Page 13 of Waiting for Acceptance
FITZ
“Are we ready to go?” my mother chirps as she slides her gloves on. I’ve missed the bitter cold of New York this winter. Tennessee is strangely warm this time of year, though most of the locals act as though their nipples will fall off if it gets any colder out. Hysterical. They wouldn’t last a day in a New York winter.
“Ready.” I nod, offering my arm to her. She takes me in and smiles. I’ve paired my black peacoat, gray knit cap, and black leather gloves with a cream cable knit sweater, dark jeans, and black leather boots, earning a nod of approval from Lena Fitzgerald herself.
My mother is nothing if not a fashion snob and hasnotrouble telling you when something doesn't match or if your colorssimply do not compliment you.It’s the one thing I like most about her because it’s trulyher. Not some personality trait she’s inherited from being my father’s wife. He could give a shit less about the things she loves.
We barely make it through three floors of Bergdorf Goodman before I’m ready to call it a night and go the fuck home, but I stop short when I see a pair of shoes that catch my eye.
“See something you like, dear? I never took you for a pumps guy, but maybe I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.” I can hear the tease in her tone and I let out a small laugh, trying to brush off the thoughts running rampant in my mind of a certain five-foot-nothing raven-haired vixen wearing a pair of black pumps and nothing else.
“Must have just zoned out I guess. It’s been a while since I shopped for this long.” She hums curiously as we keep walking, looking up at me expectantly.
“Something on your mind, Mother?” She sighs dramatically and then stops, pulling on my arm to get me to face her.
“Don’t you ever think about settling down, Fitzy?” I wish there was a polite way to tell your mother you’d rather her call youanythingelse than the nickname of a nickname she’s given you.
“Not really,” I tell her honestly.
“Well, maybe it’s time you do.” I quirk a brow at her in question so she continues. “Honey, you’re thirty-four years old. You’re in line to inherit your father’s company when he retires in a little over a year. If you plan on getting married or having children, now is the time to do so. Having a strong family imageisgood for business, you know.” I feel my chest tighten at her words.
“Is that why I spent the better half of my life being raised by someone else? To help form astrongfamily image?”
“Fitz,” she whispers, clearly regretting her choice of words.
“Is that why you brought me here tonight, Mother? To wear me down with shopping and tell me it’s time I get married and have children, and for what? To maintain the picture-perfect family you and Daddy Dearest have foughtso hardto fabricate?” I bite the words out, suddenly wishing I hadn’t agreed to come here tonight.
“No! I just—” She stops to collect herself, though I’m not the least bit inclined to entertain whatever it is she will say next. “I know how taxing this job can be. You’ve been destined for this role since you were born, Fitz. I just thought you might like to have someone along for the ride is all… It can get awfully lonely sometimes, you know?”
Fuck.
I sigh and run my hand along my jaw. “I think we’ve shopped enough tonight, don’t you? Why don’t we grab some hot chocolate and head home?” She smiles sadly and nods her agreement.
I carry all of her bags to the car, and we spend the rest of the evening in a somewhat comfortable silence. Both of us are more than likely clueless as to what to say after that. Part of me wants to believe she was asking about my love life out of sheer concern for me—as I’m sure any normal mother would do—but the other part is almost certain my father put her up to asking. Because she isn’t any normal mother, and we don’t do heartfelt shopping nights and conversations like this. So I have to be realistic in my conclusion that she’s just doing his dirty work.
Skipping dinner last night was a huge fucking mistake. My stomach sounds like it’s trying to wage a war against me and I have no desire to sit at the kitchen table and deal with my father on an empty stomach. Being hangry is a real thing and knowing the first words out of his mouth are going to be business-related is not something I’m prepared to deal with at seven in the morning on Christmas Eve. Doing my best to remain silent,I grab my running shoes and my wallet and sneak out the front door to head to the café down the street.
After a breakfast sandwich and cup of coffee I finally feel a little more like myself. I grab my phone from the table and begin scrolling through social media. It’s like some sort of sick self torture to scroll through seeing all the happy families and couples celebrating Christmas with puppies and Christmas abroad. Then I get the urge to type a name into the search bar that I know I should stay away from.
Lauren Long.
Her handle@lifewith_laurenmakes me smile. Her latest post is a photo of her and a group of girls. A blonde, a redhead, a couple of brunettes, and all of them smiling ear to ear around a kitchen island with Christmas-themed footie pajamas on. I find myself scrolling through the carousel of photos from the post seeing mixed drinks, what seems to be tons of laughter and before I know it I’ve scrolled through three months worth of her posts. There are the same three guys in a lot of her photos and I stop myself from overthinking which one she might be with. Choosing, instead, to imagine she’s with none of them.
The first day I showed up at Coleson and she snapped at me, I thought she may just be uptight, but as it turns out, she just hatedme.After her telling me why she didn’t particularly care for me, I couldn’t even blame her. I’ve watched her from a distance—where she likes to keep me—and quickly realized she’s the farthest thing from what I assumed. Outside of being particularly grumpy this week, she’s punctual, organized, always smiling and laughing with people in the office, she gets coffee for Amy when she stops for her own and seems to be the first person everyone goes to for help—everyone loves her—and it’s pretty easy to see why.
Damn, I have got to get it together and stay away from this girl and her wildly contagious smile. Though, I never seem to see it in person.
That will have to change.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of running intotheMr. Fitzgerald?” I hear a familiar voice ask from beside me.
“I suppose being in the mood for a decent cup of coffee allowed you the pleasure.” I lock my phone and turn to face Jessica Vanderbilt. Her name drips old money as much as the girl who owns it. She lets out an overexaggerated laugh and slides into the chair across from me.
“It’s been a while. What have you been up to?” She leans forward, letting her very expensive breasts all but spill out of her athleisure wear that I’msureisn’t helping to keep her warm. Her hard-pressed nipples are a dead giveaway of that.
“Working,” I answer, trying to portray just how uninterested in this conversation I am.
“Well of course. You’re like, one of the hardest-working guys I know.” Her fingertips brush along the back of my hand and my eyes lock with hers.
