Where the Grass Is Green and the Girls Are Pretty

by Lauren Weisberger

  Peyton cleared her throat. She hadn’t smoked regularly since getting married, but she was suddenly desperate for a cigarette. “Thanks. Do you think she’ll want to see me?”

  Gabe looked at Peyton. “Honestly? I don’t know. But you’re her sister. I don’t think she really has a choice.”

  “Right,” Peyton said. Her hands shook as she made her way up the stairs. She knocked on the door and waited, but there was no answer. Cracking it open, Peyton peeked her head inside. Skye stared her at her from under the covers, her hair a mess and her skin blotchy with red streaks.

  “What happened to your face?” Peyton asked.

  Skye touched her cheek with her fingertips. “Aurora did a ‘face mask’ on me. She didn’t tell me that she made it herself in our kitchen, using whatever ingredients she could reach.”

  “Yikes. Any idea what she used?”

  Skye shook her head. “No, but it’s better this morning. Last night it looked like I was in a car accident.”

  Peyton barked out a laugh. “It still looks that way.”

  Skye smiled. “Thanks.”

  “What do you have?”

  Skye coughed deeply. It sounded dry and chesty. “The plague. A cold. Depression. All of the above.” And then: “You can come in.”

  Peyton closed the door behind her and perched on the very end of Skye’s bed.

  There was an awkward silence, made even worse by the fact that neither could remember feeling awkward around the other.

  “Did Gabe tell you?” Skye asked.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Aurora’s birth mother is pregnant again.”

  It only took Peyton a second to understand. “What! For real? You’re having a baby?”

  Skye smiled wanly. “We’re having a baby. Due at the end of October.”

  Without thinking, Peyton threw herself on her sister, wrapping her arms around Skye’s bundled body. “A baby! You’re having a baby! Oh my god, I cannot even handle this! When did you find out? Does Aurora know? What’s the gender? The end of October is, like, tomorrow. This is so incredible!”

  Skye wriggled out from under her and propped herself up; she clearly couldn’t hide her delight. “I already bought a Moses basket,” she said, holding up her phone so Peyton could see the photo.

  Gabe brought up two coffees, and Peyton nearly knocked him over with her congratulatory hug. She and Skye surfed websites of baby boutiques, placed bets on gender, and brainstormed cute ideas for telling Aurora and, after her, their mother. It was so tempting to leave it at that, to let the happy news drown out the rest of it, but Peyton knew she couldn’t put off the inevitable.

  “I’m sorry,” Peyton said, her voice suddenly hoarse. “I know this”—she waved her hand at the rumpled bed and the messy room with strewn clothes and dirty dishes on every surface—“is all my fault. I can’t even imagine how much you hate me right now.”

  Skye’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t hate you,” she said, pulling the covers up higher, to her chin. “I want to murder you, but that doesn’t mean I hate you.”

  “The residence. You had everything in place. All those girls. I’m sick about it. And I’m so, so sorry.” Again the tears came without warning, but this time her crying was hysterical, uncontrollable. Peyton had tried so hard not to terrify Max with her own overwhelming emotion, but the nearness of her sister, her person for as long as she could remember, triggered all-out sobbing.

  Immediately Skye was out from under the covers and wrapping herself around Peyton. Her body was warm and her scent—sweet but not cloying, like a touch of maple syrup—was familiar. Peyton clung to her sister, burying her face in Skye’s neck, soaking her pajama top with her tears. “How will you ever forgive me?”

  Skye put both hands on Peyton’s shoulders and gently pushed her away. She tipped Peyton’s chin up the way she would to get Aurora’s attention. “Listen to me,” she said quietly. “I forgive you. I’m not going to give up. Somehow, I’m going to raise the money I need. It’s time for me to tell Gabe about the debt I accumulated, because I know it’s wrong to keep that from him.”

  “You have no idea how—”

  Skye interrupted her. “Let me finish.”

  Peyton nodded as she wiped under her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  “I can even sort of understand why you did it. But my god, Peyton—this is her life. Her future.”

  The tears felt like they would never stop. Peyton nearly choked as she said, “I hate myself so much. Not just for doing it—that’s bad enough—but for thinking that my brilliant, beautiful daughter needed me to do it. She didn’t. It was my dream, not hers.”

  Skye placed her hand on Peyton’s arm.

  “If I’m being completely honest with myself, somewhere, somehow, I knew it then, too. I just absolutely refused to accept it. What’s wrong with me?”

  Skye shrugged. “I say blame Mom.”

  Peyton cracked a smile. “When in doubt.”

  “Have you told Max all of this?”

  “Yes.” Peyton reached across to Skye’s night table and plucked a tissue from the box. “She’s agreed to work on our relationship. There’s a lot I’m getting to know about my kid these days, most of it pretty amazing. I just—” Peyton’s throat seized up once more. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

  Scooting closer, Skye wrapped her arms around Peyton. “Because you were an idiot. Sometimes an asshole. In other words, human.”

  “I’m sorry,” Peyton whispered.

  “I would like to be apologized to more, but I desperately have to pee,” Skye said, and hopped off the bed. Peyton rolled her eyes when she saw that her sister, who by all accounts hadn’t left her bed in forty-eight hours, looked positively chic in crisp white cotton pajamas.

  “I’ve got to get home,” Peyton said. “Will you promise to call if you need anything? I’m obviously not going to make you chicken soup, but I can definitely figure out where to purchase the very best.”

  Skye coughed again and offered a little wave. “Will do. Say hi to Max and Isaac for me.”

  “I will. And, Skye?” Peyton smiled. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Now get out of here, please? I need to enjoy this time without my husband and child.”

  Peyton pulled the door closed behind her and waved goodbye to Gabe and Aurora, who were having a catch in the backyard. Isaac was reading the paper on the front porch when she returned, and she felt a wave of relief when he indicated she should join him.

  “Thanks for pushing Max to talk to me,” Peyton said, propping her feet up on the wicker table.

  “She was ready. It was all her,” Isaac said.

  “I know you had something to do with it, and I really—”

  She was interrupted by Max, who burst through the front door clutching her laptop. Her eyes were wide; she looked shocked.

  Peyton leapt up, ready to tackle whatever it was: illness, house fire, act of war. “What’s wrong?” she practically shouted. “What happened?”

  Isaac also turned to Max, a look of sheer panic on his face.

  Max said, “I went viral.”

  Peyton saw Isaac’s nose crinkle in confusion. “You did what?”

  “My vlog went viral.”

  Isaac cleared his throat. “And that’s a good thing, right?”

  “Was this something you wanted to go viral? I think that’s what Daddy’s asking.”

  “Yes, of course!” Max turned the screen around and hit play. The three of them watched in silence as Max’s professional-looking video diary unfolded with its Paradise mansions and teenagers in Range Rovers, all overlaid with her searing commentary. Even as they watched, the number of viewers continued to climb.

  “Is that really four hundred thousand people?” Peyton asked. She was concerned that
Max had attached her real name and face to it—wasn’t there a security risk in doing that?—but she quickly reminded herself that Max knew what she was doing. Her daughter was an artist, a filmmaker, and she had a different way of processing what happened to her. And that was okay. It was more than okay—it was healthy and right.

  Peyton reached out, stroked Max’s gorgeous, unruly hair, and said, “I think you’ve done an amazing job editing this; clearly it resonates with hundreds of thousands of people. You must be so proud. I know I am.”

  Max’s lower jaw dropped open. She broke into a huge smile. And for the first time in as long as she could remember, Peyton felt the anxious knots in her throat, her chest, her stomach, her lower back, her temple, loosen all at once.

  30

  Always Kiss the Keepers

  It felt weird being back in her own bedroom in her own apartment in the city in which she was born and raised. Nothing had changed, physically speaking, during her summer in Paradise, but for a reason Max couldn’t quite put her finger on, her New York bedroom felt different. A little foreign. Like it didn’t fit her anymore.

  She heard her parents jabbering down the hall, making breakfast, the espresso machine hissing in the background, a normal Saturday morning. That part was really nice, all being under the same roof again. Nothing was perfect—far from it, considering her father was forty-eight hours from beginning his jail sentence for a crime her mother committed—but things seemed more settled. Her mother was trying. Her parents were meeting Nisha later in the morning, but then they were going to buy last-minute tickets for whatever Broadway show popped up on StubHub. Just the two of them, like they used to, and Max was surprised at how happy it made her. Sunday she and her dad were going to spend the entire day together, his last before he had to turn himself in Monday morning. So far, they’d agreed on brunch, followed by tennis, and probably a little fishing at the Boat Basin. Like her mom, her dad seemed to be in bizarrely good spirits, all things considered.

  Tiptoeing to her bathroom so her parents wouldn’t know she was awake—no matter how well behaved they’d been, there was still zero reason to speak to them before nine in the morning—Max peed, brushed her teeth, and climbed back under the covers. A quick check of her YouTube channel left her breathless: up to 2.5 million views and still climbing. She settled in to read the comments, but her eyes froze at the very first one, a GoFundMe link, posted by someone calling him- or herself WeCare.

  The sliding graph at the top of the page showed a goal set at $1,000,000, a number that Max couldn’t even process, but it was the second number that made her dizzy—$422,550 raised so far toward the goal. As she watched, the figure jumped to $422,600, followed almost immediately by $422,675.

  “Wow,” she murmured, scanning the donations down the right side of the screen: $50, $250, $36, $800, $5. They went on forever, donated by individuals and couples and families and companies and a whole bunch of “Anonymous.” One unnamed person had donated $3,600 with no comment. It was incredible. Indescribable. Surely this amount of money could get the project back off the ground! And it was growing every second. But a thought struck, and it panicked her: Who was WeCare, and how did Max know this person was legit? Like every crowdsourced fundraising site, GoFundMe was plagued with fraudulent claims. The entire thing could be some scam set up by a tech-savvy teenager in India. Panicked, Max texted Brynn.

  Did you set up the GoFundMe? she typed.

  Three dots and then: Huh?

  Dammit. That would have been her first guess.

  She climbed out of bed, yanked on a sweatshirt, and headed to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sweetie,” her dad said, glancing up from the Times. “You’re up early.”

  “Do either of you know who set up an online fundraising page and linked it to my latest vlog?” she asked, knowing she may as well have been asking her parents if they wanted to discuss the pros and cons of various coding software.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Her mom furrowed her brow.

  “Linking what to what?” her father asked, frowning.

  “Nothing. Never mind.” Her mind was racing, and none of the possibilities were good. Maybe it was Gabe? She knew he subscribed to her channel, and he often left encouraging comments. He also wasn’t a complete tech moron, like most middle-aged people. But no, he’d have told Max ahead of time.

  “Do you want some coffee?” her mom asked.

  Her phone rang from the kangaroo pocket of her sweatshirt. Oliver’s name popped up on her screen, and instantly she knew.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked as she answered, without so much as a hello. “Please say it was you.”

  Max could see her parents looking at her strangely. She didn’t even realize she was holding her breath until Oliver said, “Yeah.”

  “Oh my god, you’re amazing,” she exhaled.

  “Who are you talking to?” her mother asked.

  Max walked back to her room and kicked the door shut behind her. “What made you think of that? Have you seen how much it’s raised already?”

  “Yeah, I get a notification every time someone donates. I had to turn them off, they were so constant.”

  A growl emanated from under the bed and Max remembered to pull her feet up to safety. “Oliver, seriously, this is going to be life-changing. For Skye, yes, but mostly to those girls.”

  There was a moment of quiet.

  “Are you still there?” Max asked.

  “I’m here.” He coughed. “Look, I did what anybody would’ve done. I had no idea it was going to take off like that. I think it’s really cool that you’re trying to help your aunt and those girls.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything. I think the vlog you made is pretty incredible. I think…you’re pretty incredible.”

  She was grinning like a maniac and relieved he couldn’t see her. Impulsively, Max said, “What are you doing today? Want to go fishing?”

  “Fishing? Is that code for something?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Like, actual catch-fish-with-a-rod. I’ve got the gear. I’ll come to you. What do you say?”

  “I mean…sure?”

  “Great. I’ll text you my train. Pick me up at the station?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”

  “Be at the damn station.” Max ended the call and pulled on jean shorts, a cute tank top, her hiking boots, and a hoodie.

  Her mother looked at Max like she’d just announced her plan to enlist in the army, but her father smiled. “You remember the code to the lock?” he asked. “Have fun.”

  Grabbing an empty backpack, Max rode the elevator to the building’s basement and walked through the aisles of storage lockers until she located her family’s unit. Once inside, she carefully packed the backpack with her father’s well-organized mobile tackle box, a miniature cutting board, two camp chairs that folded to the size of one-liter water bottles, and a handful of tools, including pliers, a hook remover, and a knife. Using carabiners, she clipped two folding rods onto the outside of the bag and slung the whole contraption over her shoulder.

  Oliver was waiting at the train station, as promised, when her 10:37 a.m. from Grand Central pulled in. He took her backpack and raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “I checked,” she said, climbing into the front seat. “We’ll be at high tide in about two hours, so it’s not perfect but it’s pretty good.”

  “Unreal,” he said as he merged onto the highway. “What kind of city girl goes fishing?”

  “A country girl at heart,” she said. “Right lane, please. And take the next exit.”

  After directing Oliver to Bass Pro Shops for a couple boxes of frozen squid, they headed to a rocky outcropping on the Sound, a place Max had read was good for shore fishing. They clambered out
onto the rocks, and Max began to assemble their gear. Oliver stared at her, mouth agape, when she pulled a slightly thawed whole squid from the cardboard box and used the bait knife to deftly decapitate it. She sliced the remaining squid into triangle-shaped ribbons and, not having any sort of towel or tissues, wiped her slimy hands on her jean shorts.

  “No fucking way,” Oliver said, his admiration obvious.

  “It’s just bait,” she said with a shrug, trying to keep from smiling.

  “Does it make me a pussy if I don’t want to touch it?” Oliver asked, and frowned at the sludgy pile in front of them.

  “Yes,” Max said, laughing. “A big one.”

  Over the next few hours, Max taught Oliver everything her dad had taught her: how to choose the right sinker weight, change out the rod setups, and free up jammed reels. She demonstrated the best ways to rig the bait, and exactly where to grasp a fish while removing a hook so you wouldn’t cut your hands on their spiny parts. They discussed different strategies for removing swallowed hooks; how to ensure a fish met the legal minimum size requirements; the best way to kill it quickly and humanely. They caught more porgy than anyone could eat in a week, and soon Oliver had negotiated a deal in Spanish with one of the men nearby to trade some of the keeper porgy for a couple of cans of Bud Light and some Fritos. Max switched out their rods to snapper setups, and they both stretched out on a flat rock, sipped their warmish beers, and idly watched their bobbers floating on the surface. When he leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips—once, very simply—it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

  Later that afternoon, after Oliver had headed to his shift at the Ice Cream Shoppe and Max had trained back to the city, she walked from Grand Central to her building with a bulging backpack of fish fillets and an enormous smile. When was the last time she’d had that much fun? When had seven hours felt like thirty minutes? That day, as they had stared out over the water, Oliver quietly admitted he wasn’t close to either parent, and Max had been struck with a realization: not since Brynn had a single person in her life needed her, confided in her, or treated her like a friend.