Baby, Be My Last: The Fairfields | Book Three

by Lennox, Piper

  As though Death is staring me down right now, I actually do see my life flash in front of me: Arrow, leaping out of that black basket on my ninth birthday. Remissions and relapses, Mom falling every time she’d start to bounce back. Listening to my parents whisper about bills through the vents.

  The first time I saw Mom’s missing leg. The crunch of Dad’s tires when he finally found me and made me come home. “I know it’s hard, but you and I can’t show her that. She needs us to prove nothing’s changed.” After I changed her bandage, proving to Dad I could be strong, I sat at my computer and applied to every job I could find. Including the Acre.

  I see a blur of work, after that. Being trained by Roz, scolded by Lupé and my other superiors for the dumbest shit. Turning down the one boy who asked me to senior prom, because I’d picked up a shift instead. Brynn’s face when I told her to give the ticket she’d bought me to someone else.

  More work. Shoving money into my mother’s hands and the tears, every time, when she’d finally accept.

  Looking up into deep, clean brown eyes in a hotel suite neither of us belonged in.

  The blur of work and worry stops there, and time slows down: most of my flashback, I realize, would be the weeks I spent with Silas. Water tumbling over rocks underneath us, the boards of a bridge pressed into my back as I told a stranger so much more about myself than I’d planned.

  Ice cream and dogs, a field and a farmhouse. A dizzying pleasure I’d never felt in my life. A wholeness I can only vaguely remember, anymore.

  “There’s a balance,” Brynn adds, snapping me back to the present. I push my bills and spreadsheets and schedules to the side. The sip of Diet Coke I take is almost unbearably sweet. “You have to plan for what’s ahead—but you have to enjoy what’s right in front of you, too. Because that’s all we’re really guaranteed, isn’t it?”

  “I know that.” I draw my finger through the ring of condensation my soda leaves behind. “But I also can’t stop worrying about what’s ahead.”

  She nods. “You’ve always been like that. And look...I admire how hard you work. I really do think us living together, it’s going to help me get my shit in order. But I think it’ll be good for you, too. Because if I need to kick things into a higher gear...you need to downshift. Big-time.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right, and so do you.” She reaches for my papers and pulls my schedule to herself, scanning it absentmindedly. “You plan on texting Silas back...ever?”

  “How do you know he texted me?”

  “Please,” she chuckles, “your face went, like, pure white at breakfast yesterday. What did he say?”

  “Nothing.” My fingertips trace the camera cut-out on my phone case. “Just that he missed me.”

  “So why didn’t you text back? Tell him you miss him, too.”

  “You didn’t hear him the other night, Brynn. He couldn’t even hear himself, how...different he suddenly sounded. And he kept going on about the money, like that’s the only reason to take a job.”

  “It’s the only reason you took any of your jobs.”

  I give her a flat look. “You know what I mean. It was like, out of the blue, he sounded like….”

  “A Fairfield?” she teases. “Because he is.”

  I shake my head; of course she doesn’t get it. “He didn’t used to be like that. I couldn’t believe he even had that in his genetics, he was so different from them. But the second he took that job...I could see it. It was all I could see, actually.” I take a gulp of my soda, letting the bubbles burn my sinuses. “Then he said I was being jealous and petty. Can you believe that?”

  The length of her inhale makes my eyes snap up.

  “No offense,” she says, and instantly, I’m offended, “but it kind of sounds like you are.”

  “Great, you too?” I get up and storm to the living room. She and Arrow, who was sleeping peacefully under the table, follow me.

  “I’m not saying it like it’s bad,” she explains. “It just...is. Who wouldn’t be kind of jealous, in that situation?”

  “I’m not jealous.” Arrow leaps into the spot on the couch right when I prepare to sit, so I move to the recliner under the window. “Sure, it’d be cool to have a salary that high, but that’s it. I wouldn’t want anything else about it. Some snooty penthouse, paying someone else to walk my dog, knowing my dad just handed me the job—”

  “Yeah,” she mutters, smirking as she peels a hangnail, “you don’t sound jealous at all.”

  I throw a pillow at her. She deflects and laughs again.

  “Cam, come on. I know you’re not jealous jealous. You didn’t break up with him because he’s going to be earning more than you. You were freaked out because, in your mind, he’s a real Fairfield now. And yeah, it sounds like he changed a little—but no more than you or I would, if we got a job like that. So he was planning a few lifestyle upgrades, who cares? He included you in them, at least.” She stares at me until I look away. “Didn’t he?”

  I dig the remote out of the chair and turn on the television. A few networks are already in complete holiday mode: cheesy Christmas romances as far as the guide can scroll. I turn to the news and pretend to listen.

  Brynn moves to the end of the couch closest to me, shoving Arrow to the side. He huffs at her, but immediately flops his head onto her lap to resume sleeping.

  “When I say you’re jealous,” she says, talking over the news when I turn it up, “I didn’t mean the money part. I meant....”

  Her thoughtful silence makes me turn the television back down. It’s rare for her to have to mull over her words; all too often, she just spits them out as soon as she thinks them.

  “You took some time off,” she says, finally, “and reduced your hours, when Silas came into the picture. Partly because you wanted to spend more time with him, but mostly because you thought your parents were doing fine on their own. Right?”

  Slowly, I nod.

  “And that was a good thing. You needed to live a little, Cam—really. We never hung out anymore, and when we did? You had this dead look in your eyes. You weren’t living.” Brynn scratches Arrow behind his ears. He doesn’t stir. “But right now, you’re thinking it was a horrible thing. You feel guilty. Like you lost your parents’ house—like you let them down.”

  My eyes sting again. I’ve done more crying in the last four days than I have in years, and I’m tired of it.

  “But Silas,” she adds, “took, what—a whole week off work? Not cutting his hours to full-time, like you, but literally took a vacation, when he came here to find his dad. And he ends up with an amazing job, and even more money, because of it.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see her raise her eyebrows.

  “The way you’re looking at it, you finally let off the gas a little and you get punished, while people like Silas...like the Fairfields...they let off, and get rewarded.”

  “Life isn’t fair,” I mutter. I learned that lesson a long, long time ago.

  “My point is,” she continues, “you aren’t upset with Silas. You’re upset with yourself.”

  “For what? I know my parents chose the bankruptcy, and getting rid of the house. Mom stopped using my money a long time before Silas came along and I cut back.”

  “Who are you talking to, Cam? Don’t try and bullshit me. I know you. You’re mad at yourself that you couldn’t see it coming. That you’ve worked your ass off for years, and nothing came of it. You feel like it was all for nothing.”

  The tears fall as she talks. My arms and back ache; I haven’t slept right since I moved in here.

  No, I tell myself. I haven’t slept right since the night Silas left.

  Brynn hefts Arrow off her lap and joins me, balancing herself on the recliner’s armrest. She pulls me into her and combs my hair with her fingers until, what feels like hours later, I calm down.

  “It wasn’t really for nothing, though,” she tells me. I nod like I understand.
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br />   Really, I just want her pity to dry up, along with all my tears. Because it’s Brynn that can’t understand.

  It doesn’t matter what good comes out of a situation, when the bad still outweighs it. It doesn’t matter that you spent years dodging the worst, that you poured your whole heart and soul into staying out of its path—if, in the end, it still takes you down, anyway.

  “Shit, you weren’t kidding.”

  I tell Knox the gate code to the Fairfield Estate. He’s so busy admiring it through the fence, it takes him a minute to realize I’ve spoken. I repeat it, patronizingly slow, while he rolls his eyes and punches it into the keypad.

  “I would’ve thought they had, like...guards everywhere,” he says, as the gate opens and we pull through. Just my luck: the first time my car breaks down all year, and it happens exactly when I’m supposed to meet Tim. It’s the last trip in the world I want accompaniment for, but Knox’s car was my only option. Of course he wanted to see the estate, in exchange.

  “They do have security, somewhere. I guess it’s just for special events,” I tell him, remembering, no matter how much I try not to, Camille’s story about her run-in years ago with Caitlin-Anne.

  We pull up to the house. I get out and start up the steps quickly, but Knox takes his time. Behind me, I hear him give a low whistle. “This brick design is killing me. You think this is the original driveway?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “It’s nice.” He gives it a tap with his foot. “I’m definitely putting in something like this, when I buy my place.”

  I hit the doorbell before he can start rambling about his house plans. It’s not that it’s a pipe dream, or that he doesn’t deserve it; Knox has been saving for a house since he was eighteen, and he’s got himself one ridiculous down payment by now. He’s also got high-end tastes, which is why I get bored to tears listening to him talk about it.

  I expect to see the maid or another staff member open the door. Instead, it’s Tim.

  “Good to see you boys!” He shakes my hand heartily, then Knox’s, who immediately settles into his element: as an accountant, he’s used to schmoozing with wealthy people. “Come on in. It’s got to be ten below out there.”

  “Yeah, it’s a cold one,” Knox says, and somehow, the two of them start jawing about weather with all the enthusiasm of lifelong friends. At least it takes the pressure off me. I’m not sure how sociable I can be, tonight.

  Camille never did respond. Not to my text, not to the Facebook message, and definitely not to the voicemail I left a few days ago, which was pretty much nothing but me telling her we should talk, try to fix this.

  It was a waste of time. Clearly, she doesn’t want to. And I still don’t understand exactly what broke in the first place.

  “...a dinner party, I guess you’d call it,” Tim is saying, as I follow him and Knox into a dining room. Its sweeping ceiling is the first thing I notice, followed by the row of tall windows and heavy maroon drapes. There’s a massive table stretching before us, with people seated around it.

  “Hope you don’t mind me keeping it a surprise,” Tim whispers, elbowing me with a laugh. “Figured you’d like to meet the family.”

  “Family,” I repeat, blinking at the rush of people standing to greet me.

  “Oh, wow,” a woman says, hand to her chest when she sees me. She leans to the side and tells Tim, “You weren’t kidding—he looks exactly like him.”

  “Told you,” he chuckles, then beckons me over to the woman. “Silas, this is my sister, Elizabeth.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I smile, reaching to shake her hand, but she rolls her eyes and hugs me.

  “None of that,” she scolds, patting my back. “We’re family. And you call me Liz, I don’t know where Timmy’s getting this ‘Elizabeth’ crap.”

  I’m introduced to her boyfriend, sons, their wives and girlfriends, and Tim’s business associates who aren’t really family but who, in his words, might as well be. Everyone seems genuinely thrilled to meet me, and oblivious to the fact I’m blindsided by this whole thing.

  By the time we sit for dinner, I’ve forgotten everyone’s names and have to relearn them through the ribbons of conversation I manage to catch.

  Plenty of questions get lobbed my way: where did I grow up, what hobbies do I have, what do I think of the estate, etc. I answer politely and force friendliness into my voice, but my skin is crawling. Tonight was bad enough when I thought I’d just be dining with Tim and talking business. I never expected this much...Fairfield.

  “Hi.”

  I start at the voice by my elbow. The meal is over, and everyone’s chatting over coffee until dessert arrives. Banner, Caitlin-Anne’s son, has appeared beside me.

  “Oh...hey. How you doing, buddy?”

  “Good.” He shuffles his feet, quiet a moment, before pulling a stack of cards from his pocket. “Pick one.”

  “Uh....” I look up. All adults who might explain whatever’s happening here are occupied; Caitlin-Anne is deep in conversation with Knox, several feet down the length of the table, and doesn’t notice.

  Slowly, I pick a card.

  “Don’t show it to me,” Banner says quickly. “Just—just, you look at it. You look and remember what it is, and then you put it back in here but don’t show me.” He flips the deck behind his back, fiddles with it a while, then holds it out again. Even from here, I can see what he’s done—flipped all but the top card upside down, so mine will be face-up when he looks at the deck again—but, of course, I don’t say anything. I simply glance at my card, the three of hearts, and slip it in with the others.

  Banner has his eyes squeezed shut impossibly tight. “Ready?” he asks, peeking. When I nod, he tells me to close my eyes. I do.

  A minute passes. I peek, myself, and see the guy beside me (one of my cousins, apparently; I can’t remember which) watching the trick with a smirk.

  “Okay,” Banner says, and I open my eyes. Sure enough, he’s brandishing the three of hearts. “Is this your card?”

  “It is.” I act utterly shocked. “How did you do that?”

  “I can’t tell you. My dad says good magicians don’t give away their secrets.”

  He runs back to his seat, near another child who can barely see over the table, and the guy beside me taps my shoulder, leaning in to whisper.

  “How much are you hating this, right now?”

  I blink at him. “The magic trick? No, it was great. He’s a cute kid.”

  “Not that. This. The dinner.”

  “Oh. It’s fun.”

  “Come on,” he laughs, like I’m messing with him. “You look miserable. Banner’s magic trick is the first time I’ve seen you smile all evening.”

  “No, no,” I say quickly, “I am having fun.” When he doesn’t go back to his coffee, and his own business, I sigh and admit, “It’s a little overwhelming. Tim didn’t tell me tonight was a…family thing.”

  He holds up a finger for me to wait. For what, I don’t know, but after whispering something to his wife, he gets up and motions for me to follow.

  We step through the kitchen and into the backyard. I decide immediately that it’s not a backyard at all, but merely an outdoor extension of the mansion: the patio stretches on for several yards, wrapping around a covered pool and hot tub, bar, and grilling area. There are so many tables and chairs scattered about, it looks more like some exclusive garden club than a yard.

  The guy leads me to a grouping of furniture past the windows. He pulls a bowl from his pocket as soon as we sit, lights it, and takes a hit. When he offers it to me, I shake my head.

  “I’m, uh...I’m supposed to start a new job soon,” I explain, wondering why telling someone this sinks my stomach like it’s made of lead.

  He laughs, smoke trickling from his mouth before he blows it straight above our heads. I wish I’d brought my coat, but the chill barely seems to affect him. “Yeah, I know. What do you think tonight’s really about?”

  �
��Well...Tim said it was a family dinner thing.”

  “He’s announcing your new job.” He takes another hit, then scrambles to hide it when we see a shadow coming from around the corner of the house.

  “Cohen smoking in the backyard,” his brother says, punching his shoulder with a smile and sitting. “Color me surprised.”

  “I need something to help me tolerate Tim’s friends. Did you hear Remy giving me shit about my Roth IRA? I hadn’t even finished my salad.”

  The other guy—Levi, I remember now—laughs. “In his defense, you should be thinking about that stuff. Your savings is just sitting in a regular account, it’s a waste.” He looks at me, breathing on his hands to warm them. “Ready for the big announcement?”

  “Yeah, about that...what exactly is Tim planning on doing? I thought I was just, like, signing a form or something.”

  “Please,” Cohen snorts. “A secret Fairfield son, finally joining the family empire? Press eat that shit up with a spoon. Tim couldn’t resist.”

  “Press,” I repeat, and feel a spool knock loose in my chest, panic unfurling. “Like...like journalists, news cameras? Is that why he gave me the job—because it’s a good photo op?”

  “Aw, no, no.” Levi sits on the other side of me and waves this away. “Uncle Tim’s not like that.”

  “Well, he’s not not like that, either,” Cohen chimes. Levi rolls his eyes, semi-agreeing.

  “Yes,” he says to me, “he was probably aware, when he made you the offer, that it would look really good in the papers. Help counter some of the negative press your lawsuit brought on, or whatever. But I can pretty much guarantee that’s not why he offered you the job.”

  “Just a bonus,” Cohen adds.

  The weight of the evening finally catches up to me. I sit forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands, and sigh until my lungs feel like they’ll collapse.