Chapter 33
fighting against the toxicity
MARCO
At a time when I hadn’t believed it, I’d been told that the brownstones in the West Village were where Brooklyn and I wanted to start our life together. Knowing we had to keep up the facade, we had immediately put a bid in on one that had been listed on the market and got it.
Neither of us had cared. We hadn’t taken a tour.
We hadn’t talked about how we envisioned the space.
We hadn’t given it a second thought. We hadn’t looked at materials or paint colors.
We had given the contractor complete autonomy.
He was to update everything behind the walls—electrical, plumbing, security—and all the features throughout.
From windows to floors and fireplaces to air conditioning.
We had even hired an interior designer to work alongside the contractor and oversee cabinetry and fixtures.
She was then to take the bare walls and turn them into a home when construction was done.
We stayed completely removed from the whole thing.
It was just another thing we had to do, our opinions on the subject completely irrelevant.
Until they weren’t.
Until I had gotten to know Brooklyn.
Until we had decided to give us a real chance.
Even then, Brooklyn hadn’t gotten involved. I was only just barely involved. I had only called the contractor and made one request.
Brooklyn was to get a custom-built walk-in jewelry vault.
A little over a hundred square feet engineered to fit into Brooklyn’s private two hundred and fifty square foot sanctuary—the second half of the third floor just off our bedroom with a deck.
Since it required more specific needs, I’d hired a bespoke Italian designer who was going to see to it that the space was everything Brooklyn could imagine it’d be and then some.
The finished result should look like her own goddamn jewelry store, something I knew she’d not only appreciate but treasure.
I just got the mockups sent to my phone, and while they were perfect, all I could think about was whether any of it would even matter anymore.
I was going to have to tell her the truth about how my father had stabbed her father in the back. It was inevitable.
I only hoped she could see past my father’s misdeeds. Or at least that she wouldn’t hold them against me. I hoped she could see that I was fighting against the toxicity, against the dysfunction.
In fact, I didn’t want us to mirror our parents. I wanted us to learn to exist on the same plane but run parallel. I wanted us to play by different rules. I wanted us to be us. Without the conditions and expectations they put on us.