Free Scared of Beautiful by Jacqueline Abrahams

and her cocoa colored skin seems to pop amidst her always colorful outfits and wide grin. “You’re too much of a stranger these days,” she scolds. She turns her attention to Jackson and I hold back a giggle, waiting for her assault. “And who is this strapping young man!” she exclaims, pulling him into a bear hug. I damn near collapse into a fit of laughter as Jackson flails around in her embrace.
    “Jackson Jones, nice to meet you, ma’am,” he nods when she finally releases him and he can breathe again.
    “And he has manners!” she nods at me approvingly, and Jackson grins like he’s just been given a lollipop. “Come in,” she scolds as if we were standing in the hallway by choice. Megs’ apartment is as colorful as she is: red tablecloths with purple sunset curtains being her norm. Yet it feels homely, even if it does hurt your eyes sometimes.
    My mother in a grey pants suit is the only thing that looks out of place in here. She glances up from pawing through her handbag as we enter, and walks over, offering me a long hug.
    “Hi Mom,” I say, “This is Jackson.” She smiles at Jackson and holds out her hand. “Jackson this is my mother, Celia.”
    “Lovely to meet you,” he greets her, taking her hand. My mother smiles warmly at Jackson. Even though she’s been a socialite for the past two decades, she’s never been shallow. Any other Manhattan mother would have asked immediately about his lineage.
    Megs makes us chai tea, which Jackson politely accepts. but doesn’t drink. I notice that my mother’s eyes are red rimmed again. She engages in the conversation, but seems so distant. Then again, that’s nothing new.
    The ride to Manhattan is uneventful. Jackson offers a brief history of himself and his family. I stare out the window, dreading each turn of the wheel that brings me closer to my old life. We pull up outside the apartment on the block opposite Central Park, and the valet races to park the car. I politely decline and say we would prefer if it stayed on the street.
    “Wow,” Jackson doesn’t hide his astonishment at the luxury block. My mother and I have the same fearful look in our eye.
    “Are you sure he’s away?” I ask her.
    “Magda said he would be for the next two days,” my mother answers.
    Magda is my father’s P.A., my mother’s friend, and my father’s mistress. Has been for the past 12 years. Talk about a convoluted fuck up. Jerry, the doorman, smiles as we walk past and into the elevator. My mother presses P and we ascend to the top floor of the building.
    Jackson is clearly in awe of the apartment, from the extravagant flower arrangements that adorn the expensive hall tables, to the baby grand piano in the foyer, to the imported Italian leather lounge suites and marble tiles. I hate the extravagance, hate every square inch of this place, and every memory it recalls in my mind. My mother walks purposefully to her bedroom, ignoring her surroundings.
    “I need to grab a few things as well,” I say to Jackson, leading him to my old bedroom.
    My bedroom is Queen Anne and shabby chic through and through. My father paid a designer a small fortune to cater to my every whim, mainly because the daughters of other families would see it. I don’t stay for the reminiscing, and instead walk straight over to my walk-in closet. The wardrobe is bigger than our whole dorm room at Brown. Jackson follows me in, and all of a sudden I am ashamed of the sheer amount of expensive shit that surrounds us. The shoe rack is lined with rows and rows of Christian Louboutins and Jimmy Choos. The handbags hung neatly on the adjoining shelf cost nothing less than $1000 each. The racks look like the inside of a designer clothing store.
    I pick up a Louis Vuitton overnight bag and throw in some sentimental pieces of jewelry. Next, I grab a box that’s filled with paperwork, and shove everything to do with my investment portfolio into the bag and reach up for a small shoebox and place that in