Page 30 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

Since graduating, I don’t understand who I’m supposed to be anymore—an independent business owner or my father’s daughter who makes him proud? How do I balance my dreams with everyone else’s plans? Better yet, how do I not disappoint my family, who have already done so much for me?

On most days, a quick run allows me to breathe easier and loosens the knot that keeps me tied up in the stress of failing. Today, it’s not working, so I run faster on my way to the park.

I was raised to believe I could do anything, but now I’m being asked to compromise what matters most to me or give it up altogether. My small company, STJ Co., combines my favorite things—shopping and spending another person’s money. But with only two months left on my loan, I have to prove this can be a valuable asset to the St. James portfolio. Sure, it’s not a big moneymaker—yet—but I’m building a solid clientele, and I’m proud that the business I started is blossoming.

But a position at Manhattan Financial Group, Inc. has been haunting me since June, so clearly, what I’ve achieved is not considered good enough.

How will I justify the continued operation of a business that’s still in the red? I’m not used to failing, and in most people’s eyes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. How do I get my family to see me as more than some frivolous girl who they hope falls in line with their plan?

I stop when I reach the edge of the pond, bending over and resting my hands against my thighs. Catching my breath isn’t easy, but when I see the time on my phone, I know I need to head back so I have enough time to slip back into the role of a proper St. James for the night.

A party in our honor months after graduation feels a little strange because we’ve moved on from that part of our lives. But with Tatum’s parents traveling so much and mine running a multimillion-dollar business, this was the date they chose. Four and a half-months late.It’s the gesture that counts.

As soon as I enter the apartment, Tatum says, “It’s going to be okay, Nat. I promise.” My best friend knows me well.

“Thanks.”

The stylist pauses when Tatum peeks around her hips, her eyes finding me just inside the apartment. “The plan is we go to dinner, we schmooze, and we collect our gifts, then the real party begins. You only graduate from college once.”

“Technically, it was months ago, though.”

With the artist working her hair magic, Tatum continues like this is everyday life for us. It kind of is, but still . . . “Don’t be a party pooper. We have the rest of our lives to be depressed. I know you’re stressed, but maybe your parents will surprise you and offer to carry the STJ loan a little longer.”

I toe off my sneakers and kick them by the door. “That would be amazing, but I have a feeling my time is up.” I don’t like being negative, so I fix my attitude and push off the table. Pulling the bottle of champagne from the fridge, I ask, “Who’s ready for a glass?”

* * *

“.. . So, here’s to my big sister and her best friend. May you live your adult lives as bold as you lived your youth. Cheers!”

I stand and raise my glass, tapping it to my brother’s. “Thank you, Jackson.”

The sound of crystal clinking together is the making of a melody—this one officially launching Tatum and me into the world. Before I sit down, I add, “I’d also like to thank John and Martine, my amazing parents, who have supported all my endeavors from ballet at five to backing my company at twenty.” Raising my glass higher, I add, “And for this lovely celebration.”

I drink my champagne and take a deep breath, nervous about broaching the topic of extending the loan to keep my company afloat until we can turn a profit. Hopefully, my toast is a good segue into that conversation later.

When I sit, my dad sets an envelope down and pushes it across the table to me. “We’re proud of you, Natalie. You worked hard and graduated with honors. It’s good to see the St. James tradition succeed in your generation.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Taking the envelope, I ask, “What is this?”

My mom, looking New York chic in head-to-toe Balmain, rushes into the private room. Even breathless, she is as fashionably chic as she is late. I can only dream of being so put together. She lovingly calls my fashion sense Hamptons meets California coastal casual. Although she’s never critical of me, she does encourage me to refine my style, hating that I wear cutoffs sometimes. She leans closer and whispers, “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Glancing at my dad, I add, “And thank you for the gift.”

Taking advantage of the opportunity, he asks, “What are your plans after the gifting thing?”

“The ‘gifting thing’ is my plan. If you have time in your schedule, I’d like to talk to you this coming week about potentially extending?—”

“No, Natalie. The agreement was for you to do that for a few years and then come on board with the financial group. The offer is in the envelope with details, and the contract was emailed to you this evening. Also, I’ve included the sign-on bonus that was promised. It’s all there. All you have to do is sign your name and cash the check.”

Why do I feel he still doesn’t understand what I do? “You make it sound so easy to trade doing something I love for what I promised you when I was fifteen.”

“You graduated in May and turned twenty-three in July. It’s time to take on some responsibility and build something that will still be around in twenty years.”

“Like your career,” my mother adds as if that’s helping my side. It’s not.Clearly.

“I wasn’t dabbling,” I start. “I was . . . Iambuilding something. My clientele list has doubled in the past four months alone.”

“Great. Let’s get them signed up and invest this extra money they have to spend.”

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