Chapter 3
Pre-departure
Brady
My niece’s favorite song, “Stop! In the Name of Love,” plays in my head as I press my finger into the thick glob of red finger paint and smush it across the paper, until it collides with the blue.
I should be cleaning up the playroom after an intense round of making art with Gemma, but keeping my fingers covered in paint means I won’t be able to slide my phone out of my pocket to check for a message from Hayes.
I don’t know why I thought I’d just call him, and he’d pick up the phone like nothing has happened.
Like we didn’t have a terrible breakup that made us walk away from each other with a promise to go our separate ways.
After my beach walk, I spent the afternoon in the playroom of the main house with my niece working on our finger-painting skills.
At the age of five, hers far exceed mine.
She knows her primary colors and wants to learn all the combinations she can make.
Playing with Gemma is the only thing that causes me to forget everything else.
I toss the painting I’ve been working on in the garbage and rinse my hands in the sink so I can finish cleaning up.
I watch the water run over my hands. Red and blue swirl together effortlessly making a vibrant shade of purple.
But then bits of yellow, orange and green from my wrists join in and turn the water brown as it runs down the drain.
That’s what happens when too many outside colors try to get in on red and blue’s thing.
I move back to the table and start scrubbing the spots where the paint dried.
I could text him, but what I have to ask is way too complicated.
I practice what I’ll say to him as I’m cleaning.
“Hey there, Hayes, I’m the last person you may want to speak to after—” I swallow hard and catch my breath.
“After what happened. But I’ve got a once in a lifetime opportunity I know you’ll want to hear about.
” Something like that. I’ll leave out the part about how we have to pretend to be a couple.
For now. I need to get past the first challenge before I go to the final boss.
My mom passes by the playroom. She must be on her way to the dry sauna, it’s the only reason she’s ever in this wing.
She stands in the doorway and sighs loudly.
There are finger paints spread out across the table, pieces of construction paper cut into the shapes I’m trying to teach Gemma, and dried pasta glued to cardboard where we were making collages.
“Brady, please let me have one of the staff come in here to finish cleaning up.” She walks in and shudders. Her hands grab opposite elbows in case a stray dribble of paint or glue somehow magically attaches to her lilac cashmere Loro Piana sweater.
“Mom, it’s a playroom. It’s supposed to be messy so we can, you know, play.
” I was at boarding school by the time I was eight, so I didn’t have anything like this when I was a kid.
When my sister, Claire, said she thought Gemma would like a playroom at the estate in Hamptons, I took over the planning.
I loved choosing the bold-colored letters on the wall, the carpet with a highway of roads offering endless adventure and washable walls with two sinks to help with clean up.
My mother surveys the disarray. “I could have Lisa come in, or someone else from the staff could do a deep clean. Maybe the new woman with the red hair. Mary.”
“Her name in Gina, and I do not want her or anyone else from your staff cleaning the playroom. Gemma and I made the mess, and we are responsible for cleaning it up.” That’s usually part of the lesson, but today she had a music class, so I let her go early to make it on time.
After all, punctuality is another important lesson. One I have yet to learn.
My mother’s staff runs most of her life.
There are maids and cooks and drivers and gardeners and personal assistants.
She employs a small army for a war, on what no one knows.
My mother hasn’t worked a day in her life.
She was born into wealth and it’s all she knows.
I was too, but I want something more. I just don’t know what yet.
“While we are on subjects you don’t like. There’s a dinner tonight you are expected to be at. I put it on your calendar weeks ago. The dean of the law school will be there and it’s the perfect opportunity to tell him how excited you are to start this fall.”
I love my mom. I always say she has been like a mother to me.
But she doesn’t really know who I am or what I want.
She sees me as this rich party boy without any direction – which is also how the rest of the world sees me, so I can’t really blame her for that.
Then there is the small detail that I happen to be a rich party boy.
What can I say? I’m good at having fun. I know that.
I don’t want that to change but I would like to change the expectation that that’s all I am.
She’s always trying to get me to live an upstanding life with a job that will make the Gibson family name proud.
She was thrilled when I told her I was dating someone pre-med because I’m sure she thought that some ambition would rub off on me.
Of course, it doesn’t help that my sister Claire was able to graduate top of her class, pass the bar and become part of my father’s trusted legal team all while getting married to an equally smart lawyer and being an incredible mom to Gemma.
With less than an eight-year lead, Claire has set the bar so high it seems that no one is able to reach it.
My mother, however, thinks law school contains the meaning of life.
But maybe if I can show her that I can at least get a job on my own for the summer, she’ll see there might be more to me than everyone thinks.
My family couldn’t care less about me being gay, but not becoming a captain of industry or legal eagle or some other capitalist bullshit would be unthinkable.
The fact that I have spent a gap year before law school loafing around not doing much embarrasses my mother.
She’d do anything to get me out of the house.
“I understand you wanted to take a year off after graduation, but that year is almost up. Law school is the only option, darling. It’s not like you have any other offers on the table.”
“As a matter of fact,” I say, trying not to have a snippy tone. “I’ve been offered a contract to travel around the world as a brand ambassador with For Us.”
“Oh, lord,” she says, and covers her hands with her face. “Is that some kind of pornographic site?” She puts her hand to her chest, and I can’t tell if she’s kidding or serious.
“Mom! No! It’s a luxury travel brand, like Four Seasons or the Mandarin Oriental.” I rattle off some of her favorite brands so it will make sense to her. “I’ll be working all summer, traveling to different cities.”
“Well, not all summer. You know your father expects you at the Beckenberg wedding. The entire family will be there, your sister and brother-in-law, Gemma of course, and all the partners. Your father does a great deal of business with the Beckenbergs and it’s the perfect opportunity to line up a legal internship for next summer.
” She’s imagining the eastern tip of Long Island floating away since all of the important people who usually anchor it down will be leaving the Hamptons to attend the wedding of the summer in Capri.
For Us has a branch in Capri that’s on the itinerary, but I keep that detail to myself.
“Martin Beckenberg has a gay sister. I think her name is Larissa.”
“Excuse me,” I say. If she thinks I’m going to this thing just to up her diversity cred, she better back it up. “Mom, do not think…”
“Oh, Brady. I only meant you’ll have someone to talk to.
Anyway, it’s very important for the firm.
Non-negotiable family obligation – and since you’ll be in Europe anyway…
” I didn’t say I’d be in Europe, so I guess she’s just assuming, the way she assumes I’ll have something to talk about with the lesbian sister.
I stop rubbing out a particularly stubborn stain to hold up one of our finger paintings, a colorful one with red and yellow on the edges and long blue lines that twist and turn. “Look at this one. Gemma said it’s a portrait of Grandma.”
My mom winces. She hates being called Grandma. She prefers the weird made-up name Gogo, which I have to admit describes her well, since she’s rarely standing still. My mom looks the painting up and down and says, “When is the real nanny coming back?”
I go back to scrubbing out the spot, ignoring what’s beneath her question. She thinks taking care of children is something other people do. “Her name is Angie, and she comes back from her leave in a week. And I don’t want to talk about law school. I’ve had a great few months with Gemma.”
“I know that. She loves her Uncle Brady, but this hotel job thing sounds like it will give you something to do before law school starts.”
“Mom, enough,” I say, and she raises her perfectly manicured hands above her shoulders in surrender and walks down the hall.
Now that I’ve told my mother I’ve got a job for the summer, I have to actually make sure I have a job for the summer, and the only way to do that is to make the call one more time.
But if Hayes says no then not only will I not have plans for the summer, my parents will once again see me as the unambitious black sheep of the family.
They’ll ship me off to law school to dye my onyx wool alabaster.
I take out my phone intending to call Hayes, but instead I connect it to the speakers in the playroom and then shove my phone to the side.
I spin around with my arms outstretched practicing the choreo I just taught Gemma, singing along to “Stop! In the Name of Love” with Miss Diana Ross. Anything to delay the inevitable.