by Lisa Lace
I stand up and raise my glass. My father and Alexander are both staring at me with worried expressions. Everybody in this room is waiting for me to screw up.
I clear my throat. “Welcome, everyone, to the celebration of Alexander and Olivia’s wedding. It’s an honor to be the best man for this occasion.
“I’d like to start by welcoming Olivia to the family and congratulating her on her bravery. As a Southby, you’ll be sacrificing your fun, freedom, and most likely your sense of humor for awkward business dinners, unstylish and dowdy clothes, and conversations that revolve almost exclusively around the weather. I’d say the sacrifice is worth it for the love of a handsome, charming and intelligent man. Which is why I’m confused that you’re marrying Alexander.”
I pause, waiting for the laughter. Apart from one loud hoot of laughter from Percy at the back of the marquee, it’s crickets. Everyone else is staring daggers at me.
My cheeks redden, but I push on with the speech I’ve prepared. “In all seriousness, Alexander is a great guy. He’s Cambridge-educated, has a great job, and is well-respected in the community. And now that you’re his wife, you can also benefit from the Duke’s generous acts of nepotism.”
Silence. Is that a tumbleweed?
“All joking aside, Alexander has been a lot happier since Olivia came into his life. Olivia, you’re a pleasure to be around, and we’re blessed to have you join our family.
“I wish you both a long and happy marriage. To the joyous couple!”
Everyone echoes my toast, and then almost immediately start murmuring mutinously under their breaths.
I sit back down and see Alexander watching me with a raised eyebrow. “Really, Henry?”
“What?” I retort. “It was meant to be funny. It’s not my fault the people here wouldn’t know humor if it bit them in the arse.”
“At least you didn’t mention my final year of boarding school.”
I grin. “Thank God for small mercies.”
We clink our glasses together and drink. At least Alexander saw the funny side.
When all the food is devoured, and all the speeches recited, a live band strikes up. People leave the marquee to head toward a raised dancefloor outside, overlooking the lake. There are fairy lights strung up around the gardens. They sparkle on the waters. I have to admit, it’s a beautiful wedding.
A few minutes after the dancing begins, I’m not surprised when my father storms up to me. His face is red and puffy with rage, his eyes narrow points. “That was not the speech we agreed on!”
I shrug. “I thought I’d try to liven up the dinner a bit. People were falling asleep in there.”
“You’re a disgrace,” he spits. “That speech was in terrible taste. Nepotism? You know that ‘nepotism’ is the first thing these people cry when a Southby does well for himself. You do realize you’ve undermined your brother and me?”
“It was a joke.”
“I’ve had enough of your ‘jokes,’ Henry. You’re walking on extremely thin ice. One more screw up, and we’re going to have a very serious conversation about your position in this family.”
He waddles away to bother someone else, and Percy immediately takes his place at my side. “I told you switching the speech was a risky move.”
“The wedding was more like a funeral.”
“You’ve got tongues wagging, all right.”
“Let them gossip.” I let out a long breath. “Jesus—I have to be born into one of the only families in Britain where a son can get disowned for writing a few jokes into a best man’s speech.”
“Ah, the Duke is threatening to disown you again?”
“I think he’s getting close to meaning it.”
Percy grins. “I remember when my father disowned me.”
“How’s that going?”
“No complaints. My mum’s still one of my fans.”
“You’re lucky. I think my mother’s getting a bit sick of me as well.”
“There’s only one thing to do,” Percy says in a mock-serious voice.
“What’s that?”
“Get a stick and shove it up your arse. You’ll fit right in.”
I laugh. Percy is one of the few people in my world who understands my frustration with the pomposity and artifice of British nobility. Like me, he’s been known to rebel against the strict rules and restraints of our status. For that reason, we’re both black sheep of our families.
Percy nudges me to get my attention and nods towards a group of young women standing by the lake. “Care to make this night a little more interesting?”
“Of course.”
We make our way over to the ladies. Despite my reputation, I can see the interest in their eyes when I approach. Regardless of the rumors, I’m still young, rich and handsome, which always seems to do the trick.
“Hello,” Percy grins when we arrive opposite the girls. He grins widely, offering his most charming smile. “I’m Percy Collins, and this is my very good friend, Henry Southby. He’s the one who just received the world’s worst response to a best man’s speech in the history of weddings. But don’t worry—what he lacks in stand-up comedy acumen, he compensates for in charm.”
One of the women, a vivacious redhead with a mischievous gleam in her eye, raises an eyebrow in my direction. “That’s quite a pitch from your friend there. Do you always come in with a wingman, or have you got your own moves as well?”
I take a step toward her, grinning devilishly. “I’ve never had any complaints. Can I get you a drink?” I place my hand on her hip suggestively to lead her back toward the bar.
Suddenly, a young man with a prematurely receding hairline and watery brown eyes comes barreling toward me with his hands curled into fists. “Is Alexander’s brother bothering you, Helen?”
Helen looks amused. “No. He’s not bothering me.”
He looks toward me and raises a finger threateningly in my direction. “This is a wedding, Henry. Not one of your cheap strip bars. This isn’t the time or the place to be picking up women.”
“Firstly, I’ve never been to a strip bar. Secondly, Helen and I were only talking.”
“It’s never just talking with you.”
“You should know better than to believe everything you hear. I’m actually a very charming gentleman.” I flash a suave smile in his direction.
Helen is amused, but her beau is getting more and more enraged. He turns away from me. “Stay away from my date, all right?”
I hold up my hands. “Of course.”
Percy and I step back and turn away. “A swing and a miss,” Percy sighs.
“The night is young.”
Percy and I continue to drink on the outskirts of the wedding party. The formal, ballroom-style twirling and prancing aren’t my style.
A couple of hours later, while Percy and I are standing once more by the lake, two beers in our hands, Helen reappears. I grin and feign warding her off. “Better not come near me, Helen. Your beau might get the wrong idea.”
She laughs. “Lucas isn’t my boyfriend.”
“Does Lucas know that?”
“I was hoping I could get that drink now.”
“By all means.”
I hold out my arm to her, but before I can take it, I’m shoved roughly in the back. I turn to find Lucas red-faced and furious behind me. From his stumbling gait and flushed skin, I can tell that’s he’s had a few too many.
So have I. I straighten up and turn to face him. “Lucas. Helen and I were just—”
“I know exactly what you and Helen are up to. I told you to stay away from her.”
“Lucas!” Helen explains, her hand on her hip. “You’re drunk. Go back to the tables and have some water or something. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly. Go inside.”
“So you can stay out here with this lowlife? I don’t think so.” He shoves me again.
I calmly roll up my sleeves.
“Y
ou can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?” Lucas continues. “You’ll go for anyone with nice legs.”
“Lucas!” Helen exclaims.
Lucas shoves me again, and it’s the final straw. I push him back, and a full-blown scuffle breaks out. He pushes me again, and I put a hand into his chest. Then Lucas lifts his fist and throws a punch.
It hits me square in the jaw, and hard. I stumble back and trip—right into the lake. I hit the water with a splash loud enough to attract the attention of the whole wedding party. The live singer gasps into the microphone, and every head turns my way.
With Percy’s help, I pull myself out of the water, my suit drenched through and hair dripping. As I step back onto dry ground, I look up and meet my father’s eye. He looks ready to kill someone.
You’ve done it this time, Henry.
Melissa
I’m sitting on the sofa in my tiny, two-bedroom rented apartment in Cambridge, Massachusetts, trying desperately to make it through my reading list before the first semester begins at Harvard. I’m entering into my postgraduate MBA in the fall. It’s only a few weeks from now, and I want to be on top of my game. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
My apartment is modest and sparse—although not by choice. The ripped black fabric sofa is from a thrift store, and the coffee table was a flea-market find. The ugly floral drapes were my grandmother’s, and the few other odds and ends were salvaged from the family home after my mother passed away.
My favorite item in the living room is the professional family portrait that my mother insisted we get done a few months before she died. It shows me, my mother, and my little brother all grinning and holding onto one another. It seems like a lifetime ago.
I can’t think about that now. I force my attention back to the book in my hands, dragging my thoughts away from self-pity. The book about marketing and PR is arduous and dry, but I push on. One day, I’ll use this knowledge to make something of myself.
I rub my temples wearily. I’ve read the same paragraph over and over again, but nothing’s sinking in. I’m exhausted from a double-shift at the diner, and I only have a few hours to spare before I’m back there again. But instead of sleep, I choose to study.
I read the paragraph again, then start on the first line of the next. I’m making progress at last, when the door swings open and then slams as my younger brother, Connor, returns from wherever he’s been.
I can tell straight away that he’s high. His eyes are red and bloodshot, but his skin is sallow. He smells like cigarette smoke and marijuana. His clothes are dirty and disheveled; a beige T-shirt that’s crumpled as if he’s slept in it all night, and a pair of denim jeans with dirt on the thighs.
Twisting to face him, my stomach knots in worry. “Connor! Where have you been? You’ve been out all night.”
Connor takes off his T-shirt and throws it on the ground. His movements are clumsy and uncoordinated. “I was out.”
“Out where?”
“Does it matter?”
I purse my lips but don’t say anything. At least he’s away from Mitch and Vixx, his best friends from Holyoke.
Connor walks through the living room and into the bathroom. Seconds later, I hear the water running, and turn back to my book. I can’t focus. I’m worrying about Connor; about where’s he’s been, what he might have done, and what I’ll have to put up with now that he’s back.
Ever since our mom died four years ago, I’ve been taking care of Connor, but it hasn’t been easy. He’s always had a chip on his shoulder from growing up without a father, but since Mom died, he’s been out of control. It’s like he feels the world owes him something, and he’s determined to take it.
At nineteen years old, he should be stepping into adulthood. Instead, it’s my job to look after him and keep him out of trouble. Just like I promised Mom I would.
Twenty minutes later, Connor emerges in sweatpants and a baggy white T-shirt. He flops down onto the sofa next to me and opens a can of soda. Without considering that I’m reading, he picks up the remote and turns on the TV to some motorsports show. The revving of the engines and whiny voice of the commentator quickly bores into my skull.
With a sigh, I snap my book shut and stand up from the sofa. “I’m going to read in my room for a while.”
Connor doesn’t look up. I frown and head toward my bedroom. Suddenly, he twists in his chair and calls, “Lissy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I borrow some cash?”
My shoulders slump. “What for, Connor? You’ve been out all night. Can’t you have a night in for once?”
“It’s for other stuff. You know, groceries and shit.”
“Groceries?” I repeat, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. “When was the last time you bought groceries, huh?” I go to the kitchen in the open plan kitchen/living room and pull open the fridge to gesture at the empty shelves inside. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I hardly have money for food, let alone cash to waste on whatever.”
“I need socks,” Connor argues. He points down at his feet. His socks have holes in the soles.
I feel my resolve wavering. I know he’s probably going to use the money to buy weed. “I really can’t afford to give you money to waste.”
“For fuck’s sake!” Connor flares. He slams his hands down on the sofa, his trademark temper rearing its ugly head. “You’ve always got a problem, don’t you? You can’t even give me ten bucks for socks? I’ll just wear them until they fall off. How about I walk around in shoes with holes in them, too, huh? I’ll get a stick with a cloth on the end and walk around with my lunch slung over my shoulder like a hobo. Thanks, sis. You’re awesome.”
My chin wobbles. Connor says the most scathing things, and no matter how many times he throws insults my way, his words always sting.
I fumble in my purse to find my money to give him the last ten bucks I have until my next paycheck.
I hand it to him, and he snatches it out of my hand without so much as a “thank you.” I take a deep breath to hold back tears.
He’s going through things. It’s your job to understand and be there for him.
“What are you going to do today?” I ask. “Go to the mall?”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“They’re running a job fair downtown today. Maybe you should swing by.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Think of everything you could do with your own paycheck,” I encourage. “You could get your own place, buy whatever you wanted.”
Connor rolls his eyes. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You can’t wait to get rid of me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.”
I take a deep, patient breath. “I’m going to be working tonight. There’s a frozen pizza you can have. Will you be all right?”
“I think I’ll survive.”
I nod slowly, but Connor’s not looking at me; his eyes are glued to the TV. I stare at the back of his head, his dark hair just long enough to begin to curl. I close my eyes and picture Mom’s smiling face and waves of tightly curled hair like Julia Roberts. Her memory gives me the strength to quietly turn away.
We only have each other.
Henry
Being called into my father’s office never means good news. The last time it happened was when I got a week’s suspension from Eton for starting a prank war that culminated in three dozen rubber ducks and a flooded dorm.
I enter with trepidation. My father’s office would intimidate anyone. Two of the four walls are lined with bookcases filled with heavy tomes and journals. My father’s many degrees from Cambridge and Oxford are framed and displayed proudly. His desk is a huge oak beast with carved claw feet and inlaid with green leather. It looks like a president’s office—or an evil villain’s lair.
My father is facing the window when I enter. His arms are folded across his chest as he turns, and his expression is deeply disappointed. His eyebrows are knitted together in a stern
frown, and his eyes grow dark when he sees me. “Henry.”
“Father.” The title of “Dad” has never suited the great Walter Southby.
My father takes a seat in the over-sized executive leather chair behind his desk and gestures for me to sit in one of the leather armchairs on the other side. As usual, a family conversation feels more like a business meeting.
He begins the conversation. “I told you that if you screwed up again, we’d be having a serious talk. It’s time for us to discuss what we’re going to with you, Henry.”
At twenty-seven years old, you’d think the time had passed for me having to face my father’s wrath, but as a Southby, reputation means everything. And reputation has no age limit.
I sit, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair, waiting for my father to tell me the consequences of my actions this time.
He clasps his hands together and stares sternly at me across the desk. “I’ve thought long and hard about the right thing to do. It’s clear that you don’t share your brother’s maturity. You’re reckless, selfish, and completely inconsiderate of the effect your actions have on the rest of this family. You find amusement in these acts of rebellion; you think you’re demonstrating your independence, yet we both know that without my continued support—financially and in reputation—you’d be nothing.”
My father stands once more and paces the office, his hands clasped behind his back. He says nothing for a while, pacing and breaking the silence with intermittent, heavy sighs.
When he turns back to look at me, his face is steeped in disappointment. “You’re an intelligent man, Henry. Without even needing to try, your grades always far exceeded. Yet you’ve scuppered all that potential—for no real reason I can see. A man with a background such as yours could achieve great things.”
He pauses. “That’s why I’m giving you one final chance to live up to your Southby name.” He stands in front of me with his arms folded across his chest. “An old friend of mine works at Harvard. He’s reviewed your grades, and you’ve been accepted to start an MBA there next term.”
