Chapter Ten
From the ages of six to twelve, I played Little League. I quit once I started middle school and girls or computers took over my every waking thought, and by that point I was also desperate to avoid my father’s competitive intensity whenever possible. But for those seven years, I was one of the best kids on the team.
At least when it came to fielding.
At bat, I was a distracted mess, unable to follow the golden rule: Keep your eye on the ball. No matter how often my dad ordered our nanny to pack a lunch and take me to the batting cages to practice, no matter how much he berated, threatened, or taunted me after games, I was never confident in the batter’s box. If I made contact, I’d slug it, sure. But at least half the time, I’d strike out.
“You’re pulling your head,” Dad would yell at me after every game. “Watch the ball hit the bat! For fuck’s sake, Liam, focus!”
He was right. Focus was always a challenge, and apparently it didn’t end with baseball. I came here with the knowledge that all I need to do is limp this lie to September, and I can finally exhale, but we’re less than an hour into this farce and I’m already off track: I peeked, and it was a huge mistake. It’s not that I didn’t know Anna was attractive all those years ago; it’s that we barely saw each other, and I was so driven to finish my degree and never have to work for my father again that Anna—attractive or not—was easy to overlook.
In reality, this trip should be very simple. Anna and I need to be in attendance, passably social, and not discuss our inane cover story anywhere in earshot of anyone but Jake. I realize she’s nervous about how well she’ll pull off her role, but what I told her was true: Anna could just smile on my arm and it would be fine. The fact that she’s here should be enough to get my self-obsessed father off my trail.
So the last thing I need to do is add more fuel to the emotional fire. The last thing I need to do is notice her.
But when she steps out onto the deck of our bungalow, dressed for the night’s cocktail party, there’s no escaping it. The dress is black silk, landing high on her upper thigh, and with only a delicate silver chain holding it up over one shoulder. Another crosses her chest, connecting to the opposite strap and, when she turns around and goes inside to grab her small purse, I see the view from behind is even worse: low-cut, with two of those same tiny sparkling chains draped together diagonally across the width of her back.
I hear the creaking, choked sound of my own surprised inhale. The only thing I see is skin.
So much skin, and legs. Legs for days.
“Okay,” she says, returning to the deck and running her hands down her sides, unaware of the way my eyes rake over her. “If this isn’t the right vibe, tell me. Vivi put about twenty dresses in that trunk, and this feels… like, weird to wear barefoot? But I think they’d all be weird to wear barefoot? Honestly, I don’t know why the dress code for everything wasn’t ‘beachy’ but here we are. In silk.”
Finally, she looks up at me, brows raised as she waits for the verdict. I have no idea what my face is doing, but I work to get my voice to come out steady. “That dress is fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s a cocktail party.” I point a finger attached to a very sweaty palm. “That’s a cocktail dress.”
“Okay. I just—” She pauses, fussing with the hem, which, no matter how much she tugs at it, is never getting longer. “Do you have a recurring dream? Mine is that I wake up and plan to wear a new, cute dress that I like but which I haven’t worn yet. But by the time I leave the house, it feels shorter than I remember. Then I get to school—high school, because nightmares are always about high school—and the dress barely covers my ass, and I start to feel really self-conscious. By the time I walk into my classroom, I realize what everyone around me already knew, which is that I’m wearing a shirt and only thought it was a dress, and I’m basically walking around with no pants on.”
“That’s not your nightmare, Anna, that’s you just lounging around your apartment.”
She grins. “Touché.” Another hem tug. “Okay, and also? I didn’t take the tag off this, so you can return it after the trip.”
“That’s not necessary.”
She cups a hand to the side of her mouth. “West. This dress is Givenchy. It was like twenty-five hundred dollars.”
I smile at her and cup a hand to the side of my mouth, whispering, “It’s okay.” Truthfully, I love that she thinks about this. I love that she’s horrified by that price. I’m horrified, too. It’s a good thing Anna isn’t my real wife; I would constantly worry that my proximity to this world would destroy her.
We head back inside so I can cut the tag off for her—it looked like a flat rectangle on her ass, she wouldn’t have fooled anyone—and make our way along the softly lit private bridge to the wooden path, and then to the beach where we can begin to make out sounds of the party in the distance.
From my perusal of the map left in our bungalow, there are a handful of large guest structures on the main island: Two restaurants, two bars, an enormous infinity pool and pool house, a reception hall, the gym, a spa, a learning pavilion for classes and activities, a retail shop, and a greenhouse where guests can help plant, tend, and harvest some of the plants and herbs used on Pulau Jingga. According to the information in our room, the restaurant where tonight’s party is held is known not only for the amazing menu but also for its custom as well as classic drinks, a long list of zero-proof cocktails, and a heavily curated list of top-shelf and very expensive wines and spirits. The itinerary said that dinner will be a mix of drinks and various small dishes prepared exclusively for our party. So, a quick meal and enough alcohol to plow through the night. I can do this, I think. We can do this.
But as we near, the sound of my father’s braying laugh makes a chill crawl up my spine. As if she senses the tension rising in me, Anna slides her arm through mine and squeezes. “We’ve got this.”
“We just have to get through it.”
“Get through—?” Beside me, she stops abruptly. “Look around you. Look where we are! We can do more than just get through this! This is literally paradise.”
I look past her, out at the crashing surf, the swaying palms. Just moments from dusk, the lip of the sun still clings to the horizon, melting like spilled paint into the sea. She’s right, I think, looking over as the last rays of sunlight wash her in gold. Even being this tense means that my father wins, again. “Okay.”
“Is your whole family here?” she asks.
“They should be.”
“You gave me advice about how to handle your mother,” she says, turning to adjust my collar, tucking it under the lapel of my sport coat. “I’m going to give you some advice, too: Put your hand on my lower back when we’re together. It makes you look physically comfortable and a little possessive, which is hot. Kiss my shoulder when you think someone is watching.” She runs her hand down my chest and then lifts her gaze to mine. “Gaze into my eyes when I’m speaking to you, like I’m the only person in the room. Try to remember what it felt like the first time you were truly, madly, insatiably in love. Look at me like that.”
Unconsciously, my eyes flicker briefly to her lips. They’re full and soft, shiny with a tiny bit of gloss. Legs and lips. My weaknesses.
“Perfect,” she says quietly.
“And what will you do?”
The hand on my chest slips down to my belt where her fingers rest on top of the buckle. “Look at you like I adore you. Like I want to consume you. Like I want you to take me back to the bungalow to rip this dress off and ruin me.”
I swallow, my throat dry.
“Is this William Albert?” a voice booms, and I turn to see Jake approaching with three small glasses in his hands. “And Anna motherfucking Green?”
Her hand falls away. “That’s Anna motherfucking Green-hyphen-Weston to you.” She lets out a happy squeal, jogging over to hug him as well as she can without spilling the shots on either of them. “You look amazing!”
“Me?” He steps back so he can get a good look at her. “You look like a goddamn goddess, Anna.”
“Thank you.” She seems to resist the urge to tug her hem again.
The two of them walk back to me, and Jake looks over his shoulder to make sure we’re alone. “How are my favorite liars doing?”
“I’m nervous!” Anna whispers.
“You’re gonna be great.” He lifts his chin to the party going on behind him. “They’re all assholes.” My little brother hands me a drink. “She looks fucking gorgeous. You should stay married to her.”
I ignore this. “Shots, Jake, really?”
“Trust me, you’ll need it to get started in there. There’s a Time reporter inside who thinks Dad used to work for the CIA.”
“Good God, why does he think that?” Anna asks, waving off the shot when he offers.
Jake shrugs and does hers right after his own. “Because Dad told him that he did.”
“Wait,” Anna says, lowering her voice. “Did Ray work for the CIA?”
I laugh. “Of course not.” Lifting the shot glass to my lips, I toss the ice-cold vodka back and stifle a wince. How does one explain Ray Weston to a person like Anna, who lives fully in the real world? “Dad just talks shit. It’s his favorite entertainment. Having smart people believe his nonsense makes him feel like the smartest person in the room.”
She looks into the tent over my shoulder. “Well, that’s weird.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh. There’s a woman who just did a double take when she saw you two—she’s walking over here.”
“Describe her,” Jake says, leaning in, his hair falling over his forehead in thick waves. There are moments where I see the man he could someday be: playful but grounded, flirtatious but loyal, clever but humble. I want to know that version of him and worry he will forever be frozen in this caricature of the irresponsible youngest son as long as he works for Weston’s.
“Blond,” Anna says out of the side of her mouth, drawing my attention back to her. “Curvy and beautiful. Lots of gold jewelry. Wearing a very, I mean very low-cut dress. Lotta boob happening.”
Jake and I look at each other and grin. “Blaire,” we say in unison.
“Alex’s wife?” she asks.
I turn and look. “Yes.” My sister-in-law waves excitedly and I lift a hand, smiling. I like Blaire, even if she’s a little batty, handsy, and boozy. But in a world full of people who wear many masks all the time, Blaire is the one woman who says exactly what’s on her mind. It’s hard not to respect that, even when the kinds of things she says are—
“Well, hello, you little fuckboys!” she calls, and pulls me into a hug, pressing her boobs hard into my chest, her hands moving uncomfortably close to my ass. The first time she did this in front of Alex, I was so rattled I had to excuse myself to go get some fresh air. I’m not sure she’d actually have sex with me or Jake if given the opportunity, but I’m also not sure she wouldn’t.
Over her shoulder, I see Anna clocking this odd greeting with a bemused frown, and when I manage to extricate myself, Jake has leaned over and is whispering something in her ear. Anna gives a quiet “ohhh,” and then nods. “Right, okay, I remember.”
Hopefully she remembers, too, that if the question is whether we’re down for a threesome with Blaire, the answer is unequivocally no.
“Anna,” I say, “I’d love to introduce you to my sister-in-law, Blaire. Blaire, this is my wife, Anna.”
My voice breaks on the word wife. The sound of it seems to ping-pong around the small circle we make, but thankfully Jake doesn’t say anything, and Anna follows Blaire’s lead, accepting her air-kisses with a smile. “It’s really nice to finally meet you.”
“You, too, honey,” Blaire says in her Dallas twang. “Liam’s been keeping you all to himself for so long!” She cups Anna’s face, and for a second, I worry she might lean in and kiss my wife on the mouth, but instead she just looks at her for a few beats longer. Finally, Anna’s eyes slide to me, like help.
I sidle up to Anna, putting my arm around her shoulder, and Blaire steps back. “She’s a pretty one.”
“That she is.” I look down at Anna and we share a brief “look at us rolling with it” smile. And it’s possible I like how her shoulder feels in my cupped palm. “Where’s Alex?” I ask, though I don’t really care where Alex is.
Blaire shrugs, not bothering to look behind her. Blaire doesn’t care where Alex is, either. “Somewhere in there talking about work, drinking whiskey, or measuring dicks.”
Anna barks out a bawdy laugh before covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry,” she says from behind it. The diamond on her ring flashes in the flickering light. “That surprised me.”
Blaire looks at her with new eyes. “Oh, I think I like this one.” She takes Anna’s hand, tugging. “You’re coming with me.”
I resist, keeping my grip on Anna’s shoulders. “Where are you taking her?”
“Inside for a drink.”
“I don’t trust you, Blaire.”
My sister-in-law winks at me and does a little shimmy. “You shouldn’t.”
Anna smiles at me, and in her eyes, I see it. I can handle this kind of crazy, she’s saying.
“You want me to come along?” I ask.
“I’ll see you in a few,” she tells me, and then disappears with Blaire into the tent.
I groan as Blaire leads Anna through a mass of bodies. “This could be bad. If memory serves, Anna is a very chatty drunk.”
“It’ll be fine,” Jake says. “She’s less likely to get cornered by Mom or Dad if she’s with Blaire.” That much is true. At social events, Mom and Dad avoid Blaire’s brand of unpolished bluntness at all costs.
The restaurant, Jules Verne, lives up to its name. With installations of fishing nets and vintage sailing paraphernalia, it’s a nod to Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. The floors are sand; the roof is reclaimed lumber and bamboo. There are long uninterrupted stretches of glass windows, but they are all thrown open, letting the outside in. A beautiful canvas tent has been raised just beside the bar to provide more space, and inside, the nautical theme continues. Lanterns made of green sea glass and rope swing overhead, sending ripples of light that look like water pooling across the floor. The bar is lined with highball glasses, and a bartender in a white shirt and vest agitates a cocktail shaker near his ear. A set of long tables are filled with what looks like tiny cups of prawn and papaya salad alongside platters of brightly colored fruit and roasted vegetables. My eyes snag on trays of fried brown rice on prawn crackers and chili, stir-fried noodles, grilled fish and octopus on sprays of fresh herbs, poke bowls, and a variety of local dishes I can only guess at. Across the room, I see Blaire introducing Anna to Reagan, Lincoln, and Nixon. She kneels down to shake Nixon’s hand and a tiny, fond twist behind my ribs makes me hold my breath, for just a beat.
“Did you prep her for the names?” Jakes asks me.
“I did.”
“Good. Anna has no poker face. How’s she taking everything?” he asks, and I know what he’s referring to: the planes, the island, the money. The family.
“As well as one can hope, I guess.”
He makes a sound of agreement as we watch the party around us. “The good ones usually run away.”
“Luckily I’m paying her,” I say quietly. “She can flee with her money when it’s over.”
“Alex asked earlier how much time I’ve spent with the two of you.” He looks over at me, grinning. “If it comes up, we’ve been to Santa Barbara and Cabo, where you and Anna bought a house.” Off my annoyed look, he adds, “I had to add some details to make it feel believable.”
“You think it made the story more believable that I, a man who has driven the same Honda Accord for ten years, bought a house in Cabo? If anything, that’s going to make him more suspicious.”
With a laugh, Jake rids himself of our shot glasses and snags two tumblers of whiskey off a passing tray. He hands me one before lifting his own. “Well, whatever. To the final few months: if you pull this off, you’re free.”
My stomach dips. If he only knew how critical this farce was… for all of us. We clink glasses and take a sip. “How’s work?”
My brother shrugs. “Fine. The usual.”
He looks past me at the party, and I take stock of how he seems from the outside. He’s got Dad’s dark wavy hair and light brown eyes, but like me, he got his height from our mother, who is almost six feet tall without the benefit of heels. Jake is good-looking, charismatic, and always up for some (mostly) good-hearted shit-stirring. My stomach sours with guilt for what I’m keeping from him. What I could potentially fuck up.
Jake’s happiness is my lifelong, constant vigilance: making sure Dad isn’t turning any of his brand of tough-love parenting on my younger brother. For the most part, Jake has managed to escape it. It’s almost like our father gave the largest dose to Alex, the second largest to me, and by the time he got to Jake, he was too bored to pay much attention. He skipped right to Charlie, where the adoration is lavished. Frankly, I’m fine with it. It’s better this way, and from a very young age, Jake realized it, too.
Our father’s dream was to have his three sons beside him in the C-suite. Alex was trained in accounting from the time he could read, and Jake is social and magnetic—a perfect fit for marketing. I took a natural liking to computers, but I suppose my temperament and the strategic invention of a computer program when I was in my teens that simplified a huge waste and inventory issue had my father’s laser sights on me as CEO.
But I’m where this plan broke down, and Dad has no one to blame but himself, though it would never occur to him to do so. I was the first to join the family business, if inadvertently: At fifteen, for a summer programming class, I created an inventory system to be used across all of the stores. It was a game changer at the time, and Dad became obsessed with all the ways new technology could put Weston’s above every other chain out there. He pulled me from school, hired private tutors so that I could spend more time programming new systems, tinkering with employee portals, forums, and retail pages, and less time in the classroom. I did everything he asked of me, and yet, years later, when his feet were held to the fire, he fucked me over.
But like Jake said, I’m nearly free. If Anna and I pull this off, we’re all nearly free. And standing here with my little brother… I’m relieved that even working for Dad, he seems good, too. Maybe we’ll both survive our father with minimal damage after all.
“Anna really does look amazing,” Jake says, pulling my thoughts in a new direction.
“You’ve mentioned.” I search the room for her, finding her still talking to Blaire. “And I agree, she does.”
“I mention it because… have you two…?”
“No,” I say, too quickly, blinking down into my glass. “It’s not like that.”
“It could be like that. I saw you looking at her in that dress.”
“Everyone’s looking at her in that dress.” I turn to him, suddenly curious. “Did you two ever…?”
“Hook up?” he asks and takes another sip. “No. But I did sleep with her friend Isabelle.” Jake leans in. “The best sex of my life, no lie.”
I stifle a smile. At least I know now which way those “mixed reviews” went. Poor Jake. “Ah. That’s good.”
“But you—”
I hear a squeal, and then am attacked from behind by a set of familiar arms thrown around my torso, two hands weaving together against my chest. My sister presses her face to my back and squeezes. “Liammmmm!”
Turning, I pull her in for a long hug. “Hey, little miss,” I say, kissing the top of her hair. I’ve known a lot of people who grew up with complicated feelings about discrepancies in the way they versus their siblings were treated by their parents. Jake and I have been to therapy to work through ours, Alex would never, and Charlie simply won’t have to. I don’t begrudge her this; I wouldn’t have it any other way. You know those Best of and Most likely to lists they put in the back of yearbooks? Charlie would be voted Best All Around, every time. Her face is welcoming, always with a smile that makes her nose scrunch and a dimple hollow out each of her cheeks. She has the best of our mother’s features: golden hair, wide eyes, skin that benefits from genetics as much as money—all in a pint-sized Ray Weston package. It’s been at least six months since I’ve seen her, and a tight, clawing sensation invades my chest. I miss her. I miss Jake. I don’t want to lose these two, no matter what Dad does to fuck it all up.
Lifting Charlie’s hand, I pretend to be blinded by her engagement ring. “Good God, how do you walk?”
She laughs, angling her wrist so the diamond catches the lights overhead. “I know, right? For six months I just walked around taking photos where I had to casually point at something with my left hand.” She scans the crowd. “Where’s Anna?”
I look up, too, searching the room again. She’s over by the dance floor, jumping around with little Nixon’s hands in hers. The band is playing covers of pop hits, and Anna is entirely in her element: laughing, dancing, blissfully forgetting where she is.
I’m relieved she hasn’t been cornered by some asshole hedge fund bro or senator’s son. As she and Nixon turn and dance, she looks up and her eyes meet mine. Her smile could light up the sky outside.
“Come here,” I mouth, lifting my chin to her.
She nods, bending to say something to Nixon, who turns and holds tight to her hand, unwilling to let her go. But halfway across the room, as she skips over with Nix, Anna’s smile falters. Blinking away, I look to the side, and I see why: my parents are approaching with Alex in tow. And there’s no way for Anna to turn around. She’s headed right into the belly of the beast, about to be the center of attention with all of the Westons together.