All That Really Matters by Nicole Deese (new books to read TXT) 📕

to Mr. Greggorio at The Cobalt Group. I’d heard stories of large donations being awarded to special organizations connected to his clientele. In my opinion, The Bridge had to be one of the most honorable nonprofits in the nation.

And then a new thought struck me: What would it be like to help somebody else reach their off-the-page goals?

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Because I actually did have an agenda for this phone call when I made it originally, and it wasn’t to discuss sea urchin masks, bar exams, or my boring choice of tea.”

I set the cold washrag down on my coffee table. “To be fair, you were the one who said boring.”

“I spoke to Clara, and I wanted to check in with you on how your first mentor group went.”

“It went great!” I said, a little too excitedly, hoping she’d left out a certain summertime goodie bag debacle. “I mean, the girls seemed comfortable with me being there, and they answered all Clara’s questions—well, except for Wren. She was pretty quiet, but we made a plan to—” I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering at the last possible second that I wasn’t going to be the initiator on said plan. Clara, the person Silas actually trusted, was in charge of that.

“Is this plan related to a makeover and movie night at Lavender Cottage?”

I mouthed the words Thank you, Clara! to my empty living room. “That would be the one, yes. Would that be something—” I hesitated, searching for the right angle, though the words pained me to ask—“we’d need your stamp of approval on?”

“It would be, yes.”

I took a deep breath, prepared for a fight that might cause me to retrieve my hair chopsticks from the drawer, when Silas said, “But I’ve already given it. It’s already on the calendar.”

I may have squealed a tiny bit. “It’ll be great, Silas. The girls were so excited about the idea, and you won’t have to worry about anything. I’ll take care of all the planning. I’ve already pinned the snack tray I’ll be bringing to my Party Foods Pinterest board so there won’t be any need for food preparation at the cottage itself. I can bring it all with me.”

“You can submit receipts for whatever food items you purchase.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” Though I’d never in a million years ask a not-for-profit to buy food for a makeover snack tray. “I’m just thrilled you approved it!”

“You’re welcome.”

I took a breath as a mix of unexpected gratitude and vulnerability rose inside me, compelling me to speak. “Silas?”

“Yes?”

“I realize you took a chance on me—saying yes after you’d already said no . . . but I want you to know that I’m really looking forward to spending the summer with these girls.” A truth that was becoming more and more apparent. I loved having a set time and place to be each week, with actual people who expected me to simply show up. To sit. To listen. To share. To be nothing more or less than Molly McKenzie. It was such a different reality than the one I lived in most of the week. And there was something surprisingly refreshing about that. Something right. Something I hadn’t even known I’d been missing.

“Many of our young ladies have said the same thing about you. We’re glad to have you with us, Molly.” He went quiet for a few beats. “And I’m glad you didn’t take my first no as a final answer.”

The validation I heard in his voice caused my throat to swell and my eyes to sting. I worked to push the unexpected emotion away and simply said, “Have a good night, Silas. Thank you for calling.”

“Good night.”

“Bye.”

I stared at my darkened phone screen for the longest time, replaying his words and blinking back unshed tears. It was easy to dismiss the compliments I received from my followers online—always begging for more videos, more entertaining reviews, more affordable bargain wear and comparisons. Because those kinds of compliments were consumer based, a satiation that lasted only until my next post. My next campaign. My next VIP deal link.

But this kind of affirmation felt different. Personal. Honest. Real.

And something inside me yearned for more of it.

Silas

I stared at my phone screen for the longest time. Replaying Molly’s words back to me. Hearing her voice inside my head as she said good-bye. Wondering if I’d misinterpreted the tears I swore I’d heard in her voice before she ended our call.

I rubbed at the stress headache presenting at the front of my skull, pressing my thumb into my right temple. As usual, I’d steeped the tea bag for double the recommended time. The first sip was always the worst. The flavor was as bland as Molly had said, but I didn’t drink it for the taste. I drank it for the anti-inflammatory qualities I’d researched for reducing tension headaches. It was worth a shot. So far I hadn’t noticed much change, and after tonight’s meeting with the board, I doubted an eight-ounce cup of hot water would bring much relief.

But what plagued me wasn’t just the fact that the trustee board had turned down my proposal for taking out a loan against the equity of Fir Crest Manor for the sake of an expansion that could save hundreds of lives—it was the number they’d attached to the project. A number so beyond radical it felt as fictitious as if we’d been asked to slay a dragon or chase after a legendary ring.

We needed to raise a million dollars before we could break ground on new sleeping quarters or hire new staff or save teenagers who believed their only chance of survival was prostitution and pushing drugs. I dismissed the scarred face that materialized in my mind with a single shake of my head. I hadn’t been able to save my brother from a life of ruin, and as much as I’d fought to make a difference in the lives of other kids like him . . . a million dollars