by Bec Linder
“Is it true that everyone wears black all the time?” he asked.
“Yeah, office workers and people wearing winter coats,” I said. “People are also pretty friendly. It’s not like you hear.”
“Maybe someday I’ll see for myself,” Malcolm said. “Not in the winter, though. I’m too warm-blooded.”
“The first winter was bad,” I admitted. “You get used to it, though. You just need the right clothes.”
Our food came, and we ate and talked about everything that had happened in the last six years. Malcolm told me that his sister had gotten married, and that his brother’s girlfriend had just had a baby, and they were planning a wedding to keep the relatives happy. He said he’d been dating a girl for a while, but he broke it off when she started bugging him about having kids. “I’m not ready for that,” he said. “I’m focusing on my business now, you know?”
“You’re still young,” I said. “You don’t have to start popping out babies at twenty-four. You’ve got time.”
“Tell that to my mom,” he said, rolling his eyes, and I grinned. She’d been ready for grandchildren ever since Malcolm’s sister turned sixteen.
The margarita made me feel warm and languid, and it was easy to sit there laughing and bantering with Malcolm like no time had passed. He knew things about me that nobody else ever would. He had held me while I cried on the nights I climbed out of my bedroom window to escape my father’s drunken rampages. He had seen me cold and furious after arguing with my mother. That part of my life was over now, and Malcolm was its sole witness, the one person I had trusted enough to see me live through it.
We were fooling ourselves, of course. Too much time had passed. We had lost our old intimacy, and would never get it back. But it was nice to pretend for a while.
We paid and went out to the car. I expected Malcolm to start the car and drive off, but instead he sat there with his hands on the steering wheel, not moving.
“Um, I should probably get back,” I said. “The wake—”
“Sure,” he said, but he still didn’t start the car. He turned toward me abruptly and slid one hand around the back of my neck.
I realized I was holding my breath.
“Regan,” he said.
He kissed me.
I kissed him back.
Just for a moment, but it was enough. I pulled back, my heart beating. “Sorry, um—”
“Bad idea, I know,” he said, and grinned. “I had to try, though.”
We drove back to my mom’s house in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though; just the familiar silence of two people who knew each other well enough to not have to say anything at all.
My lips still tingled from his kiss.
He pulled to the curb in front of my mom’s house. All the lights were on in the house, a warm orange glow from within. “It was good to see you again,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. I swallowed. “I’ll email you, okay? Maybe the next time I’m in California—”
“Sure,” he said. “I’d like that.”
“Malcolm, I just want you to know,” I said. “I’m sorry for what I said, when I broke up with you. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t stop loving you.”
“I know,” he said.
I leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet, and then got out of the car and stumbled blindly toward the house.
We both knew I wouldn’t email. Maybe I would never see him again.
I didn’t know how I felt.
The house was full of people, smoking and talking and playing cards. I stood in the doorway, feeling overwhelmed by the lights and noise. My mother came over and said, “You’re back so soon? Come help me in the kitchen, then.”
“Okay,” I said. My heart ached. What was Carter going to think? I shouldn’t have kissed Malcolm, but it seemed like the right thing to do, in that instant right before I did it. I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. He had been my whole world for four years. Maybe I just needed to say goodbye.
The kitchen was empty and quieter than the living room, and it was easy to let my hands move and my mind wander. Chopping vegetables was sort of like meditating, in a way.
Maybe it was that blank space in my head that made me say it, like in the absence of conscious thought my mouth filled up with words I hadn’t known I needed to say. Maybe I just temporarily lost my mind. But either way, after a long, silent span of working, I turned to my mother and said, “Do you remember that last fight we had, right before I left?”
She made a noncommittal noise. “I remember.”
“You told me to leave,” I said, and my throat tightened unexpectedly, with the weight of years of regrets, the grieving I had never really given myself enough room for. “You told me to get out and never come back.”
“I remember,” she said again, stirring the pot, not looking at me.
“Why did you say it?” I asked desperately. “Did you hate me that much, that you didn’t want to look at my face ever again—”
“No,” she said, voice sharp. She set the spoon down and turned to me. “You had to go. I knew what you were planning. Your dad found the plane ticket. He was—” She shook her head. “He was so angry. I was afraid for you.” Suddenly, to my shock, she started crying. She raised her hands to cover her eyes and spoke through her tears. “I never protected you from him. I should have. I tried to, then. You had to go.”
“Mom,” I said, helpless, unsure what to do. I took a step toward her and tentatively wrapped my arms around her. “Mom, don’t cry.”
She brought her arms around me and squeezed me tight. “I missed you every day since you left,” she said.
My heart broke open like an egg. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until she said it.
We stood there for a while, holding each other and crying.
Finally, she stepped away and wiped her eyes. “Well, the food won’t cook itself.”
“Mom, don’t,” I said. “Can we talk about this? What happened to dad?”
“I kicked him out,” she said. “After you left. I should have done it years ago.” She shrugged. “He went to live with his brother, I think. I haven’t heard from him in a long time.”
“Why did you wait so long to email me?” I asked. “I thought you hated me.”
“No,” she said. “How could I hate you? I gave birth to you right here, in this house, and you came out so red and yelling that I knew I would love you until the day I died.” She picked up her spoon and stirred the adobo. “I wanted you to have a good life. I didn’t want you coming back here, letting that Malcolm get you pregnant, never doing anything with yourself.”
“I thought you liked Malcolm now,” I said.
“I like him okay,” she said. “But he would have kept you here, and I think you needed to leave.”
I thought about that, while I sat beside my grandmother’s casket that night. I sat down and stayed there until dawn broke dim and gray through the faded curtains. I thought about Carter, and Malcolm, and my mother. I thought about how little I had thought about Carter since I arrived in California. It was like I had traveled back through time, become the person who hadn’t met him yet, who had never worked at the Silver Cross Club or spoken to a billionaire. And this person, the one I had returned to, had no place in Carter Sutton’s world.
I had known it for a long time, and I kept putting it aside, ignoring it, pushing it away. But being with Malcolm again had made me realize how much I valued having that shared background. We grew up in the same neighborhood, eating the same foods, being yelled at by our mothers in the same language, and Carter would never be able to understand what that was like. Entire eons of my life were closed to him. I had thought I didn’t care, but it turned out I did. I cared a lot.
Carter was handsome and so kind, and the sex was incredible, and if I were someone else, I would hold onto him and never let go. But as much as I enjoyed his company, we had too little in common when it came to the things that mattered. He was a rich white
boy from the Upper East Side, and we would never be able to bridge that divide.
Unless I changed completely, and became the perfect society wife his mother thought he needed.
That would never happen.
He was my impossible dream. It was time to wake up.
I stood up, sensation flooding back into my numb feet, and went into the bedroom to get my phone.
I knew that what I was doing was cowardly. The grownup thing to do would be to go back to New York and break up with Carter in person. Or, even better, confront my demons, finally put the past to rest, and accept that being with Carter would mean changing.
But I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready; I didn’t think I would ever be. I was shy, scared, and insecure, but I knew myself. If I gave myself over to Carter, wholeheartedly, no holding back—who would I be then?
I dialed the phone.
Part Two:
Carter
Chapter 11
The girl leaning against me couldn’t possibly have been twenty-one. Her hair, her makeup, her sparky halter top—she looked about eighteen, an NYU sorority girl on the loose. Somehow she had gotten into the nightclub. Flashed her tits at the door, no doubt.
I hated dance clubs.
And yet there I was, fending off this underage harridan, who was saying something in a hoarse shout necessitated by the thumping music from below. Her nail salon, the Porsche her daddy bought her, who knew—I wasn’t really listening.
Instead, I was scanning the crowded balcony for Carolina. She had brought me here and then abandoned me. I would have left, but she had my wallet. She’d fished it out of my pocket as we walked through the door, and told me I couldn’t have it back until she decided it was acceptable for me to go home.
Knowing Carolina, that wouldn’t happen until the club closed.
The girl shifted closer to me on the leather couch. I tried to edge away without being obvious about it. If I snubbed her too blatantly, she’d sell some fanciful concoction to the tabloids: “FUCKED AND ABANDONED BY CARTER SUTTON! SECRET LOVE CHILD ONLY NINE MONTHS AWAY!”
I shouldn’t have let Carolina talk me into this.
You are too boring, she kept saying. Forget that woman. You are a rich man, Carter! Enjoy your wild youth! All in that over-the-top accent. She grew up in a fairly upscale town in Bergen County and barely spoke any Spanish, but she thought she would find more success if she played up her “exotic” roots. And she’d certainly made a name for herself, so it was difficult for me to criticize her decision, even though she sounded like a poor imitation of Marion Cotillard.
The girl said something about getting another drink. I gave her a tight smile, ignoring her obvious hint. I’d made many poor decisions in my life, but I wasn’t about to add purchasing alcohol for a minor to the list. She gave me an exaggerated pout staggered off toward the bar. Saved by refusing to purchase bottle service.
Alone, I relaxed back against the couch. Eighteen-year-olds weren’t to my taste, but I couldn’t deny that there were plenty of beautiful women in the club that night. I loved women. Everything about them, their soft skin, the way their hair smelled, the hollows of their lower backs. Most men did, unless they were gay; and I was sure that gay men had the same fervent aesthetic appreciation for other men that I did for women. It was part and parcel of having a Y chromosome.
I had probably drunk too much whiskey.
One of the women dancing nearby gave me a sly look, shaking her hips with her arms above her head, and I permitted myself a long, slow perusal. This was no schoolgirl: confident, sensual, hair pulled back in a sleek updo, she had the look of an executive enjoying a wild night out. Just my type. I liked women who were smarter than me and who fucked like it was going out of style.
I raised my glass to her, and she danced closer, lips curled in a smile.
I downed the rest of my drink and stood up. Carolina wanted me to make the most of the night, well—mission accepted.
She turned her back to me as I approached her, feigning disinterest in that coy way some women had. I took it as an invitation and moved directly behind her, standing with my chest pressed against her bare back, one hand settling lightly on her hip. She leaned back against me, silently welcoming my presence, and I leaned down to press my lips against her ear and murmur, “You look like you could use some company.”
She responded by curling her raised hands around the back of my neck, her spine arched, her body a perfect curve begging for my touch. I was happy to oblige. I moved my hips in time with hers, swaying to the beat of the music, and slid my hand down to the expanse of bare thigh exposed by the short hem of her dress. She was soft, warm, and yielding against me, her head tipped back, her eyes closed, and I didn’t think twice before I brushed my lips against the sweet-smelling skin of her neck and said, “Let’s take this somewhere more private, shall we?”
Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the single-occupancy bathroom and tossed the woman’s phone number in the trash. She’d handed it to me with a wry twist to her mouth and said, “I’m sure you aren’t going to call me,” and she was right: I wasn’t. Why plow the same field twice?
I went to the balcony railing and leaned against it, gazing down at the dance floor below. It was all familiar to me: the music, the scantily clad women, the overpriced drinks. I’d spend most of my 20s at clubs exactly like this one, living out a tired cliché of Rich Boy Rebels Against Parental Mores. Years ago, now. I’d stopped when I started business school, having decided that I would make something of myself; and now it all seemed like a sad charade, people seeking a meaningful connection in the last place they would find one. I had grown up, perhaps, or just become boring.
None of which explained why I had let Carolina drag me here.
Stupidity? Temporary insanity? Heartbreak?
I needed another drink.
I fought my way to the bar and was making good progress through some very nice Scotch when Carolina found me again. Some lanky model type had made his way into her orbit, his stubble and elaborately coiffed hair designed to make him appear just masculine enough to avoid androgyny. I sighed and set down my glass, preparing myself for what would inevitably come next.
Carolina sat down beside me on the sofa I had managed to procure, and said, “Carter, my darling, this is Jaen. We’ve just found each other. He told me about the best club, the absolute best, we must go. All of the best people are there. We will have so much fun. Say that you’ll come with us.”
And there it was: we would spend the rest of the night gallivanting around the city, going from club to club to maximize Carolina’s chances of being photographed somewhere with cachet. My role, of course, was to provide entry to any doors that were reluctant to open. “No,” I said firmly.
She gave me a look of such extravagant, wide-eyed incredulity that I couldn’t help but laugh. “But Carter! Jaen knows people. You wouldn’t want anyone to think that you are old and boring, no? You must get out of your house every once in and while!”
Jaen opened his mouth to say something, but Carolina help up one hand, and he subsided. Smart boy.
“I’m out of the house right now,” I said, amused.
Carolina leaned closer and spoke into my ear, her lips almost brushing against me. “Perhaps I forgot to mention that you owe me.”
Of course she wouldn’t have forgotten about that. I was terrible at poker, and yet I never learned to avoid placing bets. “Fine. One club.”
“Yes, of course,” Carolina said, sitting back and beaming. “Just one! Absolutely.”
As a promise, it rang falser than most. “Just let me finish my drink,” I said. I would need the fortification.
Well, and maybe Carolina was right. I should make the most of my wild youth.
* * *
I woke with a start when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Christ. What time was it?
My tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth. I rolled over and squinted at the clock, but the blurry numbers wo
uldn’t resolve into anything I could read. It was light in the bedroom, full daylight. I should have been at work hours ago.
What day was it?
I was fairly certain it was Friday.
I grabbed my phone and looked at the screen. My secretary had texted me. I had a meeting that started in an hour; was I planning to make an appearance at work?
Fuck. It was a conference call about an upcoming merger—not something I could reschedule. I rolled out of bed and staggered toward the bathroom. My head felt like it was being squeezed like a rotten melon.
I wasn’t entirely sure what had happened last night.
Shower, suit, painkillers, quick shave, and I was out of the apartment in half an hour flat. I needed coffee, some fried eggs, and a nap. Two of the three, Nancy would have waiting for me at the office. The nap would have to wait until after my meeting. I knew some executives who kept cots in their offices, but I would have to settle for the floor under my desk. At least the carpet was thick.
I stared out the window as Henry drove south along the Hudson, my aching head resting against the glass.
Maybe I needed to take some time off.
With a few exceptions—food poisoning, cousin’s wedding on the West Coast—I had worked every single day since my father died. Even on the days I didn’t make it to the office, I still spent a few hours on my laptop. As much as I enjoyed the endless variety of problems that was presented to me on a daily basis, sometimes I had the urge to do nothing but sit on my couch and watch football. Impossible, of course; football didn’t have irate board members who would call me to yell about share prices.
It wasn’t that I had set out to be a workaholic. Necessity drove me to it. When my father died, I was fresh out of business school, and was forced to learn how to run the business practically overnight. My father’s death was unexpected—he was only in his early 60s, and in apparently good health—and I had been completely unprepared for the intricacies of running a multinational corporation. I spent the first six months getting by on five hours of sleep a night, going home only to shower and change clothes. By the end of it, I was running on fumes, but the company survived. And by then, working seven days a week had simply become a habit.
