43. Elyse #2
“I mean, what the fuck? The protecting-your-kid part I get, but brushing the whole thing under the carpet and getting some fixer to deal with it? That’s messed up.
I would march Fleur into that hospital so quickly and make her look that woman in the face and apologize.
You have to learn to take responsibility for your actions, and I don’t think you get a better teaching moment than a fuck-up like that. ”
“I totally agree,” I say. “No wonder it’s taken him another twenty years to understand what the word consequences means.”
“It’s more than that, I think,” she says.
“It’s like they don’t think anyone else’s life has as much value as their family’s?
So they shut this down. Poor old Maria gets stitched up and paid up and told to shut up, while darling Sinclair’s route to Princeton, or wherever the fuck he went, remains a straight fucking road. No blemishes on that résumé.”
“It was Yale,” I say automatically, and she snorts.
“Of course it was.”
“You’re right, though.” I look down at my hands as I consider that that’s exactly how he treated me: like everyone else’s needs and wants are expendable if they get in the way of his. “That’s exactly how it feels. They did him a huge disservice.”
“Him, and everyone who’s had to deal with his bullshit ever since,” she says. She looks back down at the letter and starts to laugh.
“What?”
“It’s just—it sounds like he was fucking terrified to tell you.
It’s funny, that’s all, because I think what he did to you last month is worse, in some ways.
I say worse because it’s not like you can judge a freaked-out kid and a grown-ass man by the same standards.
But that kind of makes it sweeter that he felt he had to tell you.
He really is getting it all off his chest, huh? ”
I give her a decisive nod. “Oh, yeah. He really is.”
“You think he’ll actually go see her? His victim?”
“The letter was dated yesterday,” I say. “So I guess he already has.”
She looks down at the date. “Huh. I wonder how it went down. Boy, would I like to have been a fly on the wall in that room.”
I laugh despite myself. My sister is a piece of work. Then I hesitate. “I think I’d like to give him another chance.”
Her head jerks up. “Are you being serious?”
“Yeah. Let me show you the last one.” Before she can reply, I duck into our room and grab the previous letter.
The one that makes me think he’s gained a little wisdom and a lot of perspective since he betrayed me over that campaign.
Sylvie takes it with an unimpressed twist of her mouth and begins to read. As she reads, her face softens.
“Okay, he’s smooth. Clearly, Yale was good for something. Hang on—I was honestly just pissed that I hadn’t gotten away with it? That’s hilarious. He seriously has zero fucks left to give, right?”
“I think, at this point, he’s making the call that the truth can’t be any worse than all the lying. And I think he’s also deep in emotional purging territory. Like, he hasn’t even asked me to forgive him—not at any point. He’s just trying to lay it all out there.”
“It all reads like he’s one Voss family celebration away from joining an ashram,” Sylvie says, and I snort.
“Totally.”
She reads the rest of the letter and lays it down. “I mean, no one can accuse him of not owning his shit. I’m surprised he hasn’t called up NBC.”
“But this is why I’d like to try again,” I say, leaning forward.
“In the same way that we can’t judge him for how he acted when he was fifteen, can we really judge him for acting the way his parents have taught him to act his entire life?
Like, here’s an Amex and here’s the fixer’s number, and you’ll be fine as long as you have both of those?
” I recall what his therapist said about his being afraid of having an “unpriced transaction” with me.
Seems like the guy has been transacting his whole life.
“I think he’s very well educated and very compelling.
” I raise my eyebrows, like Come on, and she sighs.
“But yeah, either he’s a total sociopath or he legit understands how badly he fucked up.
So if you think the guy underneath all the Yale bullshit and the Mob-style parenting is worth getting to know properly, then you should give him another chance. ”
“I don’t know what that looks like,” I say. “Do I unblock him? Text him? Ask him to go for, I dunno, a drink?”
Her face turns mischievous. Uh-oh. With one fingertip, she slides a particularly glittery réveillon invitation over to me. “Baptism of fire, baby. If he truly wants to make amends, invite him for Christmas Eve. He wants you, he comes to Jersey.”
I hesitate. He probably has fancy rich-person celebrations planned at Fairwater, involving classy Ralph Lauren holiday sweaters and a tree from the family’s estate.
“I can’t invite him without checking with Dad,” I say nervously. The réveillon is a big deal to him, a core memory with Mom.
“Ask him in the morning. I think he’ll be thrilled for you.” She taps the invitation. “Seriously. It’s a good litmus test. You’d be doing Sinclair a favor, getting him away from those psychos. Besides, I need the Maria tea. Do you still have A.J.’s number? This reply should go on the Vosses’ tab.”