Page 67 of Broken on the Mountain
I watch myself in the mirror. Watch the way the dress transforms me into exactly what Mom wants.
What the Whitman name requires.
Caveman.
He’s more man than any society prince Mom pushes my way.
My bag sits on the velvet bench behind me as Monique follows orders. I can see the corner of Chase's flannel peeking out, the one I'd folded carefully this morning and tucked inside because I couldn't bear to leave it at the penthouse.
The hiking boots are in there too. The deep teal ones with coral laces that Chase had laced up himself at the General Store.
My pulse kicks up.
"Actually…" The word comes out before I can stop it.
Mom's head snaps toward me. "Actuallywhat?"
I meet Monique's eyes in the mirror, ignoring Mom.
"Could you hem it for boots instead?"
The room goes silent.
"I'm sorry?" Mom's voice could frost glass, but I don't care.
I step down and reach for my tote. I pull out the hiking boots, and step into them right there, hoisting the dress up and moving back to the platform. The coral laces are still tied from the last hike and there's mountain dirt and muck all over them.
They're perfect.
Monique's lips twitch with amusement. Another stylist across the room turns away, but not before I catch the smile she's fighting.
Mom stares at my feet like I've sprouted a second head.
"Piper.No." Her voice climbs half an octave. "Take those off immediately! You'll scuff the silk. You'll—this is aValentino—"
"I know what it is."
"Then you know you cannot possibly wearhiking bootsto the Whitman Foundation Gala!" She steps closer, her own heels heavy against the marble floor. "You'll be photographed! The images will be in thepress, the society blogs—people will talk about this foryears!"
I look at myself in the mirror again.
The red silk. The teal boots with their cheerful coral laces.
The version of me that's been hiding in Stone River, laughing over gummy bears and learning to identify wildflowers and falling asleep wrapped in flannel shirts.
That version is bleeding into Chicago.
And I like her.
"Then let's photograph who I really am," I say quietly. "Shall we?"
"No.No!" she manages beneath her fury. "I forbid it! Monique, you will hem it for heels. Piper, take those ridiculous things off so we can discuss this at home."
"There's nothing to discuss." I turn to Monique, whose expression remains professionally neutral. "Do what you like, Monique. I don't give a fuck."
Dear Mother, who's never heard her prim and proper daughter curse, nearly faints right there on the spot.
"But, thank you, Monique. You're very good at your job."
