Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
CHASE
Typing ‘ how to throw a fun party’ into Google gave a lot of results.
Adding ‘ so your brother stops hating you’ diminished their usefulness, and I knew better than to try ‘ and his would-be extortionist confesses her secrets to you and gets naked in your bed’ .
Regardless, I spent a lot of time researching how to host a successful small social gathering, and aggregated the findings into five key success indicators which I wrote on the dry-erase board in my home office.
1. Appropriate venue.
My apartment. It was easier to control the numbers here.
2. Good music.
I asked some of the Rollers to make a playlist. I didn’t know what music was considered good in general terms, and they were excited about the task.
3. Games or activities.
My business partner, Xan, told me all the mom blogs about kids’ parties had probably skewed the data, but I put Scrabble on the coffee table anyway.
4. Snacks and drinks.
At seven p.m., the mixologist I’d hired swept into the apartment with a whirl of storage containers and refrigerated bags.
Already unpacking things in the kitchen, they said cheerfully, “Hi I’m Buzz, like Lightyear, and my pronouns are they/them.”
Unlike me, Buzz didn’t seem to find the idea of six people descending on this apartment anxiety-inducing. They whistled Broadway tunes as they prepped.
5. Mingle to ensure people are forming connections and exchanging meaningful conversation.
This was the worrying part. I kept the guest list short, of course, and limited to people I trusted, like Xan and Greta. I also asked Sonya because I needed the word to get around town that I had had a conciliatory event with Joe and it had gone well, and there was no faster way to spread news. I had also invited ‘Teddy’. This was for optics—to show my brother I didn’t mind if his partners were scandalous or he jumped into things without thinking. It wasn’t because I wanted desperately to see her and couldn’t stop remembering her lips on mine…
When my watch vibrated at the set start time, I was sweating bullets, but Xan and Google said it was normal for people to arrive after the set start time. Gradually, my guests trickled in. Low chatter filled my apartment, the volume increasing relative to the rate of champagne corks popping. I thought I would find it unpleasant to open my apartment like this, but it was nice to see people I liked enjoying themselves in my home. Unexpected satisfaction spread through my chest watching Greta and Xan on the sofa with Antony, nodding attentively at one of his never-ending stories. Greta’s man Francis hovered over Buzz’s shoulder, peppering them with a hundred questions about boutique gin.
There was still no sign of Joe. Or Floss.
If she came, I assumed she would still pretend she was Teddy. It would be too much to hope she would show up as herself and lay everything on the table for me. She hadn’t even responded to my message asking her to come.
She hadn’t responded to any of my messages. I shouldn’t have kept calling her. I just… couldn’t stop myself.
The door swung open with enough force to make it bounce off the wall. There wasn’t time to worry about the wall as a loud voice boomed, “Party’s here!”
My brother stood in the doorframe, all massive six feet, three inches of him, his chest puffed out and a belligerent look in his eye. A curvy white person with jet-black hair and a round cherub’s face clutched at his arm. This was Jemima, assumedly.
“Let’s get loud, bitches!” Joe called as he strode through the door. He wasted no time telling Buzz. “Vodka martini, and keep ’em coming!”
“Hello, I’m Joe’s girlfriend, Jemima.” She adjusted the plant in her arms and offered me a handshake. “You must be Chase.”
“Yes, thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
At a loss for how to alleviate the awkwardness, I asked. “How was traffic?”
“Not bad.”
“Good, great.”
We were silent for a moment, then she remembered the plant. “This is for you!” She pressed it into my hands. “It’s a peace lily. It needs watering once a—well, it depends on where you put it.” An anxious look stole over her face. “They don’t like the cold. And don’t put it anywhere too dry, they prefer a humid environment. If you want, I can find a place for it?”
“Uh, sure.”
Looking relieved, she bustled into the apartment and down my hallway, looking for places for her plant.
When my buzzer rang again, hope gripped my chest.
Her voice through my intercom confirmed, “It’s Teddy.”
The feeling that flooded me at hearing her voice and her fake name was hard to identify. It was a cocktail of many things.
“And Lyssa Luxe,” said an unfamiliar voice. “That’s at L-Y-S-S-A underscore L-U-X-E on all platforms!”
“Come on up.”
She’d come, even though it was probably risky for her.
She’d come, because I’d asked her to.
I couldn’t name that feeling either.
CAROLINE
Lyssa and I sat on the stools at the kitchen counter and watched Chase. Well, I watched Chase. She was taking videos of herself with the cocktail the bartender had made: a lavender elixir with a bubble on top that exploded into smoke when you touched it. It was an apt metaphor for my life right now, but I wasn’t dwelling on that because despite the fact that I was here in all the Teddy trappings, including my itchy wig, I was here for Chase.
Who said he’d like me here.
It was clear he was an uneasy host. He kept darting around the room offering people coasters and asking if they were having a good time. He’d asked each person that at least three times. He was dressed in what I assumed he thought was casual: the same brown sweater as always, crisp slacks, a starched white button-down, and his gold-framed glasses. Absently, I wondered how his lenses never had fingerprints on them. If I wore glasses, I’d be accidentally fingering them all the time.
Chase must be very deliberate about his fingering. It was a shame I didn’t have firsthand—first finger —knowledge on the topic.
Finally, he came into the kitchen.
“Hosting is very stressful,” he said, his eyes slightly wild. “Is it always stressful?”
“You’re doing great,” I soothed. “Look. People have drinks, they’re talking. Those are signs of a good party.”
He nodded, “Yes, four and five.”
“What?”
“I made a— never mind.” He looked at me properly, at last. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Well, you said please. That’s the magic word.”
I was a professional sexy-person, and I turned into a goofy simp around this man. It was heinously embarrassing.
I kept talking, figuring it couldn’t get worse. “Your apartment is really nice.”
His upper-floor building had a prime view of the city with all the skyscrapers lit up like urban Christmas trees. His furnishings were eclectic: a crocheted ottoman, mismatched pendant lights, and bookshelves that looked like upcycled crates. If it wasn’t for how well everything fit together, which suggested a professional designer’s involvement, and the million-dollar view, it might have been possible to forget just how rich he was.
“You like it?”
I nodded. “Very Don Draper.”
He grimaced. “A philandering alcoholic. Not what I was going for.”
I bit back a grin. “Let me introduce you to my friend.” I tapped Lyssa’s arm to get her attention, and she looked up from her face on the screen.
Her eyes widened comically at the sight of Chase up close. “Wow. Hello. You look like what happens when we put the glasses on the Calvin models and make them hold a book they’ve never read. Except you’re shorter than a model.”
“Very astute,” he replied dryly.
“Oh, that’s not a bad thing. This is the era of short kings.”
Chase didn’t seem bothered by Lyssa’s freight-train energy, or her pointing out that he wasn’t especially tall. I liked that his masculinity wasn’t fragile, tied up in meaningless things. That he was secure in himself was a good sign of what he would be like in bed. Or out of it, as the situation warranted.
The memory of our antics at Lueur sprang to mind.
To distract myself, I pointed at the framed drawings on his walls. “Explain your art.”
His ears pinkened. “They’re Dungeons and Dragons characters. The kids at Roll for It, the games hall Xan runs”—he pointed out an African American man in the lounge who looked like he’d just stepped off a runway—“drew them.”
“That’s your business partner? Are you sure he’s not a movie star?”
Chase grinned. “He gets that a lot. I met Xan at a fundraising event a few years ago. He made a lot of money in tech but quit to pursue his true love, Dungeons and Dragons. We hit it off and opened Roll for It, a games shop downtown where kids can come and play. Xan runs the games and stocks all the dice—way too many dice—and I do the accounts and try not to get in the way.”
“What’s that drawing?” I pointed at one.
“That’s Leon’s Dragonborn Rogue. He draws it every year, and I put the newest on the top. There are four drawings in that frame. He’s getting really good at talons.”
I wanted to lick this man from head to toe, and then curl up in his arms and hope his goodness could rub off on me. Also his badness .
Yes, I particularly wanted his badness rubbing all over me. When he came, it would be with a hoarse shout, and I’d tease him that he hadn’t lasted very long—just so he’d reprimand me for being a brat.
I was staring at Chase and all but licking my lips. He could see the direction my thoughts had gone in, and there was an answering flare of hunger in his mismatched eyes. Not even kids’ objectively-terrible drawings could cool the heat between us.
I wondered if he knew, like I did, that this feeling wouldn’t go away until we gave into it.
The bartender, Buzz, leaned over the counter then, interrupting our eye fucking.
“The Hulk over there is drunk and getting drunker.” They nodded at Joe, who was over by the fire escape next to a curvy woman crooning to a spiky succulent. His gooey posture confirmed Buzz’s assessment.
Chase sighed. “Damn. Can you water his drinks down, Buzz?”
“I have been. It’s not helping.”
Noticing us watching, Joe grasped his companion’s chin and pulled her in for a deep kiss that went on and on. And on. I was no prude but even I had to look away. Lyssa, who was a prude, squeaked and went back to her phone—but she angled her front camera so she could still watch them. Perve.
Without breaking the kiss, Joe flipped his middle finger to Chase, who made a disapproving sound in his chest.
Now wasn’t the time, but that sound turned me on. I wanted Chase to make that sound for me.
Mother Marlene Dietrich, I had it bad.
Joe separated from his girl and turned his face just in time to let out a huge belch. “Woah. There are those meatballs again,” he said. “Meatballs the sequel. Meatballs 2.0. Too Meat, Too Ba—” He only stopped because he lost his footing and slid down the wall a bit.
“I have to talk to him.” Chase pushed away from the breakfast bar .
“Now?” But he was already gone.
In Woodville, the first sign a party was about to take a turn for the worse was when glasses were smashed. The second was when drunk men progressed from opening beer bottles with the edge of a table (appropriate, useful) to levering them between their teeth (concerning, unnecessary).
Here, with this wealthy New York crowd, the first sign was still when glasses started smashing, but the second was when drunk men started bragging about their investment portfolios.
Same shit, different feather boa.
As I watched, Joe knocked a glass and a small plant off the window ledge. With the reflexes of someone who was used to dealing with kids or drunks or both, Jemima lunged for it. She managed to save the glass, but it was too late for the pot plant, which hit the ground and instantly shattered. Horror spread across Jemima’s face, and she fell to her knees, frantically picking shards out of the roots.
Before I could think better of it, I was climbing off the too-tall-for-me stool.
“Joe, you need to cool it with the martinis,” Chase was saying when I joined them at the fire escape. “I’m happy you and Jemima are here. I’m not going to lecture. I don’t care who you date. See, look, Teddy is here.” He gestured at me like I was a suitcase full of cash on a game show. “But you’re hammered, little brother. You need to go and sleep it off.”
“Teddy’s here?” Joe’s bleary eyes found mine, then darted back to Chase. “You said Teddy was a Dollar Store?—”
“Water?” Chase interrupted, shoving a glass at his brother.
Hurt wrapped around my chest. “A what? You said Teddy was a Dollar Store what?”
Chase put a palm up toward me. “It’s not what you think. I was trying to explaineverything. We can talk about it later. Please, Te—” He broke off. “Fuck, I can’t keep calling you that. Floss . Just let me sort this out first, please. Joe, you know where my room is?— ”
“Have some water, Joe.” Jemima interrupted, taking the water glass from Chase and forcing it into her boyfriend’s hands. “I’m sorry,” she said to us. “He started at dinner.”
“Obviously.” Joe belched again. “I wazzn’t coming here sober.”
Jem offered me her hand. “Hello, I’m Jemima. You must be the notorious ex.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I’d seen a picture of her on Joe’s social media when I was having a stalk yesterday. Most people looked better online than in real life—I definitely did. But Jemima was one of those enviable people who were somehow even prettier in real life. Her jet-black hair and pale skin shone, making her look like she’d walked out of the pages of a storybook. When she kissed the air over my cheek, my nose tingled with the scent of magnolias.
The good-natured atmosphere of the room had paused, almost suspended in time, as the two brothers—half brothers—faced off. Despite their common genetic line, they couldn’t have been more different. One was dark-haired, wearing a T-shirt and jeans with a physique that looked like he was about to star in a superhero movie. The other was golden, in his habitual knitwear, looking like he never stayed up past ten p.m.
For years this family had been gossip fodder in a way that an outsider like me couldn’t understand until I was in the middle of it. Everything Chase and Joe did was dissected, everything was read into, and there were layers and layers of context and conjecture applied to everything. Their lives were fishbowls. And the people here tonight liked Chase, enough that he would invite them to his home. I couldn’t imagine what their wider circle was like.
It was enough to drive a person to drink. Experiencing this, I felt like I understood Joe a bit better.
Joe muttered something under his breath but knocked back most of the water. Carelessly, he placed the glass on the windowsill and condensation slid down the side .
Chase reached for the glass at the same time I reached for a nearby coaster. Our eyes met.
Awkwardly, I let go of the coaster.
Joe, drunk as a skunk, still noticed this. He let out a delighted hoot. “Look at that! Fixy might have finally found his soulmate. Too bad she’s my ex. Allegedly.” His eyes took on a mean glint. “I know you love recycling Chase, but isn’t this taking it a step too far?”
Gasps ran through the room and Chase went as still as a statue.
I opened my mouth to say something—I didn’t know what, specifically, but it was going to eviscerate the slut-shaming little shit—but I didn’t get the chance.
Because Joe yakked.
Everywhere.
CHASE
Because of our proximity, physically closer than we’d been in years, when my little brother retched twice, like a cat, and evicted a fountain of champagne, martini, and hors d’oeuvres, I caught some of the splash.
“Shit!” I jumped backward.
Jemima froze. “Noooo …”
“Son of a b… Barbie doll.” Floss’s eyes were saucers.
“Get the trash can!” I barked. I meant Sonya or Francis or Greta. Someone I knew. But Floss’s friend was the fastest. She appeared out of nowhere with the basket I usually kept throws in and pushed it in front of Joe, just as another stream of barf gushed from him like a champagne exorcism. It didn’t work perfectly—the basket was woven—but it contained the worst .
“Spaghetti and Meatballs, the Reunion Episode,” Jemima said sadly. “The One with the Regurgitated Meatballs.”
My brother took the water glass and chugged the rest of it.
At a loss, I went to the kitchen for more water. Greta was shepherding people out the door. Before she left, Greta patted my shoulder and murmured to call me if I wanted to talk. I appreciated that she knew I needed privacy more than I needed help.
“I’m finished here,” Buzz said, putting the last of the containers back in their bag.
“Thank you, Buzz. You were great.”
They smiled. “Pay it, don’t say it.”
“Tip is on the table by the front door.”
“Thanks. Good luck with”—they made a circular motion with one hand, encompassing the situation—“all this.”
Joe really knew how to clear a room. My brother, his girlfriend, my scammer, and her friend were the only guests remaining now.
The worst of Joe’s expulsions were now complete. When Jemima went to help him to his feet, I intercepted. It was clear Joe liked this girl, and it was far too early in their relationship for her to have to clean vomit off him. My brother may not take any of the advice I gave him, or appreciate the things I did for him, but I could at least protect a small bit of his pride.
Joe took the arm I offered—humiliation had temporarily humbled him—and staggered to his feet, groaning.
“Where are your cleaning supplies?” Jemima asked.
I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I can?—”
She held up a hand. “I used to be a nanny. I can get vomit out of anything.”
“No—”
“Chase, just tell me.”
“Under the sink.”
“I’ll help you get him to the bathroom,” Floss said to me, and I couldn’t protest because Joe weighed a ton.
“I’ll do nothing,” her friend said, flopping onto the sofa with her phone. “I’ve done enough. ”
“Make yourself at home,” I told her, trying not to pant under Joe’s weight. “The entertainment unit is there.” I nodded because I couldn’t point. “Soda’s in the fridge, if you want. Floss, we’re aiming for the third door on the left.”
Together, one arm each, we maneuvered Joe to my guest bathroom. His limbs were buttered noodles, but as his stomach settled, his attitude returned, and he trash-talked me the entire way. I knew he was embarrassed and looking for someone to blame, so I tried not to take it personally. But the recycling comment had stung.
In the bathroom, Floss propped my brother up against the tiled wall. I toed off my shoes, and placed my glasses and my watch carefully on the tray I kept beside the sink for exactly this purpose. Now that I couldn’t see farther than six feet in front of me, it was easier to pretend I wasn’t being watched as I pulled my sweater over my head and folded it carefully on the little chair. I rolled my shirt sleeves and stepped into the large shower to rinse my pants with the detachable showerhead. Luckily, I hadn’t caught much, and it washed down the drain with little effort.
“OK,” I said with all the enthusiasm the situation warranted. (None.) “Come on, Joe. Your turn.”
I tried to maneuver my brother under the hot spray, but in a manner consistent with our entire lives, he fought me the whole way, even though this was what was best for him.
“Come on, Joe.” We struggled. “Just get in.”
“ You get in!”
“I’m not getting in, bonehead, you’re the one who vomited on himself.”
“Don’t call me a bonehead, you’re the bonehead! And a cockblock!”
I stopped shoving. “What?”
“Matty Patel!” Decades of saved hostility exploded out of my brother. “Remember her? I was in love with her, and you walked into my room when I was showing her my rare card collection. She was in the palm of my hand and you ruined it! ”
I fought a laugh. “Joe, you were thirteen. She was your babysitter and in grad school. Your crush was embarrassing for everyone.”
Almost as embarrassing as when Dad slept with her.
But Joe didn’t know about that.
“I hate you,” he said.
“I know.” I shoved my brother into the shower and used my body to block him from running back out. He was bigger than me but not at his fighting best. “Don’t worry, I know.”
From behind me, Floss shouted, “I’ll get towels!”
My intention was just to rinse Joe’s front, but he was being annoying and wouldn’t stand still, so I flipped the water on cold and doused him, face-first. He spluttered, but he wasn’t so drunk it was dangerous, and it had the desired effect of shutting him up for five seconds.
My little brother shook his hair like a dog and said uncomplimentary things about my parentage, 50 percent of which was correct, although he didn’t seem to realize it applied to him as well.
A fluffy white bundle was thrust in front of my face. “Towels!”
“Thanks. Put them on—ow, fuck, no Joe!—on the chair.” Joe had used my distraction to lunge for the showerhead and spray me in the face.
“Vengeance!” my brother shouted, kicking water at me. “Take that! And that! I hate you, you uptight, sanctimonious, babysitter-stealing motherf?—”
I wrestled the showerhead back from my brother and resisted the urge to dunk him in the toilet. Smaller hands joined mine as Floss slipped under my arms to help. But the shower space wasn’t built for three, so when Joe slipped—as a crowded, unbalanced drunk invariably would—and she lunged to catch him, her ass pressed into my crotch. Perfectly.
Dripping, Floss blinked up at me over her shoulder.
I had no hope of hiding my expression.
She looked obscene. Wet and messy, her ass right there, teasing my cock like she teased the rest of me. I forgot about Joe. I forgot about the party. All I could think about was peeling that wet denim off her and bending her over again.
That was problematic. I was fucking problematic. Something about this woman made it difficult to keep a tight grip on what ethical conduct looked like.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re right there.”
I grunted something.
“I… I think Joe’s as clean as he’s going to get.”
Right. Joe. That was the issue: my infuriating, belligerent little brother who always drank too much and wouldn’t let me love him.
I hoisted him out of the shower, cursing every single overdeveloped muscle on his body. Again, Floss hovered. I liked the way her hands flapped at my back—superfluous but ready to help. She swaddled Joe in towels despite his protests. The water had done wonders for his sobriety, but I was drenched.
Joe muttered something rude but stayed put.
“Go change into something dry, Joe. Take anything you want from my closet.”
“Gee,” Joe drawled, “which brown sweater will I choose?”
Floss beat me to a reply. “Shut up, you big baby. Go.”
Joe blinked. And did as she said.
“Here, Chase,” she tossed me a towel, and pulled one of the guest robes off the hook behind the door. “You should get out of your wet stuff too.”
“I’m fine.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Are you shy? Want me to turn around, Mr. Moral?”
It was cute that she thought her turning around would make this problem any better. Every time I blinked, the image of water droplets sliding down her spine tormented me. It was best if I stayed clothed.
For something to do, I scooped up my sweater and realized it was wet through. Fucking Joe . I started squeezing it out .
“I’ve noticed you’re particular about your clothing.”
“Just a normal amount,” I replied quickly.
She snorted. It was nothing like the head-tilting laugh she did in crowds. “Chase, this is a compliment: you’re not normal in any way. Everything about you is thoroughly above average.”
The compliment was given offhand, without the context of someone wanting a donation for something, or an invite somewhere, or something from Dad’s estate.
A compliment without visible strings made me feel off balance. That was probably why I said honestly, “I don’t like things that don’t last. And I don’t like variety for the sake of variety. It’s unreliable.”
She tilted her head. “That’s admirable. Some of your friends’ carbon footprints would rival a small island’s.”
I thought about how many flights I took and guilt pricked at the back of my neck. I liked to travel, and especially loved to vacation in new places. I had been trying to cut down, but it was still too many. Now she was going to think I was a better person than I was—someone motivated by sustainability instead of shame.
I hated talking about this, but it suddenly felt very important to confide in her. To make her understand.
I took a deep breath.