Page 102 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“I fly cargo because planes don’t judge me for talking too much. I collect snow globes because they’re predictable when the world isn’t. I notice patterns and details others miss. These aren’t defects—they’re me.”
Faces lean forward, listening intently.
“Every child deserves to know that being different isn’t being broken. Every child deserves the tools to navigate a world that wasn’t built for them.”
More tissues appear.
I risk a look at Sebastian’s mother. Her perfect composure has fractured. The mask of disapproval has fallen, revealing something I never expected. Understanding.
“Your donations tonight won’t just fund treatment or research,” I say, finding my rhythm, my conclusion. “They’ll fund acceptance. They’ll fund self-worth. They’ll help children understand their brains aren’t wrong—they’re just wired differently. And different can be beautiful.”
A man in the back nods slowly.
My voice swells, filling the room.
“Every dollar you give tonight offers a child the chance to be different without feeling wrong. To be themselves without apology. To find their voice instead ofhiding it.”
The applause starts like distant thunder, then crashes over me, a deafening roar. One person stands. Then another. And they’re all on their feet, a standing ovation from a sea of tuxedos and gowns. They’re clapping as though I’ve delivered a profound truth, not just stumbled through my own.
I freeze. A room full of people standing for me. My brain short-circuits.
Sebastian pushes through the crowd. A man on a mission. His eyes are locked on mine, intense, focused. My heart performs that familiar flip it always does when he looks at me this way—the one that saysyou are my universe.
He takes the stage steps two at a time, crossing the distance between us with long, purposeful strides. Before I can think, his hands cup my face, and his mouth finds mine. The kiss is public, unapologetic, and utterly inappropriate for a charity gala.
It’s perfect.
The crowd, already loud, explodes. Whistles, cheers. Camera flashes pop like fireflies, guaranteeing this moment will be plastered across every society page tomorrow. Sebastian’s mother is probably having an aneurysm.
He breaks the kiss but stays close, his forehead resting against mine. “You were magnificent,” he whispers, his breath warm against my lips.
“I didn’t mention penguin mating habits once,” I whisper back.
He laughs, the sound vibrating through my chest. “Maybe save that for the after-party.”
His arm wraps around my waist, a solid anchor, as we turn to face the still-applauding crowd. I wave, my cheeks burning. Public speaking? Managed. Public attention? Still working on that.
We descend the steps, and the crowd surges forward. Congratulations, business cards, handshakes. Too many faces, too many voices, a dizzying mix of bright lights and expensive perfume.
Sebastian’s arm tightens, a silent shield.
“Thank you, we’ll be circulating shortly,” he says, his voice calm and authoritative, somehow making people back away.
Then she’s there. Sebastian’s mother. Impeccable in midnight blue, not a single silver hair out of place, pearls gleaming. The crowd parts for her like the Red Sea. In this world, she is royalty.
I brace myself for the inevitable disapproval, the polite, barbed comments. But her face is different. Softer.
“Bailey,” she says. My first name. The first time.
“Margaret.” I nod, resisting the urge to curtsy.
“That was an extraordinary speech.”
I wait for the “but.” There’s always a “but” with her.
She reaches out, takes my hands. Her fingers are cool, her grip firm. “I was too quick to judge you,” she says, her voice low, for us alone. “And I can see Sebastian is happy with you.”
“Well, I think it’s the snow globes. He’s building quite the collection now. We found this one in Miami that has tiny little?—”
