CHAPTER TEN
Carver drove Lillian and Conway in the Maybach, following Doug in the Range Rover, and spaced out for the duration of the familiar drive as his wife and sister chatted across the seats.
He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Scott all day, but now, with his body occupied by the task of driving, his mind wandered.
Almost against his will he remembered Scott’s thumbs digging into the flesh of his inner thighs, the wet sound as he went in and out of him, his feeling of glorious displacement as he lay there in the grass.
He was unhappy to have to shake himself out of these thoughts as he drove down the country club’s winding driveway, feeling like a heartsick teenager made to take off his headphones and greet his grandparents.
He loved Letty, and he was happy for her, but he didn’t particularly want to celebrate her marriage.
He didn’t even feel like he was part of the same world she was.
Since when did people choose freely and manage to find a love that was uncomplicated, peaceful and deep all at once?
His parents’ union had been strategic and shrewd, almost like an arranged marriage set up by the participants.
They started out at the same law firm and noticed they were the two smartest first-year associates there; they went on a few dates and realized their life plans and personal values aligned almost perfectly.
They were married a little more than a year later, and Chip was born a year after that.
Carver had always been told to find a suitable partner young so you could start building together early, and he’d done that, and they’d worked their way up together while accumulating tens of millions across cash holdings, investments and real estate.
But he’d done it wrong, hadn’t he? He’d done something wrong.
Maybe it was time to take Chip seriously, for once.
Maybe the deal had been renegotiated at some point without him realizing.
They all stepped out of the Maybach, and a light breeze whipped them.
Carver checked his reflection in the driver’s side window, then glanced up.
Lillian was looking at him across the top of the car, then took her sunglasses off.
Her expression was curious. She was wondering about him. Maybe he’d been too quiet in the car.
Carver looked at Conway, who smiled at him. “Ready?” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, and gestured for them to go ahead of him, then followed them through the rows of cars and up the rest of the driveway to the clubhouse.
Other guests swarmed around them, and a few of them let their glances linger on Carver and Lillian, who were a cut above even Bitterfeld’s old gentry in terms of apparel and grooming.
Carver could barely bring himself to be flattered.
He found himself glancing at his sister, who looked sweetly beautiful but a little melancholy, a little distant.
She wouldn’t answer him seriously if he asked what was wrong, she never did, although he knew she’d gone through a breakup earlier this year and could guess a wedding might reopen that wound.
Maybe if he told her what was wrong with him first, she would open up, but what was wrong with him? Everything?
Carver was so lost in himself that when they walked into the reception hall to take their seats (right side, second row) he was inexplicably surprised to see Scott off to the side with his bassist, playing an electric arrangement of one of Bach’s cello suites as guests filed in.
His heart sped up at the sight of him, but the Xanax muted the feeling while the modafinil zeroed him in.
He stood there staring at Scott, calm but fixated, watching his beautiful fingers work the guitar.
He could have stood there all day. He didn’t, because his wife took him by the shoulders and started steering him to their seats.
Lillian sat on his left, Doug on his right. Carver shifted around, trying to get comfortable on the tiny white folding chair, and his dad offered him a piece of gum. He accepted it gratefully. His mouth was so fucking dry.
Josie, who was sitting right in front of him, turned around and beamed at them. “Hi guys. How’s your morning going?”
“Oh, uh — I don’t know,” Carver said. He felt like he had a head injury or something. “Yours?”
“Good,” she sighed. “Busy.”
Nora, from the other side of Doug, leaned forward and handed Josie a bobby pin. Josie took it and whispered a thank you, then turned back around and started doctoring a loose lock of hair.
“Doug,” Lillian whispered across Carver, “can I get a piece of gum?”
Doug broke one out and handed it to her.
“Any updates from Marcus?” Carver said, watching her daintily place the gum in her mouth and chew it with her back molars.
Lillian shook her head, and he got hit with the sharp floral scent of Dior’s Holy Peony, which she used as a hair mist. “He’s golfing with Phoebe and Vikram right now, and they’re discussing it. After that he’ll get the rest of the committee on a call so they can reach a final decision.”
“Jesus.” Carver’s leg started to bounce. “Any chance they want to drag this out to Sunday, maybe? It’s not like we’re in any kind of a hurry here.”
“I’m handling this,” Lillian whispered. “So chill out.”
“I’m chill.”
“They’ll approve it, it’s a solid opportunity and the IRR would still be within the mandate. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried if we go back for more equity, we’ll be seen as caving to DB and that we’ll be burning more dry powder than we wanted to.”
“If that’s what it takes to resolve the situation, let’s just get it the fuck done.”
Doug cleared his throat and leaned over. “Hey, guys?” he said in a friendly whisper. “We’re at a wedding.”
“Sorry,” Carver said, his cheeks warming.
“It’s okay, I’ve been there.” His dad patted him on the arm. “Just saying.”
Lillian went quiet too, somehow managing to chew her gum in complete silence.
Carver kept shifting in his seat, trying to ignore the soreness inside him.
It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was being so exacerbated by this hard chair that the sensation — and its associated memories from the previous night — were ballooning in scale inside his mind.
He couldn’t bear to look across the room at Scott, but he also couldn’t escape the pretty music Scott was producing.
He felt suddenly claustrophobic. He leaned on his willpower, along with the 1.
5 milligrams of Xanax in his system, to stop him from leaping to his feet and toppling his wife and father in a mad dash for the exit.
The ceremony started the exact minute it was scheduled to.
Staff shut the doors to the reception hall and announced that no one would be allowed in or out, then Scott and his bassist began to play an instrumental rendition of Can’t Help Falling In Love.
Pairs of bridesmaids glided down the aisle in matching garnet dresses, beaming.
In front of Carver, his aunt Josie was already dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
He impulsively reached up to squeeze her shoulder, and she turned to give him a grateful smile.
Carver finally looked back over at Scott and saw he was switching to an acoustic guitar and amp. He lifted the guitar and began to play solo; it took Carver a moment to recognize Pachelbel’s Canon. It had a spare, intimate quality on guitar.
Scott looked up unexpectedly and locked eyes with Carver, who went cold in his stomach. Scott held his gaze for a moment, his face remaining still as his fingers moved, and then he looked down again.
Suddenly everyone was turning in their seats and going, “Oh,” in reverent and loving tones.
Carver turned too and saw Sana walking up the aisle on the arm of her mother Maryam, looking beautiful in a veil and ivory slip dress.
Delicate henna wove around her hands and wrists, and she was smiling irrepressibly, her dark eyes shining with tears.
Though Carver had only met her yesterday, he was getting choked up looking at her.
Maryam deposited her daughter at the altar, squeezing her hands and kissing them.
A moment later everyone turned and made soft noises again, and then Letty entered Carver’s field of vision, looking more elegant and feminine than he’d ever seen her.
But there was still a streak of the tomboy in her face.
She was grinning as if about to embark on the most thrilling challenge of her life.
Both of her parents were walking her down the aisle, and she was nearly tugging them along, rushing toward the altar.
The lump in Carver’s throat thickened, and his eyes started to prickle with tears.
This was actually fucking crazy. He’d never cried at a wedding before — not Chip’s, not his own.
He cleared his throat, but that only made the situation worse.
He wondered how to ask Josie for a tissue without being heard by Lillian or Doug.
Their officiant was a friend, not a professional, who delivered her unpolished remarks in a nervous rush that Carver wasn’t very moved by, giving him the chance to calm down.
But then Letty and Sana began exchanging their vows, with such raw depth of feeling in their voices and on their faces that he was moved fully to tears.
They streamed down his face, big and wet and sloppy.
All he could do was freeze and hope no one was looking at him.
He tried to breathe through his mouth so he didn’t sniffle, staring down at his lap, his vision obscured and his face hot.
He felt even more claustrophobic now. His father glanced at him, and Carver could tell he had noticed, could feel the dark shame of it.
A moment later, Doug bumped Carver’s shoulder with his and said almost inaudibly, “Get ahold of yourself.”
“Sorry,” Carver hiccuped.