19. Vera
Sloane calls Friday morning while I’m standing at my kitchen window with coffee I’ve been holding long enough for it to go cold, watching the city do its Friday thing and trying not to think about tomorrow.
“Come over tonight,” she says. “I have wine and an agenda.”
“Those two things cancel each other out.”
“They complement each other. Seven o’clock. Thai from the place on Birch Street.”
I should say no. Because every hour between now and then that I spend with Sloane is an hour I have to carry both of those facts in the same room without letting them touch.
I did it on Wednesday at Maggio’s and she asked me directly and I looked her in the eyes and said no, it doesn’t involve you, and I have been living in that answer for two days.
I can do it again.
I’m apparently getting very good at it.
“Seven,” I say. “I’ll bring dessert.”
I spend the rest of the day at my desk with my phone face-up beside my keyboard. At noon it buzzes once: Tomorrow. One word. I type back: Tomorrow.
Sloane opens the door at seven with two glasses already poured and the energy of someone who’s been thinking about this since before I arrived. She’s in her off-duty silk blouse, feet bare, hair down, and she hands me my wine before I’ve taken my coat off.
“You brought cannoli,” she says, taking the bakery box. “Good. We’re going to need it.”
“That’s ominous.”
“It’s not ominous. It’s a conversation.” She sets the box on the counter and settles onto the couch, cross-legged, in the position that means she’s been waiting to say something for longer than today. “Come sit.”
I sit. The Thai arrives nine minutes later and we eat from the containers for a while.
She tells me about the rebrand client, I tell her about a pitch that went sideways, she makes her face at someone misunderstanding what PR actually is.
It’s easy. The ease of nine years. I let myself be in it without examining it.
Then she sets her container down and picks up her wine.
“Okay. The agenda.”
“Hit me.”
“Kane,” she says.
The word drops into the room and my hand tightens on my glass before I can stop it. His name in her mouth, while I’m currently in possession of the knowledge that he is picking me up tomorrow night at seven.
“What about him?” My voice comes out level.
“I want to set him up.” She says it like she’s already decided.
“There’s a woman I know through the Hartley Group — Claire.
She runs events for a hospitality company, she’s lovely, she has a life that makes sense.
I’m thinking the Cartwright gala in January.
Get them in the same room with a reason to talk. ”
“Sloane.”
“I know. He doesn’t like setups. But he doesn’t have to know it’s a setup. One evening. If there’s nothing there, fine.”
“You can’t engineer connection.”
“I’m creating conditions. There’s a difference.” She leans forward and turns her phone toward me. “Here. This is her.”
The photo is a candid, not a headshot — a woman with an easy smile and kind eyes. I look at the photo for long enough to be convincing and hand the phone back.
“She seems lovely,” I say.
“She is. And she’s the kind of person who wouldn’t need Kane to be different than he is. She’d just — fit alongside him.” Sloane sets the phone down. “That’s all I want for him. Someone who fits.”
I reach for my wine. “He might be fine on his own,” I say.
“He’s not fine. He’s contained. There’s a difference.
” She picks up her wine, puts it down again without taking a sip.
“Kane manages everything — his work, his schedule, his feelings. All of it held at exactly the right distance.” She looks at her glass.
“And one day he’s going to look up and realize he’s been alone for years and called it a choice.
” A pause. “He deserves better than that.”
“You don’t know his life is like that.”
“He’s my brother,” she says, not defensive, but certain. “He’s been alone since Vanessa. That was five years ago.”
“He might be doing better than you think,” I say carefully. “He might have things in his life you don’t see.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, he’s just—“ I reach for my wine. “He’s private. You know that.”
“Exactly.” She doesn’t let me finish. “He’s so private he’s built a whole life with nobody in it. No one who actually knows him.” Her voice quiets. “I’m his sister and half the time I feel like I’m reading him through glass.”
The guilt settles the way it’s been settling lately — not sharp, just heavy. The space below my sternum where it lives now.
“He’s not without people,” I say.
“Marcel doesn’t count.” She reaches for her wine. “Marcel is furniture — beloved, irreplaceable furniture — but Kane doesn’t let Marcel in, he lets him be adjacent. There’s a difference.” She half-smiles. “I want someone to actually know him. The whole thing, not the version he decides to show.”
Someone already does.
I can’t say it. On Wednesday I couldn’t say it. Tonight I can’t say it. Tomorrow I’m going to dinner with him and I still won’t be able to say it and I don’t know what that makes me except someone who is very good at carrying two things in the same room without letting them touch.
“You’re being weird about this,” Sloane says. “You usually love this kind of thing.”
“It’s different when it’s someone I know.”
“The only way you know him is through your own lens. He’s always just been your argument opponent.” She meets my eyes. “You’ve never seen him as just Kane.”
The correction sits in my mouth and stays there.
“I just think he might not want the help,” I say.
“Of course he doesn’t want the help. That’s why he needs it.” She tilts her head. “Although — that’s interesting.”
“What is?”
“You’re defending him. You’ve been in the same room as with my brother for nine years and I have never once heard you defend him.”
I pick up my wine. “People change.”
“Vera.”
“Maybe I’m maturing.” I take a sip, look at a point past her shoulder, the picture of casual. “It happens.”
She sets her wine glass down. Slowly.
“Vera.”
I look at her over the rim of my glass. She’s gone still, watching me.
“Wednesday you were weird about Gerald. Tonight you’re sitting here defending Kane and telling me setting him up would be a mistake.” She tilts her head.
“I just think he might be less alone than you’re assuming. And setting up someone who doesn’t need setting up—“
“Is that a feeling or a fact?”
I stop.
“Because it sounds like a feeling in a coat,” she says. Not unkind. Just precise. “What do you actually know about how he’s been?”
I reach for my wine.
“It’s a feeling,” I say. “You’re probably right.”
She looks at me for a moment. Then: “I’m inviting Claire to the gala.” Settled. “That’s all. One evening. If nothing happens, nothing happens.” She opens the cannoli box and hands me one. “And I’d like you there. So I have someone to debrief with.”
“He’s going to know what you’re doing.”
“He’s going to suspect what I’m doing. There’s a difference.” She takes a bite. “You’re coming.”
Not a question.
“I’m coming,” I say.
She smiles and starts telling me about the venue, the guest list, the logistics, and I nod in the right places and eat my cannoli and think about a man picking me up tomorrow at seven.
I sit with her until ten, the way we always do, and when I leave she hugs me at the door with her usual warmth.
“Text when you’re home,” she says.
I text when I’m home.
My phone buzzes at eleven twelve.
Gerald: Still up?
Me: Still up.
Gerald: Good day?
Me: Not bad. Yours?
Gerald: Good. Hard to concentrate though.
Me: Why?
Gerald: Keep thinking about tomorrow.
Something loosens in my chest and pulls tight at the same time.
Me: Me too.
Gerald: Get some rest, Vera.
Me: Yes, Sir.
I stare at that for a moment. He said nothing that warranted it. And I sent it anyway.
I set the phone down and go to bed.