I changed the subject to avoid any more nagging. After explaining the exhibition hall whose spatial design I was in charge of, I asked,
“Want to come see it?”
Of course, Mom’s answer didn’t stray from expectations.
“I think it would have less value than looking around my warehouse. I don’t understand why people collect things that haven’t even been appraised, and I certainly can’t trust the collection of someone with that sort of taste…….”
“I just mentioned it. It’s not even a formal invitation, so forget you heard it.”
She disapproved of everything I did. Because none of it involved handling huge sums of money.
“What about you, Jonas? Come if you’re interested.”
After being coldly rejected, I switched targets to Jonas. When I told him the location of the exhibition hall, he said he’d visit if he had the time. Since Mom’s schedule was practically his schedule, it was probably just a polite response.
I invited the driver I’d met for the first time as well. After being introduced to him as Derek Kane, we carried on a smooth conversation. The three of us chatted while shifting topics, and in a brief lull, Mom cut in.
“Somerset Quinn. When you’re talking, you should focus on the other person.”
“I am focusing.”
“And yet your eyes keep drifting toward the window.”
It was hard to deny it when I unconsciously turned my head again. I was searching for Eden’s car among the passing scenery. I hadn’t seen it in front of the apartment either. He wasn’t following us.
Was it really because of yesterday? Maybe eavesdropping on my masturbation had made it awkward for him to face me. After all, he was a man who hadn’t had sex even once since leaving me. I knew his tolerance for that kind of thing had probably dropped, but maybe it was worse than I thought.
Part of me wondered if I’d gone too far, but the hardliner in me argued that a stalker illegally wiretapping me deserved at least that much punishment.
Fair point. Not reporting him to the police was already generous enough.
“The weather’s nice. It’s sunny.”
I couldn’t exactly admit that I had a stalker and was searching for signs of him, so I changed the subject. Mom’s eyes sharpened, searching for something else to criticize, and I kept my guard up for a while. If she pointed out, ‘I need to know why you’re acting so restless,’ I’d be forced to make something up.
Soon, the car entered Madison Avenue and stopped in front of one of Mom’s favorite stores.
I escorted her in Jonas’s place. Watching her step elegantly and nobly out of the car like an actress posing for photographers on a red carpet, I laughed—and immediately got scolded again.
“When you laugh, restrain yourself enough not to reveal your inner thoughts.”
“And what were my inner thoughts?”
“You were thinking, ‘Mom’s going to keep acting like that even at a hundred years old.’”
“Oh, mind reading? Forget the tiresome etiquette lessons—I’m signing up for telepathy classes.”
Our quiet back-and-forth probably looked like a warm conversation between mother and son from the outside.
Eden was probably watching somewhere too.
But where the hell was he?
I turned around, but all I could see were the massive bodies of the security guards lined up like a wall.
Not wanting to lose, they straightened their shoulders and lifted their chins, flaunting their masculinity. Mom tugged at the hem of my jacket. It was pressure to stop fooling around and escort her already.
Reluctantly, I started walking.
“Yes, yes. Let’s go.”
As soon as we entered the store, a pleasant-looking manager hurried over, mentioning that they had rearranged the displays with products suited to a special customer’s tastes.
While his eloquence captivated Mom, I wandered around with another employee. After making about half a lap, Mom beckoned me over. It looked suspiciously like she was calling a puppy, so I protested that it was unfair treatment for a gentleman, but she lightly ignored me.
“Did you find anything you liked?”
“I was just looking.”
Leaving my indifferent self standing beside her, Mom gestured to Jonas. She merely flicked a finger, but somehow he understood exactly what she meant and followed the instruction.
“What did you say?”
“It meant, ‘Send the clothes to Tribeca and the bags to the house.’”
“Did you secretly learn sign language behind my back? Or maybe you learned mind reading from Jonas?”
“What nonsense.”
The conversation Mom led wasn’t exactly meaningful either. Brushing off my telepathy nonsense, she brought up the townhouse in Tribeca, the wealthy Lower Manhattan neighborhood where she’d been staying recently because her artist friends lived nearby.
She claimed she’d come to understand the charm and value of art, but she obviously had ulterior motives.
Soon enough, she’d return to the mansion on the Upper East Side after extracting all the best information about which artworks were trending and which artists showed promise, then buy up whatever looked profitable in the future.
When I showed skepticism toward an artistic perspective centered on money, Mom scoffed.
“Somerset Quinn. You insist your sense of taste is something you cultivated yourself, but I’m the one who laid the foundation for it. Who do you think you have to thank for growing up surrounded only by fine things?”
Aside from genetics, the thing I unquestionably inherited from Mom was the ability to assign value. I was terrible with numbers, yet strangely enough, I’d become someone who could effortlessly memorize prices. This highly developed ability was so advanced that the cost of clothes I only glimpsed during a fashion show etched itself into my brain. Whenever it stirred the materialistic tendencies buried inside me, I often felt conflicted.
“I’m not denying that I grew up enjoying abundance in a wealthy family. But back then I was a kid. I only figured out who I was and established my identity after living on my own. It’s been years since I bought things for my house with money I earned myself.”
“You seem to have completely forgotten whose money got you that apartment in Queens. Think carefully about whether the trust in your name and my wealth truly had no influence at all on the ease and flexibility of your mindset.”
Sometimes the truth drags people straight into a pit.
I decided to save my mood before it fell into a deep and treacherous hole.
“Please ring up everything from those shirts to those coats. This much is fine as a gift for your son, right?”
I called over an employee and pointed at all the clothes lining one wall. The manager rushed over, beaming. Even a rough estimate would amount to a considerable sum.
“That shamelessness of yours is my creation too.”
Mom said it as if pinching me, then nodded. Jonas, who’d been watching her from a few steps away, reacted immediately to that tiny movement.
While he gave the manager detailed instructions about sizing and packaging, Mom and I left the store first. It was a preemptive measure born from our mutual understanding of each other’s stubbornness and the instinct that the conversation might escalate into an argument.
Back in the car, I once again asserted my individuality, while Mom flaunted her influence as the creator of the masterpiece.
“You gave birth to me, but that doesn’t mean everything’s settled just because of that. Humans grow.”
“And who do you think guided that growth entirely? Me.”
“You helped me grow. I’m the one who actually grew. Helping a child until they become an adult is a parent’s role. ‘If you merely fulfilled your duty, don’t become arrogant!’ Those were your words, Ms. Deborah Quinn.”
“I’ll say it again. I gave birth to you, and you lived in an environment I built, receiving the things I provided.”
“So you’re saying you’re the protagonist of my life too? You can’t be the protagonist in everyone’s story. Every person is the protagonist of their own life. Respect matters.”
Mom stared at me as I repeated respect like a slogan, then shrugged.
“Done with your self-reflection?”
It was a sharp blow against someone like me, who talked about being the protagonist of his own life despite receiving so much from his rich mother.
Among the qualities Mom gave me was undeniably exceptional narcissism.
I’m close to Jonas, Mom’s secretary, yet I’m always aware of his occupation. I’m not uncomfortable with the lavish treatment from store employees. I indulge in luxury with Mom’s wealth. On top of that, I’m even assuming the reason my stalker isn’t showing himself revolves around me.
Was yesterday’s me just too sexy?
Trying at least a little to make up for my neglected self-reflection, I said,
“Let’s say it’s ongoing. I put myself first, but I also respect everyone else.”
Above all, my humanity is worthy of pride for trying to embrace even a stalker.
“Indeed. ‘He who has never known shadows, beware arrogance.’ Today’s wise saying, so remember it.”
“Another quote from Ms. Deborah Quinn?”
“Of course. I’m regularly maintaining my masterpiece.”
“Are you planning to talk about your masterpiece all day?”
The truce only came once the driver and Jonas got into the car. Because Mom said she’d skip lunch to manage her weight before a dinner appointment, we moved to a nearby café instead. We sat facing each other at a round table in the back while Jonas and the security guards occupied the table beside us.
“It feels like there are more bodyguards than usual.”
“It’s a temporary measure. Didn’t you see the news? The chairman of Herald Corporation received death threats.”
“He’s always had a lot of enemies. You’re not like that, Mom. If anything, this just makes you stand out more.”
A crowd of huge bodyguards naturally drew attention.
Maybe that was one of the reasons Eden was hiding.
I stretched my neck to peer outside, wondering if his car was parked somewhere, but I couldn’t find even a trace of it.
Yesterday’s me was simply too sexy for him to face, and now all these bodyguards showed up too, so he’s being cautious. Yeah, that’s perfectly reasonable.
“What are you looking at so hard? Someone standing there with a gun?”
At Mom’s joke, I let out a fake “Haha.”
“If someone like that existed, I’d throw myself in front of you and save you right away.”
“The whole point of hiring bodyguards is so you don’t have to.”
“Your sense of humor is lacking, Mom. It’s as disastrous as your appreciation for art.”
This time Mom let out a fake “Haha” too and fired back.
“When you belittle my artistic sensibility, it’s no different from self-deprecation. Since you’re something I created, you’re insulting yourself. You shouldn’t piss into the wind.”
We were on the verge of another verbal battle from mutually insulting each other when Jonas changed the atmosphere by offering me cake. His gentle eyes carried a plea for things to pass peacefully.
Reluctantly, I changed the subject.
“It looks good.”
The cake, sweet enough to numb the senses, was entirely mine. Mom only enjoyed it with her eyes while drinking coffee.
“You’re really not going to eat any?”
“Do you know how much sugar is in that single slice? There’s nothing healthy about it.”
“So the secret to its incredible taste was that it’s harmful.”
Ignoring her criticism, I scooped up the chocolate cream with my fork and ate it. Watching me wiggle my eyebrows mischievously, Mom shook her head slightly.
“When will you finally mature?”
“I’m too mature already.”
“I mean human maturity. Not excessive maturity in certain areas.”
To interpret Mom’s elegant wording bluntly, she meant promiscuity didn’t count.
For someone who had recently become the very symbol of abstinence, it felt like a distant issue.
“It’s hard to remember you used to be too innocent.”
“It’s a little late to pretend you were worried.”
“Especially how you’d freeze up whenever you went to socialite parties.”
“I hated those events. And I never froze.”
I merely kept my distance from people who showed interest in me. Their blatant desires, the naked greed directed toward wealth and fame burning in their eyes, made me uncomfortable.
At the same time, I really had been innocent. At least until I met Eden Reed.
The reason sex with Eden was my first time—the reason I’d still been a virgin before meeting him—wasn’t because I treasured my first time, or wanted it with some fated partner, or because I was cautious. It was simply because I kept talking myself out of being swept away by instinct and missed a few opportunities.
On top of that, being forced by Mom into high society had left me utterly sick of the idea of finding a partner.
In other words, it wasn’t because I cherished my first time, wanted destiny, or was prudent.
At the time, I’d been incredibly happy that my first partner was Eden Reed, but looking back, it was only a matter of order.
Because he touched clumsy me gently.
Because he soothed me when I recklessly lunged at him just because I hated looking weak.
Because he treated stubborn, foolish, lewd me with care, it became a satisfying experience.
Because he was my first man, I came to love sex.
But now, it had become nothing more than one old corner of the past.
That past keeps trying to torment me, but I decided to believe it’s nothing important. What I mulled over after masturbating yesterday was just a passing scene too.
That’s how I should think about it.
That’s the only way I can protect myself.
That’s the only way it’ll hurt less.
I, who often got misunderstood because I looked like a playboy.
I, who had innocent sides.
I, who fearlessly threw myself into turbulent emotions back then.
I need to protect myself so that version of me doesn’t get hurt.
