by Tara Brown
That wasn’t always the case, once upon a time. Back when I was new to this world and didn’t understand the rules and was mesmerized by the glitz and glamour.
Everyone sparkled, just like this guy, and they all seemed so set up. It was easy to admire them and want to get closer.
But then I dated one of them and got a real taste of what their lives were actually like.
One bitter aftertaste was enough, and I’d promised myself that I would never get caught up in that mistake again.
“I’m Lacey.” I shook his hand, noting how big and warm it was. It was too bad he was rich.
“Have we met before?” He winced. “Sorry, that was cheesy. You just look familiar.”
“I don’t know.” I sighed and glanced back at the harbor.
“Hard to say with all that makeup caked on.” His words slowed—as if he was realizing what he was saying—and he cringed at the end. “I mean—”
“It’s fine. I don’t normally look like this. My friend and I were having fun getting ready.” I laughed at his embarrassment. It was kind of endearing.
“I guess I’ll keep that same line of humiliation going. Do you come here often?” he joked, continuing the cheese.
“No.” I looked back at the party. “I mean, I go on a lot of yachts, but not like this. This party is a whole other level of pizzazz. Do you?”
“No. Not really a yacht enthusiast. Too easy.” He chuckled, leaning in, smelling like something I could be tricked by, easily. He had that wind-blown, cologne, deodorant, man-sweat smell to him. You couldn’t bottle it. He made it every day, fresh, and lured unsuspecting women to their knees with it. “I’m more of a sailboat kind of guy. Fewer crowds too. I don’t like the whole ‘hundred people on one boat’ thing. Gives me the sensation that there might not be enough life jackets and the people in the lower levels would definitely not make it off the ship.”
“Come on!” I started laughing. “Who makes Titanic jokes while they’re on a boat?”
“Too soon?”
“Never,” I joked back, and leaned out, smelling the salty air. “Although, as someone who would normally be part of those lower levels, I’ll try not to be offended.”
“Who, you?”
“Trust me, I don’t fit in up here.” I pointed back at the party, certain this would chase him off if he truly was one of the snobs.
“That means nothing. I never feel like I fit in up here. No one does. It’s all a lie.” He smiled wide, biting that lower lip like he was stopping himself from saying anything else, but then he gave in. “And those of us who see it know it doesn’t matter what we become. We’ll always be a bunch of frauds.” He waved toward the back of the boat, where the party was raging. “Trying too hard and sacrificing what we like about ourselves to fit in. I think most people up here feel that way. They just lie and cover it up.”
His words hit me somewhere deep. I was surprised that a person like him was so self-aware. Maybe he wasn’t rich after all. He sounded real. It was refreshing. And not in the “I’ll pretend I hate my rich life to connect with you” kind of way; he was genuinely disenchanted. An aphrodisiac for a girl like me.
“What would you be if you could be anything?” I asked. I didn’t even know why, but I cared.
“Editor in chief of a publishing house or a newspaper.”
“Really?” I sounded dubious.
“No, I don’t know. It sounded like the right answer. Honestly, I don’t know what I want to be. I love the creation inside of a novel I’m reading. I love the changes words can make or the way writers get lost in their own work, and the journey is genuine because they don’t see where it’s going either. The revelations you find are real. People read, and it shapes them differently. Or they escape. I have to admit that’s my biggest reason to read.” He took a slow, deep inhale. “But I also love the feel of the wind and the smell of the ocean. So maybe I should have said sailor.” He laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“Maybe.” I turned back to the sea, noting the way he stared and the way I let him. Too much gin and not enough sense. That’s what my grandma would say. “But then you’d be leathery and worn before your time.”
“That’s true. And we couldn’t have that. I just don’t know why I have to decide now. Why I need to have it all figured out.” His tone lowered, like he didn’t want me to hear that last part. “So, do you go to school here?” he asked, not giving up on the conversation.
Catching a nose full of him in the wind made my heart skip a beat. Man, he smelled good. I begged the gods to let him be some moderately rich guy, the kind that didn’t even count. He was hot and kinda cool in some weird, heavy sort of way.
“I do go to school here. This will be my last year.” I nodded and leaned on the railing. “You?”
“Yeah. It’s my final year too. I have to pretend I’m an adult and that everything I have and where I am is exactly what I want.” He chuckled, but it was bitter sounding.
“You don’t like where you are?” I was a bit unprepared for this conversation. And not only because I was 60 percent sure we’d never met before but also because this was a fairly intense conversation to be having on a party boat. And yet, I didn’t try to end it. “Maybe you should change that,” I offered.
“That’s easy to say for you lower-level folk. But it’s a real problem with being one of the people up here.” He turned his head from the shoreline and stared at me deeply, conversing with his gaze and convincing me he was likewise staring into my soul while baring his. “We don’t always get to choose. Life is easy for the rich; happiness is something else altogether. It’s not part of the guarantee.”
“Your first-world problems aren’t going to make me feel sorry for you,” I said, fully mocking him, but with a wide smile. “No one is guaranteed fun and happiness. We have to make it.” I wondered about myself and that statement. Was I finding happiness in work and school and doing well? Was that real happiness? I was too tipsy to contemplate such things and pushed the questions to the back of my mind.
“And what if making happiness for yourself meant you would disappoint every person who has ever meant anything to you?” His words were a truth; I could hear it. He was being real.
“Fuck ’em.”
“Fuck ’em? Is that Shakespeare?” he asked as if he were being serious.
“Burns.” I laughed hard.
“I can see a Scot saying that. But what if I can’t just fuck ’em? What does good old Robbie Burns say about that?” His lips toyed with a grin, maybe just the idea of one.
“Well, if that’s the case, and you were born in this cage, then I guess he would say that you’ll need to be extra crazy this summer. Get it out of your system before you have to start living that soulless grind.” It should have rolled off my tongue easily and lightheartedly, speaking of such a whimsical idea. But instead I stared at him, a little tipsy and a lot bold, lost in his intense eyes hidden under the brim of his hat. In that moment, I knew he was right. I did know him from somewhere, but I couldn’t recall and it was driving me insane. I leaned in a little closer.
“You mean I should be one of those boys of summer and spend it recklessly doing what I want?” He was mocking me or him or both of us. “Consequences be damned?”
“Yeah,” I challenged, wondering if the devious sound of my voice matched my look. “What are consequences for people like you anyway? Daddy takes away one credit card and a Maserati? You should pretend you’re free, fake it ’til you make it, like my dad always says. And one day you will be.”
“But what if I don’t want to fake it? What if I just want to be free?” He leaned in, surprising me, and possibly himself. He lightly brushed his lips against mine, lingering for a second. He reached down, took my hand, and turned away from me, drawing me along the side of the boat toward the front and opening a door. In the flash that the door was open, I saw we were going into a bathroom. A classy way for me to start my summer, but I didn’t care. He hurried inside and dragg
ed me along with him.
In the dark, his hands found my face, cupping it as he pulled me up into him and lowered his face to mine. “You’re so beautiful, Lacey.”
“So are you, Jordie.” I wanted to get lost in this fantasy, but the second I said his name, the realization of who he was hit me like a ton of bricks. At the exact moment, someone shouted my name.
Fate was saving me. An angel of fate.
The person shouting my name did it again.
“I think someone’s looking for me.” I needed to get the hell out of here, and this was my moment.
“What?” he whispered, his words caressing my lips.
“Someone’s calling me.” I paused as I leaned away from him, close to the door, listening again. “I have to go.”
“Lacey!” It was Marcia, shouting out like God had sent her.
I grabbed the door handle.
“Wait.” He grabbed my arm, but it was too late; I slipped through his loose grip and opened the door, glancing back at him, trying not to glare too hard as I slammed it on his face, leaving him inside.
“Marcia!” I called, and ran for her, never more grateful to hear her voice.
“Oh my God. I thought you fell overboard!” she shouted, and hugged me. “One minute I saw you, and then you were gone.”
“No, just using the ladies’ room.” I linked my arm in hers and glanced back as Jordan fucking Somersby, Stephen Somersby’s sleazy brother, left the bathroom. He gave me a defeated stare, watching as I walked away.
He had played me perfectly.
Said everything a girl like me would want to hear.
I scolded myself for falling for it.
And he was right: we had met before, once, when he was drunk and singing karaoke with his obnoxious brother. He was Monty’s man crush every Monday, but Marcia hated Stephen, so she forced Monty to spend his Somersby time away from her—away from us. They had poker nights and bromances I didn’t understand. Monty was too good for them.
In the dark, his name had dinged on like a light bulb made of bitterness just as he was about to kiss me. Jordie, that was what Monty called him.
I wouldn’t have kissed him again if my life depended on it. He might have been the hottest guy in the world—in the history of hot guys ever—but he was also someone Marcia said was just another France: a guy with an ugly streak despite his pretty words.
Man, guys were gross. And I felt grossed out with myself for falling for the act yet again.
Chapter Four
THE BEST-LAID PLANS
Jordan
“I’m cursed.” I sat on the roof, passing the bottle to my brother.
“Oh, cursed doesn’t even begin to cut it. What did she look like?” He took a long draw off the bottle and passed it back.
“An Egyptian goddess, done up in all this makeup.” I laughed. “Which should have been a major turnoff, but she was cool. Different. We kissed, and for a second I just—” How did I say I had her in my grip and then she was gone, running off, leaving me crushed?
“You blew it. You always blow it. I told you being a gentleman was overrated. I certainly didn’t get Cynthia by being a gentleman.” He was boastful sometimes, like Dad.
“Maybe not, but you sure won’t keep her by being a douche.”
“No.” He took another drink. “That’s fair. What’s your plan for finding this mystery goddess?”
“I don’t know. She had so much damn makeup on, I might not recognize her again. Except that smile.” I moaned into my hands. “Fuck! Why did I meet her tonight?”
“Okay, well, now you’ve seen the light—hallelujah!—and tasted the rainbow and all. Surely this girl is a means to ending this Amy thing Dad’s saddled you with. You got a plan for that?”
“No clue. I don’t understand how Dad thinks it’s acceptable to use the old ways to get business now. Who does that? Do the old merger marriages even happen anymore?” I groaned and took the bottle back.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Even Grandpa probably wouldn’t do that kind of shit anymore.”
“Right. The way to get business is by working hard and being the best. Only an entitled asshat like Dad would ever think he could swing his name around and get what he wants.”
“Did you see her tonight at the party?”
“Who?” I asked.
“Amy.”
“No, was she there? I was wearing a ball cap to avoid her recognizing me.”
“Yeah, that didn’t work. I saw her staring at you. It was creepy.”
“Great.” I hadn’t ever felt so disturbed by how my family was using me before, which was saying a lot.
Stephen changed the subject. “Monty said you never texted him. You need to. He misses you.”
“Yeah, I will. We have a poker game on the books for the summer kickoff celebration. Should be good.” I glanced at Stephen and thought hard about what I was preparing to say. “What would you do if you were in my shoes?”
“Make my own mark on the world. I would say fuck Amy. Not a chance. Especially after hooking up with a hottie on the boat. She was a sign that you should not go through with this. To not ruin your summer with some bullshit babysitting job masquerading as a girlfriend. You need to grow some balls and learn how to say no to Dad.”
“I said no.”
“Right, but then he beat you down and you said yes. You always do that. You’ll end up married to this chick if you even let this start. Hell no.”
He wasn’t great at eloquently articulating his thoughts, but he had a point.
“Well, I don’t want Grandpa and Dad to hate me. My future is tied to the family business just as much as yours is.” I chugged back more booze in the hope of drowning that fact as well.
“Oh, you and I both know you’ll never end up there permanently. I think even Grandpa knows that. Dad just doesn’t have the memo yet.”
“There’s no memo.” I gave him a side-glance. “I don’t know what I want to do when I graduate. So, working there until I do is the only option I have. It doesn’t exactly hurt the résumé.”
“Is marrying Amy what’s-her-name fine too?” he challenged, and stole back the booze.
“No. I need a stellar plan to end this. Maybe even a way to outsmart Dad so he can’t blame me for it.”
“Like what, fake your death?”
“That, or fake hers. Or something. I don’t know. I’ll start brainstorming.”
“Just swear you won’t let this play out. I hate it when Dad wins.” He offered me the bottle again.
“Dad can’t win. I won’t let him. I’m twenty-two. I can’t be expected to go to college, get stellar grades, work all summer for Grandpa, decide my entire future at the end of this year, and babysit literally everyone. The fate of our world cannot rest squarely my shoulders. I’m not worrying about Dad anymore. And I’m not saving him with this deal. If he can’t close it with genuine effort, then he’s on his own. Grandpa can’t expect me to toe the family line on this.”
“We’re going sailing with him Monday. You can talk to him about it then.”
I nodded. It wasn’t exactly a plan, but it was a step in the right direction. The direction that led to me finding that gorgeous girl I’d met on the yacht, which was the only deal I was personally invested in sealing at the moment.
Chapter Five
THE LAST BEST WEEKEND
Lacey
Staggering into the house after a weekend of full-on Marcia, I always smelled like a distillery and felt like I might never hear again in at least one ear. This Sunday was no different.
“You’re home.” Grandma walked toward me, carrying a dish towel and wiping her hands.
“Where’s everyone else?” I asked, putting down my bag and trying not to blink for too long. I was wiped.
“They’re on their way home now.” She smiled, but there was something off. Something in her eyes and her voice and her way of wiping her hands on that towel over and over and over until I wanted to snatch it from
her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. You want some soup?” She turned away from me, still wiping her hands.
“Grandma?” I didn’t move.
“Everyone’ll be home in half an hour, dear. Don’t ask any more questions right now.” Her voice cracked. “The soup’s on the stove. Help yourself.” She turned and left for her room instead of the kitchen, and my insides clenched.
I was too hungover for this, whatever this family drama was. I had plans, great plans. I was going to iron my clothes for tomorrow and get to bed early after about six Gatorades. An upset grandma and some kind of familial tension wasn’t on the books for my first day back at the summer job. Likely whatever was wrong was about money. As in, my parents needed to borrow some from Grandma, again.
Groaning, I wandered into the kitchen and ladled out some of her famous broccoli-cheese soup—my favorite. She even baked the cheesy garlic fingers to go with it, made with love. Like all her food.
Since my grandpa had died a few years back, she’d come to live with us, and I always appreciated having her around. Sure, we lost the home office to her bedroom, but we gained so much more in return. She was a mother and father to me when my own were inundated with work, which was just about all the time. She cooked and tidied and ran the house, which my mother found annoying, but everyone else vetoed her into silence about it.
I spooned the soup and blew on it, cooling it off. The first bite healed at least half of the things wrong with me after a full weekend of partying and reckless endangerment to my organs.
The second bite soothed my stiff neck and shoulders—residual tension from end-of-year exams.
The third bite was a dunked piece of cheesy garlic bread. I moaned into the bowl, forgetting all my worries.
