Page 38 of False God

I smile back. “You too.”

“I knew it was a Scarlett original from the color alone.”

I order a ranch water from the bartender. Simple and refreshing sound perfect right now.

“Have you seen Wren or Rory?” Hannah asks me.

“No,” I reply. “I delayed leaving the air-conditioning for as long as I could. Barely been out here for five minutes.”

My aunt grimaces, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “We’re in a bit of a parenting rough patch. Oliver caught Wren sneaking in last night. He’s having a hard time accepting his little girl is seventeen.”

That explains Wren’s scowl at the parade. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me she had a headache.

“Guess he didn’t have to worry about that with Rory,” I say.

Hannah and Oliver’s older daughter is a carbon copy of my uncle. Serious, meticulous, and rule-abiding. She was the one who always tattled on pranks we played as kids.

“Not so much.” Hannah sighs. “How did your parents handle it?”

I smirk. “Handle what?”

She raises one eyebrow. “You’re telling me you never snuck out, Lili?”

“I’m saying I never gotcaughtsneaking out.”

Hannah laughs, then shakes her head. “Great. We’ll suggest she be more quiet next time.”

I laugh too, then sober. “The harder you try to slow it down, the faster she’ll try to grow up.”

My aunt smiles, but it’s a bittersweet one. “I know. I was seventeen once too, you know.”

I take my drink from the bartender and tap my glass against Hannah’s. “Cheers. Also, you could try changing the alarm code. That’ll slow her down at least.”

Hannah’s face lights up. “The alarm code! That’s brilliant.” She immediately pulls her phone out of her clutch, presumably to text Oliver. “I’ve heard rave reviews about the Claremont project, by the way. Very impressive, Lili,” she tells me as she types.

“Thanks,” I reply before taking a sip of my cold drink. Tart fizziness hits my tongue, followed by the smoky aftertaste of tequila.

When it comes to work, I value my aunt’s opinion over anyone’s. She works for one of the city’s top architecture firms.

When I was floundering during college, hating all my classes and trying to figure out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, she offered me an internship at her firm. My first assignment involved a museum in Boston. The design of the indoor space was interesting, but I was fascinated by the work done by the landscape architect. The building was there—needing extensive renovation and improvements, but framed and standing. The surrounding gardens morphed from dirt that had been packed flat by an endless stream of construction vehicles delivering materials. That challenge—creating something from nothing or shaping wild beauty into purposeful design—was what appealed to me the most. I abandoned my public relations major at Yale, transferred to Cornell, and packed the following summer with extra credits so I could graduate on time. I passed the Landscape Architect Registration Examination on my first try—by far the best I’d everperformed on any academic assessment—and have no regrets about my career choice.

It’s just not what people expect from a Kensington. My mom is editor in chief of an incredibly successful magazine in addition to her luxury fashion label that’s expanded into skin care and beauty. My dad runs a production company in LA, which has won so many Oscars that I’ve lost count. Kit is about to start working at Kensington Consolidated, which is considered a titan among powerful, wealthy corporations. Bash is going to graduate summa cum laude. And then there’s me, the glorified gardener.

No matter how much support I receive from my family—and I do; even Kit would never make a disparaging comment about my job—it’s hard not to feel like I’m the solitary outlier in a series of success stories.

“Are you still working on the nature preserve in Queens?” I ask Hannah.

She nods. “But we’re in a holding pattern, waiting for the construction company to come through with permits, so I’m taking on a couple of smaller projects in the meantime.”

“Hi, Lili.”

My stomach twists unpleasantly as I glance away from my aunt. Cal is standing a few feet away, his hand resting on Violet DuPont’s lower back.

We talked for a while at Atlantic Crest yesterday. About Chloe’s upcoming wedding and Claremont Park and how his master’s is going. The sort of superficial catchup that did little to alleviate the awkwardness that was heavy in the hot air.

“Hey, Cal,” I reply. My grip tightens on my glass as I wish I’d swallowed more tequila before he appeared.

“I should go check on the girls,” Hannah says. “Excuse me.”

---