White Tie, Black Leather

27: Ain't Your Mama

"Here it is," Beau announces as he pushes open the door to his loft apartment in Queens. The room is decorated sparsely, a mixture of dark wood and black. My eyes find the finer things of the space-- the thousand-dollar bottles on the wine rack, the original Bob Ross painting hung nonchalantly on the wall, and the leather Armani bag situated on the glass coffee table.

I realize I've been standing stationary in the doorway as he fiddles around the space, dropping his keys, rummaging through mail, etc. I take a few steps in, feeling as though I don't belong because, in reality, I don't.

"You can take the man out of the Upper East Side..." I trail off as I run my fingers over the spines of the many critically-acclaimed, first-edition books on a nearby shelf.

"I saw the tabloids," He says over his shoulder as he takes off his coat and rolls up his sleeves on his white button-up. "I wasn't surprised when you called."

I shrug, fiddling with the bottom of my borrowed uniform. "I was surprised your number hadn't changed," I say to the empty space in front of me as I meander around. The sink turns on and I realize he's washing his hands. When I turn to look at the massive island in the kitchen area, he's beginning the process of cooking dinner.

I scoff and slowly approach the other side of the counter, "You can cook?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Blythe," He says. It's a simple comment, but I can hear the slight poison behind it.

"You know, I tried to reach out after everything that happened," I murmur, thrumming my fingertips on the cold surface of the counter.

He doesn't say anything, simply slices into a tomato and chops it, the rhythmic sound echoing in my head.

"So," I change the subject, "what have you been doing the past... five... years?"

He tosses the tomato slices into a skillet heating up on the stove top. Sighing, he wipes his hands off on a dish towel and starts cutting a squash, "I run a nonprofit organization that provides aid to third world countries. After I left the Upper East Side, I moved to Africa for a year and did some philanthropy work there. Came back, started the nonprofit, and it's really taken off-- hence, the expensive items you've already zeroed in on."

"Wow," I say, thoroughly impressed. "That's amazing, Beau."

He shrugs, "I've done my best. However, my greatest accomplishment was escaping those vultures." He drops the knife onto the counter and meets my eyes, "I'm glad you have too."

I shrug again, "I'd probably still be in that world if--" I pause, not allowing myself to continue. 

If I hadn't met Jesse. If I hadn't disobeyed and embarrassed my family. If I hadn't made Mother so angry that she exposed my illegitimacy to the world. 

He nods curtly and continues to cut, silence blanketing us again.

"I got into Yale," I say, suddenly. "Early acceptance."

"Congratulations," He says, gathering the squash pieces and tossing them in the skillet as well.

"Did you end up going to college anywhere?" I question. "Not judging if you didn't, I'm just curious."

He scoffs with a laugh and nods, "Yeah. I went to Columbia. Have my Bachelor's in international affairs and am currently getting my Master's in Economic Policy Management."

"That's impressive," I state and he shrugs.

"I could've done without it but I figured it would help legitimize my non-profit," He slices pieces of raw chicken now.