5. You Know What They Say About Glass Houses #4
Atticus laughed, a gesture that tossed the contents of his glass partially onto the floor.
“Sweet girl, what a question. Never see very much of him, of course, you know how it is.” He, like Emmanuelle, spoke with frustrating windows of blankness.
“William does love his privacy, and with celebrity children, you know, it’s a very different thing, but still, I daresay it’s been an age.
We’re all starting to think he’s slipped his leash. ”
Fuck. Never mind Emmanuelle. Julian was William de Witt’s son.
“How old is he, again?” I asked, realizing that Atticus seemed to think this was gossip. I played coy, a little tipsy, without even thinking about why. My character’s motivation was simple: I was a silly girl who loved secrets.
“Oh, I don’t know, something like your age, maybe? Twenty-four, twenty-five? Last time anyone caught even a glimpse of Jude was years ago, when he was just a boy. Christ,” another slosh from the glass, “that had to be around when William and I did our adaptation of Vanity Fair—”
Good god, who was Atticus? I didn’t have time to ponder this, flush as I was with holy relief. Julian was an adult! Thank god, I assured myself. What could be so dangerous for an adult man who was even older than I was?
“—severely epileptic,” Atticus went on, as my mouth abruptly went dry. “And William is deeply devoted to him. If anything ever happened to Jude I do believe William would cast himself into the sea.”
Wonderful. “Fuck!” I exclaimed to Atticus, who did not seem perturbed by this, or anything. He had turned his attention to one of the young men he’d brought along, who looked like Korean Troye Sivan. “Thanks—”
He wasn’t listening. I considered what to do.
Explore the house? Genesis would love that.
Or maybe she was an asset, maybe she could help?
She’d have me fired, probably, but at least there wouldn’t be a severely epileptic man wandering around.
Even as the thought came to me, though, something felt off.
What came of severe epilepsy, exactly? Seizures?
How dangerous were they, how common? My fingers itched to ask Google, but Emmanuelle had taken my phone.
Was any of this a normal way to handle a severe condition—putting a man’s life and well-being in the hands of someone unqualified, unprepared, who knew virtually nothing at all?
Why did I care? A bright light of something, epiphany, reached the backs of my eyes.
This wasn’t my fault. I hadn’t been adequately informed.
Emmanuelle was clearly supposed to be watching him—she’d probably hired me purely so that she didn’t have to.
This wasn’t my error, and I certainly wasn’t legally liable even with a contract—those things had good faith implications!
—so even if I had to wander the industry with William de Witt’s enmity burned permanently into my back, surely that wouldn’t ruin my life or, you know, singlehandedly wreck my dreams.
Fuck, I had to find him. A prayer: If I fail, let it not be because of Julian de Witt.
Panic rose in my chest, a hot flood of uncertainty, Santa Ana in a vacuum. I stormed back to the bar, away from the poolside crowd. My mouth was dry and I reached for a nearby handle of tequila, tossing back a swallow.
In the same moment, I felt a cold tendril of something at my back. The sensation of being watched.
I turned away from the courtyard, toward the shadows along the edge of the house. The tequila had left a slick trail of heat in my belly by the time I spotted the thing that didn’t belong.
Near the edge of the courtyard, beyond the palms, on the path that led to the greenhouse—there it was. The flash of a white shirt. Hidden in the shadows, but illuminated just enough for me to compile the outline of a man in fractions, small bits at a time as I approached.
Black jeans, dirty, torn in one spot around his thigh.
I could see the outline of a bandage, an encumbrance bulging beneath the material.
A pair of work boots that looked too big, splashed with mud and debris.
The T-shirt was the kind that came in packs, worn so thin you could see the concave shape of his chest, the stark points of his clavicle.
Threadbare in places, stained in others, a smear of what looked like rust across the bottom hem.
Long hair the color of molasses, like an oil slick, pulled back to an unfurling loop at the nape of his neck.
His jaw was square and hard-set, expressionless.
There was an anxious quality to his expression, a jumpiness or paranoia, the way a cat looks at a spider crawling on the ground. Agitated focus.
Ocean eyes.
I recognized him this time. It was the man who’d locked eyes with me right before stepping in front of a city bus.
Last I checked, spontaneous resurrection wasn’t a symptom of epilepsy.
“Julian,” I registered aloud. My heart leapt double, triple time.
More so when, impossibly, he looked at me. I took a step, inadvertently reaching out like I was coming toward a tiger.
One look at my open hand and his mouth twisted with something. Hatred.
Then he turned and disappeared.