine.” Lily’s tone is so uncharacteristically cold that it makes me hesitate. I stop behind an oak tree, just out of their sight.
“Obviously you’re not,” Wyatt grumbles. “You won’t even look at me, just your stupid phone.”
“Do you need, like, a full log of who I’m texting now?”
I grit my teeth. Something’s definitely off here, because Wyatt and Lily don’t fight. As much as they get on my nerves, they’re pretty much the perfect couple. It’swhythey get on my nerves. At home, Wyatt can be moody and hotheaded, but I’ve never heard him talk to Lily with anything but cartoon hearts in his eyes.
“You don’t need to act like I’m some possessive creep!” he snaps. “All I’m saying is it would be nice if mygirlfriendwouldn’t act so—” He stops, pointing at Lily’s phone. “There! See? You can’t even go two seconds without looking.” He steps closer, reaching out. “Who the fuck is—”
“Stop.”
“I just want to—”
“Don’t touch me.”
And now I’m overcome with the protective instinct that’s been ingrained in me since the day we were born, when I emerged fourteen minutes earlier and a whole lot wiser than my asshole brother. I march out from behind the tree.
“Hey,” I call, laser-focused on Wyatt. “Mom’s looking for you.”
He and Lily jolt apart like magnets with the same charge. Wyatt stares at me, and I wonder if he can tell from my expression just how much I’ve overheard. But we’ve never had thattwin-telepathy crap you see in movies. Besides the blue eyes, we barely even look related: he got Mom’s golden coloring, and I got Dad’s harsh combination of pale skin and brown hair.
“Are you Mom’s bounty hunter now?” Wyatt asks bitingly. Now that he’s recovered from the jump scare, he’s pissed.
“If the price is right.” I turn to Lily. “Hey.”
“Hi.” She doesn’t look happy to see me, and I can’t fight the little pulse of hurt. In the past, Lily’s tolerated me—little more than a polite wave or small talk as she and Wyatt head up to his room—but ever since I started helping her with her college application essays a few months ago, I’ve felt like maybe,maybewe were becoming real friends.
Not that it matters anymore. I got into Vanderbilt, Lily didn’t, and now it’s obvious that all she ever wanted me for was the favor.
Fat lot of good that did her.
With a quick glance at Lily, Wyatt stomps over to me and pulls me out of her earshot.
“What are you doing?” he demands, voice low.
“What areyoudoing? I heard y’all fighting. What’s going on?”
His jaw twitches. “We weren’t fighting.”
“Does she know something?” I press, even quieter. “Mom thinks she was lying about what she saw. Did she see who—”
“I know you’re jealous that you’re not Queen, or whatever, but can you stop trying to shove yourself in other people’s business?”
My face heats.Thathe said loud enough for Lily to hear. And it’s not even true. Sure, being Queen is an honor, but I never had the illusion that it would be me. Lily’s had this in the bag from the day she was born a LeBlanc.
I cross my arms, trying not to let the hurt show. “You’re in a mood.”
“Yeah, wonder why.”
“Fuck you.”
