Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Arden
“I need to pack, I need your help… which dress says ‘I’m casually dating your son and I just want to make a good impression because this seems to matter to him even though he looks physically uncomfortable every time he mentions you so maybe my charms and this dress will distract you from the fact that he doesn’t want to be here and I don’t want you to hate me?’" I hold up two versions of cocktail dresses where Will sits leaning against the headboard making notes for the latest exhibition, waiting for me to throw the last items in the bag.
"You’re expecting a lot from a dress that you are more than capable of saying out loud." Will observes, setting aside his exhibition notes. But I’ve found there are times that fashion can really do most of the talking. This may be one of them.
I’m so far three for three on negative encounters with his family. I’m not blaming myself for that, in fact, all three times I wasn’t even supposed to be there. This time I’ve been invited.
I just take them both, plus a few extras, along with the bathing suit, a handful of summer dresses, a pair of keds, and whatever else felt like a necessary last minute addition to my frenzied packing.
He grabs our bags, his car keys, as he shuts the door behind him.
‘Oh shoot– I forgot to text Amanda to water Barry for me when we’re gone.’
‘We’re only going to be gone for the weekend, how often are you watering these plants?!’
The drive to Newport isn't bad, though that might have more to do with the company than the actual journey. Will insisted on driving, claiming it would give us time to ourselves before the impending chaos of his family, but I suspect he also wanted control over our arrival time and access to an easy escape. Two hours of watching him drum his fingers against the steering wheel of his SUV while belting out increasingly terrible renditions of Journey songs has somehow both flown by and felt endless in the best possible way.
The landscape has been slowly transforming around us, from Boston's busy streets to the kind of wealth that announces itself in perfectly manicured hedges and wrought iron gates. Newport in late May is like watching old money bloom.
"Look at me," Will says, taking his eyes off the road to meet mine. His voice is heavy with a weight I've rarely heard, making my stomach drop. We're driving through what can only generously be called a ‘neighborhood,’ though that seems far too common a word for what surrounds us. These aren't houses but mansions that have witnessed a century of summer parties and scandals, standing proud behind gates that seem designed less to keep others out and more to keep their secrets in.
He turns his head toward me, the road ahead is clear, because of course it is, who else would be driving through this museum of American aristocracy? His free hand has been drawing lazy circles on my thigh where my dress has ridden up, and I wonder if he's even aware he's doing it anymore. Touch between us has become as natural as breathing, which is probably something we should talk about someday. Not now though.
He's wearing a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, paired with dark jeans that look deliberately lived-in. His tattoos peek out from under his sleeves, a beautiful mess of art that drives them crazy, which is why despite the current rebellion, I know he will throw on a different shirt right as we arrive to save himself the confrontation.
The houses we pass are like something out of an Edith Wharton novel, all Newport stone and ivy-covered walls that have watched over a hundred summers of society parties.
Will squeezes my thigh gently, pulling me back to the present.
"Before we get there, I need you to understand what you're walking into."
The worry in his voice makes my chest tight. His father only said a handful of words to me that day in Will's office, but they weighed enough to leave him unsettled since. He's never been particularly forthcoming about his family, I know enough. Old money, older expectations, and a son who'd rather spend his days surrounded by art portfolios rather than stock.
We pass through streets, their mix of tourist shops and high-end boutiques, all preparing for the summer invasion. The air smells like salt and money, and as we wind our way up to the even more exclusive areas, the roads become narrower, more private, as if they're trying to discourage unexpected visitors.
The houses are architecturally stunning reminders of America's Gilded Age. Some have names rather than numbers, which seems both ridiculous and perfectly fitting.
Will's grip on the steering wheel tightens as we turn onto what must be his family's street. The trees here form a canopy overhead, their new leaves casting patterns of light and shadow across the hood of the car. The Sterling house is waiting somewhere ahead of us, and with it, all the expectations and complications he's been trying to prepare me for.
The SUV slows as we approach a bend in the road, and suddenly there it is, the Atlantic Ocean, spreading out before us like nature's very own display of wealth in contrast to what’s been built upon it. The mansions here face the water like they're in conversation with it, their windows reflecting the late morning sun. Memorial Day weekend in Newport is like watching American royalty wake up from their winter sleep, and we’re about to walk straight into their court.
"I know what I'm walking into," I say, even though I probably don't. "But I'm walking in with you." His smile breaks through the storm clouds he feels gathering.
"Yeah." Is the only response he can muster for the moment. I think for the first time I’m understanding the gravitas of it all. It sounds naive to say, maybe I am, I knew the name, I googled them all. And yet, seeing this , being privy to it, paints a very different picture than the one I’ve been convincing myself of.
"My mother is sweet, but agreeable to the audience. She’ll only be your ally if it suits the masses, or my father . My brothers will both be there with their significant others. Alfie you know, and is the one they deploy most often to do my dad’s bidding, both in the boardroom and in life. And Cal, well, Cal is a lot more observant than he lets on, he plays games with people."
The way he talks about his family is like he’s going into battle. It’s not something I can relate to. Looking at him, I can read his body intimately, his breathing is forced as he prepares himself. His grip is keeping him grounded with his fingertips on my thigh.
Then it hits me, maybe I’m the reason he’s like this. He had no intention of coming this weekend, or if he did, he had no plans for me to come with him. It all came to a head when I showed up un-fucking-announced. Damnit, Arden. You know better.
"Will, who do they think I am to you…" His head snaps at the question as he turns down another street.
"Who do you want to be, Arden?" What a loaded question.
"We’re just… keeping it casual, right?” We’ve not called this a relationship. We’ve kept it casual. Casual in the sense of exclusive and non-stop, all-consuming, cant-get-enough, casual. But despite what we might have told his brother that first night, he’s never called me his girlfriend.
"They know I’m bringing someone. You can call it whatever you want, but no matter what you call it, it’s me and you. No matter what happens, we’re on the same team."
He shifts in the seat ever so slightly, trying to remain calm, not to give me reason for concern. Though for the first time, I am concerned.
He turns into a driveway and punches in a code and the large gate opens in slow motion. I can see it on his face, the contemplation to turn around and run.
"You want to run?" I ask.
"More than you know."
"Okay, well, where could we go…" I tap my index finger on my pursed lips, and I make a humming noise to indicate thinking. "How about New York?" He laughs and his fingertips flex on my leg.
"Too close, that’s only a drive."
"Okay okay, what about… Paris… we could go to the Louvre, and eat baguettes, wear berets…" It actually sounds like a dream, the two of us in Paris walking along the Seine.
He reaches for my hand, and interlocks his fingers with mine.
"Then we’re in Paris," he says. Raising our hands to his lips, kissing the back of mine.
The long driveway leads up to a house, his childhood home, correction, one of his childhood homes. This one, the beach house. But I can’t imagine him growing up here, not for any amount of time. So much of who he is, and who I’ve seen him as, grew out of his own mind. As we pull in, and despite all the exposure I had in my life to people and parties, this is different. This is a category of wealth that supersedes just old money. They didn’t just have money, they made it. Not in the sense that they worked hard and made their fortunes, but more that their families go so far back in American institutions I would be unsurprised to find out that they were descendants of a founding father. Designing the financial systems the rest of us now live within the constraints of. For the first time I see it in the man next to me, but it looks uncomfortable, like the white powdered wig doesn’t quite fit on his head.
The smell of the Rhode Island salt air wraps around us, as if to pull us apart and out of the security of the car, and each other. Before getting out of the car, he turns to me, his eyes that normally skirt across my face, hopping freckles like lily pads, instead stay frozen on me. It feels like fear, and I’ve never felt this on him before. I think if I really asked him to run away right now, he would do it without a thought. As far as we could go.
He hurries around the car, to meet me at my side. Offering his hand. If we’re walking into this, whatever this is, we’ll do it together. We climb the steps, our feet always in pace with each other. But we don’t make it to the front door before the roar of the engine behind us has him turning on his heel. The red sports car that screams arrogance, only out matched by the man who steps out of it. Leaving it parked at an angle that screams 'someone else's problem.'
"Cal," Will mouths under his breath to me as we approach the house, not wanting me to be at a disadvantage. He takes the limestone steps two at a time, all golden-boy energy and inherited confidence.
The brothers look alike in that they have the same basic structure, but it takes no time to recognize entirely different substances. And as Cal gets closer, Will's hand slides across my waist, pulling me closer.
"You’re here!" Cal's voice calls across the meticulously maintained entrance, bouncing off the pillars that frame the door like exclamation points made of stone. He claps Will on the back with the kind of forceful affection that's meant to establish dominance. "Mom will be thrilled, no one thought you would actually show, and… with a friend no less."
The word 'friend' drips with the kind of sweetened venom that probably pairs well with the vintage wine they'll serve later. Will doesn't react, instead choosing to let the barb fall into the bushes that line the entrance as his brother strides through the front doors like he owns the place. Which, given the family dynamics, he probably will someday.
"Same team, right?" I ask, and feel his grip relax slightly.
"Always," he says, and it sounds like a promise.
"It might not seem like it," Will leans down and whispers, his breath tickling my ear as we head up the staircase, "but I am glad you're here." I squeeze his hand twice, and he returns it.
"Why, Will, this couldn't possibly be Newport. I'm fairly certain we've run off to Paris," I say with an affected accent that makes him snort.
We put our things in one of the bedrooms, decorated in shades of blue and white, like someone took the ocean view and decided to bring it inside. I take the moment to freshen up before cocktail hour and then dinner, though Will has already warned me that 'cocktail hour' here is less about drinks and more about subtle interrogation.
I change into a wrap dress that I specifically packed for tonight. something simple but elegant, the kind of dress that says 'I respect your dress code but I'm not trying too hard.' When I emerge from the bathroom, Will's look makes me wonder if we really need to go downstairs at all.
He's standing in the middle of the room like a beautiful contradiction to everything around him. All black paired with a button down shirt that's just formal enough to pass inspection.
"You’re beautiful," he says, crossing the room in three long strides. He kisses my cheek but lingers there, his presence warm against my skin. His collar is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of the tattoo beneath, and my thumb traces the visible ink almost involuntarily.
"We should go down," he says, clearing his throat, but his hands on my hips tell a different story as his finger wraps the sash of fabric tying the dress in place.
"I'd love you to," I say, reaching for his belt, but he catches my hands with a laugh that's half groan.
"I'll fall to my knees right here," he says, his voice deep and challenging between us, "but they're waiting, and as much as I think you like putting on a show for strangers, this isn't the audience you want."
The dining room table can seat twenty but is set for eight. The windows face the ocean, though at this hour it's just a dark presence beyond the glass, marked by the rhythmic sweep of lighthouse beams in the distance as the sound of waves land on the shore.
"Will was telling me about the party tomorrow," I say during a lull in the business talk. "It sounds like it's going to be quite the event."
"And what did Will tell you…" I’m not sure what Alfie feels he’s trapped me in, but it comes with a particular brand of aristocratic challenge, crystal stemware clicking against bone china as he sets down his wine glass to focus on me. Will's eyes meet mine across the table, holding me steady as the waves of passive aggression pick up. Maybe it’s just normal aggression.
"I told her about the year you stole some of the fireworks to impress Luella Carmichael and ended up catching part of the landscaping on fire..." Deliberately rolling up his sleeves just enough to show the edge of his tattoos and cause a different distraction if need be.
"You said that was Franklin's boy!" His father jumps in, fork paused halfway to his mouth.
" Did I ?" Will's innocence wouldn't fool a kindergartner. "Must have slipped my mind.”
"The party tomorrow," his mother cuts in smoothly, clearly trying to steer us back to safer waters, "is a tradition. The Sterling Summer Barbecue."
"Though I should warn you," Will adds, his foot finding mine under the table, "there's nothing remotely barbecue-like about it. Unless you count the way they roast newcomers."
"William," his mother scolds, but there's a demure laugh in her voice. "It's actually quite lovely," she tells me, ignoring her son's commentary. "We've been hosting it for decades. All the families attend, plus some new faces. There's dancing, fireworks over the water..."
"Don't forget the ritual sacrifice," Will dramatically whispers across the table in a way that’s not meant to be a whisper but just rile up those around it.
'Same team,' he mouths at me with a wink.
Like I could forget.
Like there's any team I'd rather be on than his.
I hide my smile behind my wine glass, watching them navigate around each other with the precision of ships in a harbor, careful not to crash, but always aware of the possibility. Will might not love it here, but they are his family, and beneath all the sharp edges and sharper wit, he cares more than he admits.