All the Lies - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,10

on about 5 acres, most of which are made up of avocado, orange, and lemon groves.

I grew up in Calabasas and the city has never been that famous or popular before the Kardashians.

I also did not grow up in this house.

My parents moved here a few years ago just as I have moved into my studio apartment downtown.

While I was there for their relocation and watched my mom supervise the movers, asking them to rearrange the furniture at least three times around the living, dining, and sitting areas, neither of my parents have ever made the trip to see my apartment.

It’s not that they didn’t want me to move out.

They did.

They were just not pleased that I had refused their money and insisted on living in such a sad place, my mom’s exact phrasing.

The thing is that I sort of get it. Both of my parents grew up lower middle class. My mom got her undergraduate degree from UCLA in nursing and that's where she met my dad who ended up going to law school.

When I was growing up, we were quite well off.

Not well off by Los Angeles standards, but rather by America’s and by the world’s standards.

My dad made about $200,000 a year and we lived in a comfortable four bedroom house with a small pool and a big backyard.

But it was nothing like the estate that they got when he started clearing more than $3 million a year with his new clients.

I couldn't be happier for them. I know that they worked hard for every penny, but I also know that they had certain advantages other people don't.

But when it came to me?

I didn't feel comfortable taking their money, especially if I had a job that paid me a salary.

My sisters, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

When I pull up to the grand white columns out front, the valet meets me and takes the keys to my car.

Looking up at the stunning foyer with wall-to-wall marble, I wonder if I’m being an idiot for even considering getting a second job as a bartender just so that I can pay the student loan payments that are coming due in a month.

I had postponed them as much as I could, but now I have to pay almost another $1,500 a month in addition to my rent. It's the kind of money that I don't have, but it's also the kind of money that my parents wouldn't even notice.

A server approaches me as soon as I walk through the ornate double doors and hands me a glass of champagne.

One of my mom’s friends from Pilates, whom I have only met on one other occasion, rushes over and gives me air kisses on both cheeks as I try to remember her name.

After we both compliment each other on what we're wearing, however disingenuously, the server trips over himself trying to apologize for the fact that he didn't know that I was the bride-to-be.

“It’s fine, really,” I insist but he pries the champagne glass out of my hand and replaces it with a pink Martini.

I chuckle knowing that this is something that his boss (or maybe my sister or my mom) insist that he do.

“I'm so sorry about the catering situation,” my mom's friend rattles off.

She's tall, slim, and looks about twenty years younger than she really is after a lifetime of portion controlled food and daily workouts.

But she's also kind and more authentic than some of the other people that my mom hangs out with and I like her.

“It's okay,” I say, nodding my head. “Actually, Lindsey and Mom took care of it so I don't really know what exactly happened.”

“Okay, good. I just didn't want you to worry.”

I give her half a smile and try to pull myself away. I see my plan for the evening falling apart before my eyes.

I have arrived at the party with the intention of calling the whole thing off. I was supposed to first tell the valet and then the server and then maybe everyone else.

But if I can't even tell two people who couldn’t care less that my engagement is off, how I am going to tell my relatives, my parents’ friends, and God-forbid Alex’s out of town guests.

But now seeing the sea of people and actually facing the idea of giving a speech or worse yet talking to each of the guests one-on-one, my body becomes rigid.

I freeze on the spot, unable to move.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumble to myself.

Keeping