Genevieve

The gala was a failure. It was just a room full of people in expensive suits pretending in each other’s faces. Every “congratulations” from a board member felt like a slap. The champagne was too cold, the lights were too bright, and I just wanted to scream.

Father and Uncle Artie had masked the ceremony as a celebration of a merger; meanwhile, it was a funeral for my old life as Genevieve Jacobson. My mother had been awfully silent through all of this.

My father stumbled over to me for the dance. He reeked of scotch and whiskey. He was disheveled. How he managed to stand on his own...