Chapter 10 #2
“Scouts honor,” I tell her, even though I was never a scout, we were always too poor for that, and I was never interested in wearing a vest with patches my mom would have to iron on. Her eyes tip backwards and, somehow, I think she knows that.
It’s always like this with her—separate, apart from everything else, even though I know it isn’t.
That isolated connection is an illusion, a trick of my over active imagination.
The mind can’t actually distinguish between reality and fiction, is the thing.
So I feel the warmth of her attention long after she walks away, feel it in spite of the cool air that brushes past me as I walk out the building, just to take a lap. Get my thoughts together.
The fiction that is Sloane as an option, Sloane as a woman I could pursue without the devil on my shoulder, assaults me within seconds of stepping onto the sidewalk because a fire red Mustang convertible, oversized dice hanging from the mirror, is sloppily parked under the valet tent.
I walk past it, even though it looks so much like the one Luis sold when I was sixteen.
I keep walking, even though it reminds me of driving through the old orange groves with him.
I make it down the block and decide it wasn’t even real, because what are the odds?
I get back to the revolving door and then, when I see that it’s still standing there, I let myself get a glimpse of the license plate.
DELILAH
But of course I knew it was hers. God, I wish it wasn’t hers.
I love that it’s hers when I shouldn’t love anything about her at all.
I cut back through the front door, pretending not to hear Gen cooing on Sloane’s shoulder at the end of the long hallway, shaking the smirks and the dimples and teasing and the look out of my mind, and head to the bar.
“Just a Jack and Coke.” I pluck the crumpled ten dollar bill from my wallet and slide it across the counter, only for a crisp one to lay itself right on top.
“Make it a Manhattan,” my father says, and I sniff, glancing in the opposite direction before looking at him.
The gray at his temples would look distinguished if I didn’t know it was more likely stress induced from being a career liar than from genetics.
His watch swallows his wrist, and his suit, a crass sort of maroon with black lapels, looks too new and is ugly.
“Didn’t know you were coming to this.” The bartender nudges my drink toward me, but I don’t take it.
“You’ll find, Andrew, that there’s a time to be hands off and a time to get those hands dirty. It’s that way with basketball, right?”
“No, actually. It’s not.” My mouth feels dry, and I almost take the glass and satisfy that urge.
“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” He knocks my shoulder, chuckling. “Not really a leader.” He gazes straight ahead, mouth twisting before he sips the drink he ordered for me.
I eye him from the side, nodding to myself before turning to him, standing a little taller. “You come here to insult me, or?”
“No,” he sighs, like he got away from himself for a second. “I came here to give to my favorite cause.”
Back tense, I fist my hand at my side, flexing it like it’ll calm the anxiety beginning to roil just beneath my skin.
There’s this look my father gets right before he pulls the rug out from someone.
I’ve only seen it a few times, when he’s been with a client and I’ve arrived at the townhouse early. Right now, he’s giving it to me.
“The Lions?” I ask, stupidly. My molars grind.
My father’s mouth pulls into a tight grimace as he looks straight ahead.
“You. But I just saw you making heart eyes at the Fielder girl. And I sure as hell don’t think you have a clue where William is.
Do you?” His voice is a low murmur, the words carefully enunciated so that there’s no confusion, but soft enough that only I can hear him. It’s practiced. He’s practiced.
I swallow, cracking my neck. “He’s an adult. He can handle himself.”
“Then why the fuck do I pay you to do it?” He turns sharply, blinking at me furious.
“You know, I haven’t had to worry about you.
You do what you’re told. Not like Ian—never listened, not a day in his life.
Not to me anyway. But when I found you, Andrew, I knew you’d be good.
What happened?” Glenn’s eyes sadden, and I wonder, for a split second, if he might actually care.
They slide into disgust not even a moment later.
“Eye on the ball, son. You’re gonna let some girl distract you?
Mess up all your hard work, and for what?
” He cranes his head so he can look me right in the eye. “For what?”
My jaw flexes. “I’m not distracted.”
He studies me, some of his anger boiling off after a short inhale. “Good. Tell me about her.” Another drink makes its way across the bar, and this time, he makes sure I take it.
The drink makes this easier; everything tastes bitter, including the words clawing their way up my throat.
“She’s, uh…a painter.” He nods, like he knows this, because he does.
“And she’s…running. I think. I don’t know.
She hasn’t told me. Really, she hasn’t told me anything important.
” Shame drops heavy in my stomach, drapes itself across my shoulders like it belongs there and I think it does.
Any attempt to forget the shame is naive; when you hide the things I’ve hid and lie the lies I’ve lied, shame is part of the bargain.
He nods to himself, appeased by still musing over something. “What I need is to know if she’s talked to a reporter,” he says, tipping the rest of his drink back, craning his head more than he needs, all while guilt sluices down my spine. “And if she hasn’t—make sure she doesn’t.”
“Got it,” I murmur, trying to let the task rest lightly within me as I take in a measured breath. My father, for his part, just walks straight out the door without confirmation that my agreement is good enough for him, and without a glance at Ian, who lingers by the spiral staircase.
Something needs to be said, but what—I don’t know.
‘I’m sorry’ seems insufficient and out of place, because what am I even sorry for?
That he threatened me but didn’t give him a hug?
I start to move toward my brother, like his grace will do what I can’t do for myself, but the air in the room shifts.
From across the ball room, I hear Will’s voice crack as he says, “And you.” There’s a pause, and I don’t even have to turn my head to know who he’s talking to. “If you want to fuck her so bad, do it.”
My eyes go wide the moment Ian’s do, and I rush toward the sound of fist against bone, of Olivia’s hoarse shouts, of the unrestrained whispers that are just rehashed tidbit’s from Ian’s fucking column.
I whirl on him, knowing he can’t be far behind.
“You,” I sneer. “You need to go. This is not fodder for your piece of shit gossip blog.” Liv’s screams fade, and when I glance down the room, I can just make out Ben’s pallid face.
It’s the face I imagine someone makes when they’ve been gutted.
When their intestines are being laid out in front of them.
He’s making this face, and it’s Olivia he can’t take his eyes from.
“I didn’t make them do anything. If Olivia was doing her job, this wouldn’t even be happening.” His face looks hot to the touch, like he could burst, but not from glee. From anticipation, maybe.
“What are you talking about?” I wince as Liv pulls past me, dabbing Will’s face with a towel as they shuffle out the front doors. The room that had just fallen to a murmur now balloons with sick excitement. It’ll be everywhere tomorrow—I know it.
Ian’s gaze locks on mine, buffering on a thought I can tell he’s desperate to share, but he decides against it. Shakes his head, scoffs, rolls his eyes like he can’t be bothered with me.
Out the glass doorway, I can see Will, in his blood stained three piece tux, and Olivia, in her floor length chocolate gown, the tips of her hair wet with blood, too, quietly arguing as they wait for a car.
It pulls up, and she carefully folds him into the passenger seat, her face drawn tight with anguish.
“Unbelievable,” Ian huffs out, watching with silent fury in his gaze as they drive away.
It’s all a mess—a horrible mountain of the worst things we can do to each other—all of it. Painful and twisted, and he is standing here, stringing together a headline. And for who? For what?
“When you write about this tomorrow, I hope you know that you’re scum.
” I push past him, my shoulder roughly knocking him.
Standing on the pavement, waiting for my car, I stare into the endless night sky and wonder if somewhere, on a star I can’t see, is a different version of all this.
If somewhere, it’s all unfolding, but everything is good.