Page 60 of I Wish I Would've Chosen You

“Very well, sir.”

“Let’s not keep the next course waiting.” My mother ushers us all to the table, and Liam’s fingers brush against mine.

Mr. Peterson takes the seat next to me at the table, so Liam sits directly across from me.

“I was telling Mr. Donovan on the way over here that it’s not often that we get invited to a celebrity party,” Mr. Peterson says.

“Ha!” My dad waves off his compliment with a smile. “You’rethe celebrity here, sir. Let me know if anyone gets too aggressive when asking about getting their kids into Exeter.”

Principal Peterson nods, and my mother clears her throat.

“I hope you won’t mind me asking, Mr. Donovan,” she says, “but my daughter hasn’t caused you too much grief with her argumentative antics, has she?”

“Not at all.” He looks at me. “She’s the most brilliant mind I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching.”

“No need to flatter her while she’s at the table.” She laughs. “Everyone always oversells how talented and amazing she is, but I think the best of her shine is tarnished now. She’s in trouble more often and completely unfocused. A shame, really.”

Liam sets down his fork. “Ashame?”

“Yes.” My mother nods. “You can let your guard down with us while you’re here. We know Genevieve has probably been a burden to you in some way this semester. Can you pass the salt, darling?”

My father passes her the salt, and Liam grits his teeth.

“I heard you used to be one hell of a day trader on Wall Street, Mr. Donovan.” My father changes the subject. “Mr. Peterson says your hedge fund was in the top one percent. That’s quite impressive.”

“Thank you.” Liam is still looking at my mother. “Miss Edwards, you graduated from the University of Notre Dame, correct?”

“Yes.” She smiles. “I did.”

“Do you keep up with their Alumni Story journal?”

“I’m one of the top donors for that publication since I used to write for it, Mr. Donovan.” She makes it sound as if he should already know this. “They send me advance copies every month.”

“And you read them?”

“Every word.”

“So, you’re familiar with theGritty Heartsserial that’s been running in it for the past two years?”

“It’s the first thing I read.” She leans forward. “Is it your favorite, too?”

“I haven’t had the time to read it yet,” he says. “But that’s because I’m keeping up with something else the author is writing. What’s your pen name in the Notre Dame one, Genevieve?”

“Rachel Hartman,” I say.

“What?” My mom slams down her fork and looks at me. “Rachel Hartman isyourpseudonym?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I’ve tried to…”

The expression on her face shifts from confusion to something I haven’t witnessed in years.

Pride.

“Me and all my girlfriends are utterly obsessed with that story,” she says, smiling. “We have a group chat where we try to guess the next twists and turns.”

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