62. Seb
SEB
When he arrived, he sat in the carriage house for a long time before gathering his suitcase and walking up the stone steps.
The heavy door swung open under his touch, and he stood alone in the entrance hall, blinking at the twenty-foot spruce that was more tinsel than tree, nestled in the bow of the imperial staircase.
He hated spruce. They always left the pointiest needles.
“Hello?” he called into the emptiness, grimacing at his own reflection in the gilt mirror on the wall.
No one responded, not even the housekeeper. With a sigh, he slid the telescoping handle home and dragged his suitcase up the marble stairs, letting it clatter and bang because there was no one to tell him not to.
A note on his bed informed him, in his mother’s perfectly slanted cursive, that she was out running errands, that his father was at work, and that Reg and Priya would be arriving in time for dinner.
It went on to outline all of the holiday festivities that Sebastian was expected to attend over the week. It was a very long list.
He brushed the note off his bed and then collapsed on top of the duvet.
The last three years he’d made the drive from school with Conrad.
They would spend the first week of break with Seb’s family, Conrad would take the train home for Christmas, and then Seb would join him in Boston.
From there they’d ping along the New England coastline, following the parties.
The time spent together in each other’s homes had felt like a delicious game.
How loud could they be without anyone noticing?
How well-made could the guest room bed remain before someone mentioned it?
How much could they make each other squirm below the dinner table before someone saw?
Thinking about it now made Seb a little nauseous.
The duvet beneath him was the same one they’d nestled under.
Furiously, he ripped it off the bed, trekking barefoot through the maze of his home to a guest bedroom where he could swap it.
He returned upstairs, texting aimlessly with Adriana, dissecting footage of one of her recent bouts.
Finally, he took a nap, setting his alarm for twenty minutes before dinner.
“Salut, Sebastian,” Reg said, lifting a Sazerac as Seb made his way into the gallery, a portrait-filled room that filtered guests into the dining room.
He blinked at his brother. He hated Sazeracs.
“Hi, Sebastian,” Priya said, giving him a half-smile. He half-smiled back and poured himself some bourbon for something to do with his hands. He took a sip to steel himself against small talk.
“Hey, Priya. Nice dress,” he said, because it was, and instantly regretted it as Reg mouthed “fag” behind Priya’s sleek head. “How’s the PhD?”
Priya’s PhD was mostly avocational. Her own trust was massive, and as the future wife of the Allsaires heir, she was signing up to chair committees and host dinner parties, not slog it out in a research chair.
“It goes. Slowly. My advisor thinks I need to narrow my dissertation topic, but the field of evocational amplification is already so narrow. I feel like I don’t have anything unique to add to the conversation.” She sighed. “Are you still applying for Oxford?”
He cringed inwardly as his father appeared, summoned, apparently, by the word “Oxford.” Fabian Allsaires wore a navy suit after hours in his own home. His dark blond hair was still full despite his being nearly fifty, and it was perfectly coiffed. His eyes were merciless.
“That’s the plan,” Seb said, trying not to sound smaller, trying to pretend he didn’t see his father out of the corner of his eye.
“Dad!” Reg pushed a tumbler of Scotch into his hand and forcibly clinked glasses.
“You’re still on Oxford, then?” his father said, at his elbow.
One of the things Seb hated most about himself was that when he looked in a mirror, he saw how easy it would be for him to become his father.
“I’m trying to keep all my options on the table.”
“I think that’s smart,” Priya said, attempting a rescue.
“You could do so much more, Sebastian.” His mother entered the room, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek chignon, her willowy frame clad in a cream sheath dress.
She floated over to Seb on a cloud of honeysuckle and embraced him lightly, kissing him on the cheek without touching her lips to his skin.
“I’d love to see you on the professional circuit for at least a few years. ”
Reg scoffed. “Yes, well, dear Sebby always has to make things as difficult as possible.” He enunciated “difficult” very clearly. It dripped with meaning. Everyone smiled through it.
Several times during dinner, Seb considered leaving the table so that he could get in his car and wrap it around the nearest tree. There was a very likely candidate in a massive beech that shaded the near pasture; he could destroy a few paddock fences on his way out as an added bonus.
He knew dinner was going to be an insufferable agony, but he hadn’t realized just how much of a buffer Conrad had always provided between him and his family.
His parents, his mother especially, loved Conrad.
Their delight in his presence always outweighed their disappointment in Seb.
To his parents, Conrad was a beacon, the one who would lead Seb into the light.
Conrad was beloved of mothers everywhere.
Seb was tolerated by mothers everywhere, his own included.
Seb was too honest to make people comfortable.
Conrad was excellent at smoothing over the rough edges of the truth to make sure everyone’s dinner was a pleasant trip, free of turbulence.
Conrad had straight teeth and straight taste (as far as anyone knew).
Conrad did not have any friends who had secretly applied for art school.
Conrad did not have any friends who used to be boys and were now girls.
It was then that Seb realized, well and truly, how idiotic, how na?ve he’d been.
How right Conrad had been, and how wrong he was.
Seb had thought at the time that their love—or whatever it had been—would be enough.
He’d thought they could weather any storm; that they could walk away from the trust funds and inheritance, their families, their friends. That love would be worth it.
He saw now, with brutal clarity, that it would never have worked.
Even if they’d tried, they would have cracked apart under the stress.
There was no reality in which he and Conrad could have come out and survived.
Maybe two other, better people could have, but not them.
The revelation sat very uneasily in his stomach next to the foie gras.
And, right on schedule: “Why couldn’t Connie come this year, Sebastian? His presence is always such a joy,” his mother lamented into her dinner.
“He has big break plans. I think they’re leaving tomorrow for the Rockies.”
“You’re not going at all?” Reg asked, still swallowing his food. “All that pow. First tracks, baby brother.”
Reg had never once gotten up early enough for first tracks. Seb hated skiing. He hated being cold and wet and waiting in endless lift lines, and après-ski, and having two giant boards strapped to his feet, which were supposed to make moving easier but instead made it much, much harder.
“I have too much schoolwork. Chant assigned us a huge lab for alchemy, and I need to get it started.”
His father shook his head. “These new professors. They never learn.”
“Professor Chant is fantastic. He’s writing my recommendation for Oxford.”
“So he’s the one who put this idea in your head?”
“No, actually,” Seb said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “I came up with this one all on my own.”
“There’s always time to change your mind, darling.” His mother sighed. “I know Conrad is already fixed up at the family firm. Your father would love to have you.”
“I’m not interested in finance.”
“You mean you’re too good for finance.” Reg stuck his nose up and rolled his eyes.
“Just consider it, Sebastian. You said you were considering all the options.”
Seb’s mind slid out of his body and back to the tower room of the Windermere library.
It was going to be a very long week.