Chapter Sixteen Townsend
Chapter Sixteen
Townsend
Townsend didn’t think Mother would be up for it this year, but he was wrong.
His family’s annual Fourth of July party is still happening, his dad’s death be damned.
It’s only noon on a Thursday, and already more than one hundred guests are milling around his parents’ Tuscan-style estate on Verano Drive, sipping spicy palomas and snatching hors d’oeuvres from the trays of uniformed servers.
Townsend chugs his own cocktail miserably and attempts to ignore the newest addition to Mother’s art collection: an oil portrait of his father, sitting behind his desk and glowering at everyone below him.
Either I’m drunk, Townsend thinks, or those fucking eyes are following me.
Usually, he doesn’t mind this yearly fete.
Of course, he isn’t usually being stalked by a vindictive ex while internet trolls attempt to take down his company.
At least he can feel safe for a bit within the barriers of his parents’ gated community.
And he has a win to celebrate, since Sage Clinic agreed to a collaboration with AutoInTune on Monday, just a few days earlier.
Sure, he still needs the money to officially launch his enterprise solution (and hopefully boost his pitiful membership), but it’s the start of something promising.
If only the day got off to a better start.
He and Talia had a fight that morning while getting ready for the party. He told her he didn’t understand why she’d gone to the police about Amanda, even after he’d asked her not to. “She’s not a real threat,” he said. “She’s looking for attention. And you’re giving that to her.”
“It was one thing when she was just sending me messages,” Talia replied. “But then she stabbed my tires and somehow snuck into my bathroom while I was home. I consider that a threat.”
Townsend knew she was right, but still, anger coursed through him.
“You should have told me about it before going to see those detectives. I am still your boyfriend, right? Not Meera?” He wasn’t trying to control Talia, obviously.
It just irked him that someone had more influence over her decisions than he did.
“She was just being a good friend. She didn’t force me to go to the police.”
“Right. And she just happened to be with you when you discovered both your busted tires and the note on your bathroom mirror.”
Talia gave him a strange look. “What are you suggesting?”
“Nothing,” Townsend said, because he really wasn’t sure himself. “Let’s just get through this fucking party.”
Talia nudged his shoulder, always eager to lighten the mood. “That’s the spirit.”
Next to him now, Talia inspects the six-burner Wolf range and double ovens in the kitchen with childlike wonder. “I can’t believe there’s a home theater in here,” she murmurs. “And nine bathrooms.”
“Eight bathrooms,” Townsend corrects. “And this is nothing. You should see my friend Jackson’s house.
” He knows it’s not nothing—this 7,500-square-foot home—but it’s all he’s ever known, so nothing about it feels extraordinary.
It does feel good, however, to see Talia—who usually does a good impression of someone accustomed to wealth—slip and expose her greed.
She can pretend to be unfazed by his building’s luxury amenities—which include a private spa and wine cellar—but on occasion, he still catches whiffs of it, like an inoffensive but potent odor: hunger.
And he is more than happy to keep her fed.
He likes giving her a taste of this world, and her gratitude reminds him that he should feel more thankful himself.
Not everyone has his status and privilege.
A memory comes to mind of Amanda holding up one of his vintage Patek Philippe watches—inherited from his father and made almost entirely from 18-karat yellow gold—and asking, “Don’t you feel like an asshole owning a golden watch when there are people in your own country starving? ”
“It was a gift,” Townsend said. “Am I supposed to donate it to an orphanage?”
She grinned in response, showing off the dimple in her right cheek that he loved. “Or you can donate it to me. I’ll make sure it goes to a good cause.”
Nope. He’s not thinking about Amanda today. Townsend takes another sip of his drink, washing away all thoughts of her.
“I can’t believe how many people are here,” Talia continues. “My parents don’t know this many people.”
Her parents. Townsend hasn’t heard Talia mention her estranged family since the birthday brunch with Mother at the club.
He’s tempted to follow up with a question, but when he turns, he finds her gaze directed at the floor—her way of saying I don’t want to talk about it, as he’s learned.
It’s time to change the subject. “Sure I can’t get you a drink? ”
Talia shakes her head no. “I feel like I’ve just recovered from all that wine I had last Friday with Meera.”
Fucking Meera again. Townsend bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to start another fight, so instead, he takes her by the hand. “Let me introduce you around.”
For the next hour, he leads Talia around the party, stopping every few feet to present her to a new family member or friend.
She meets Townsend’s little sister Blake and her giggly friends, his racist aunt Ruth with the botched fillers, his childhood T-ball coach, the lesbian neighbors his mom considers herself very progressive for inviting, and—of course—the old St. Augustine gang.
“Y’all remember Talia, right? And Tal, this is Brett, Warren, and Jackson.
” Townsend points to each guy as he names them, feeling slightly guilty that he’s avoided them all summer so far.
But they must understand: They’re still doing the same old shit (drinking, dating around, going to Party Island) while he’s grown up.
“Nice to see you all again.” Talia smiles brightly, and he can feel his friends’ envy; she may not have the pedigree, but damn, does she have a nice smile.
“Nicole is somewhere around here too,” Brett says. Townsend didn’t think they’d last through the summer, but apparently Nicole and Brett are still going strong. “She’s probably out back smoking with my brother and hoping your mom doesn’t catch them.”
“We’re not in high school anymore, dude. My mom doesn’t care if you smoke.” Townsend isn’t sure he believes this even as he says it. Then something occurs to him. “Wait, your brother is here?”
“Yeah. Like I said, you’ll probably find him out by the pool.”
As discreetly as he can, Townsend brings his mouth to Talia’s ear. “Babe, will you be okay if I leave you here for a minute? I just want to have a word with Orson.”
“Sure,” Talia says, though her eyes betray her nervousness. He’s thankful that she knows enough not to cling to him. Few things are less attractive in a woman than clinginess.
As Brett suspected, Orson is by the pool with Nicole, a glass of whiskey in one hand and the other wrapped around the waist of Nicole’s friend Chrissy. Are they an item now? Townsend really is out of the loop.
“Ladies.” He nods to Nicole and Chrissy. “Long time no see.”
“Look who it is.” Nicole gives him a clownish grin. “We haven’t seen you all summer. That lady friend of yours really has you pussy whipped.”
Townsend cringes at this. “I’ve actually been busy expanding my company’s platform. Speaking of which”—he turns to Orson and offers his hand—“thanks again for taking that meeting with me, man.”
Orson removes his hand from Chrissy’s hip to shake. “Of course, dude.”
“Any word yet from the team at Silicon Hills? I’ve pitched a few VC firms, but I’m still waiting to find the right match.
” Townsend thinks again of that mortifying Reddit comment, which has been haunting him since he first read it: He pitched his healthcare startup, AutoInTune, to us last week.
It was kind of a shitshow TBH. If Orson really wrote that, Townsend is going to get him to admit it.
“Oh, c’mon.” Orson takes a swig of his whiskey, his discomfort palpable. “It’s a party. Let’s not talk shop here.”
“It’s been weeks. I’d love to just get some feedback.” He’s pushing too hard, Townsend knows this, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Those spicy palomas must be heavy on the tequila.
“We’ll talk soon, okay? Soon.” Orson pats him on the shoulder and then points back into the house. “Right now, I think someone else may need your attention.”
It doesn’t take Townsend long to find who Orson is referencing. There, in the sitting room, he sees his worst nightmare: Mother talking to Talia, their faces too close. As if on cue, Talia turns to look at him, her eyes panicked.
“Dammit.” Townsend grabs another paloma from a passing tray and hurries inside.
By the time he pushes his way through the kitchen and into the sitting room—it seems the party has doubled in size in the past hour—Talia’s head is bobbing rhythmically, the clear sign of a person who has stopped listening and started planning their escape.
Townsend touches the small of her back, and she turns.
“All good over here? What are you two talking about?”
“Nothing much.” Talia smiles tightly. “I’m just going to use the restroom to freshen up. Which of the nine—?”
“Eight,” Townsend corrects her again. “And the closest one is through the kitchen down the hall. Want me to take you?”
“I think I can handle it. Excuse me.” She smiles—a little more warmly this time—and heads off to the bathroom. Then Townsend turns his attention to Mother.
“What was that about? She seemed upset.”
“What?” Mother puts one hand on her hip, the other gripping a shrimp cocktail that she probably won’t eat. “I can’t have a chat with your girlfriend?”
Townsend feels the eyes from his father’s portrait watching him again, but he ignores them. “Not if that chat is an inquisition.”
“I was just asking her more about her people.”
“Her people?”
“I think it’s strange,” Mother continues, “that you don’t share any mutuals or connections.”
“What’s so bad about being from different backgrounds?”
His mom gestures to the guests around them. “I know these people. I know where they golf, where they vacation, where they went to school, and where they’re going to send their children to school. I don’t know anything about your girlfriend’s people, and because of that, I can’t trust her.”
“C’mon, Mom. You can’t trust her because she doesn’t have a chalet in Aspen or a degree from an Ivy League school? Doesn’t that seem a bit elitist to you?” He’s getting heated now. “It seems like no one I date is good enough for you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Remember Heather, who you said had cheap shoes? Or Dahlia, whose teeth you didn’t like? You practically ran them both out of town. And now Talia—”
“I can’t trust Talia,” Mother interrupts in a stage whisper, “because she is hiding something.”
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know her.”
“Do you? What kind of young woman doesn’t speak to her family? It just isn’t right, if you ask me.”
Townsend tries to keep from rolling his eyes. His mom must also be feeling the effects of the strong palomas. “Right. Well. While we’re on the subject of trust”—he checks the hallway behind her to see if Talia has reappeared yet—“have you given any more thought to me accessing my trust?”
“Whatever for?”
“I told you, Mom. I need funding for my company.”
Mother looks unsurprised, maybe even amused, by this news. “What happened to those meetings you’ve had with investors? All that talk about partnerships?”
“I have a partnership lined up—a big one, actually.” Townsend waits for his mom to offer praise (or any sort of reaction, really), and when she doesn’t, he continues. “But I still need money. I need to expand. I need to grow.”
“Townsend.” Her sigh reminds him of Orson’s reaction when Townsend had asked about the pitch meeting. “I cannot get into this with you right now.” She gestures grandly again. “I have a party of people to entertain. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“But when will be?” he asks, his voice dangerously close to a whine.
“We’ll talk.” Mother makes eye contact with someone over his shoulder and nods, and when he turns, he finds Talia, anxiously tucking her hair behind one ear.
He leans in close to her. “Let’s get out of here soon, yeah?”
Talia grins, visibly relieved.
“But first . . .” Townsend runs his hand along the back pocket of his chinos, feeling for his keys. “Stay here for a second, will you? I’m just going to see if my car is blocked in.”
Outside, the air is stifling, but it’s still a relief, being out of that house.
As he starts down the street toward the car, loafers smacking on the pavement, it occurs to him that he’s drunker than he realized, because he swears he can see that fucking filthy white Honda Accord, double-parked right alongside his roadster.
But that would be impossible, because his parents’ house is in a gated neighborhood.
An unregistered visitor would never be able to get in. Right?
As he approaches, the Honda suddenly roars to life. It is her. And she’s going to try and drive away. He can’t let her keep running.
“Stop.” Townsend spreads his arms wide, trying to make himself appear bigger. He heard this is what you’re supposed to do if you encounter a bear. Maybe the same logic applies to this scenario. “Hey, stop.”
The Honda pulls away from the curb, undeterred.
Scaring her isn’t working; he needs to attack. “Stop!” Before the car can make any more progress, he runs forward, throwing his hands down onto the hood. “Fucking stop!”
After so many sightings, he’s finally close enough to the windshield to get a look inside. And when his eyes meet those of the woman staring back at him, he sees someone he doesn’t even recognize.