by Tyler King
“My wife is waiting for your next book,” says the commercial real estate developer who wears too much cologne. “I don’t—where did she go? She’s a big fan. Loved The Cult of Silence. Have you considered a sequel?”
A financial planner, with his business card aimed and ready, says, “I heard you walked away with a pretty nice advance. Are you investing? Give my office a call. We should talk about long-term growth.”
Two hundred people, maybe more, all meander through the party, smiling and making polite small talk in scattered circles, and all with one eye on Ethan. He’s the rare and elusive creature at the zoo, the last of his kind, and everyone’s queued up for their turn to press their noses to the glass.
“I don’t suspect we’ll see Walter here tonight,” says a man in Tommy Bahama who introduced himself only as Jim.
Jim strikes me as the guy who tells everyone he’s Paul Ash’s best friend, they go way back, but in reality Paul wouldn’t recognize him if the two were the last men on Earth. He gestures with his glass of whiskey; a little wink-wink, nudge-nudge that makes the muscle in Ethan’s jaw tick.
“After that hit piece you put out last month.” Jim’s hacking, black-lung laugh exposes the fillings in his molars. “Heads are still rolling at Kreight Industries, I bet. Waterboarding secretaries and junior executives in the basement.”
Beside me, I feel the tension in Ethan’s body that he keeps concealed behind a flat expression. Ethan’s fingers around my waist twitch with the effort he exerts to endure this man.
“Which article was that?” I ask, because I’m tired of being an ornament. “I think I missed that one.”
“Oh, well…” Jim tosses back another swig of his drink. A drop seeps from the corner of his mouth and traces his chin. “Ethan here claims Walter Kreight is secretly bankrolling some, what, neo-Nazi terrorists?”
“I don’t claim anything,” he says. “There are three credible sources and financial disclosures that suggest Walter Kreight is funneling money through an ultraconservative political action committee to an alt-right militia group.”
Jim rolls his eyes, his whole head, because Ethan’s details are getting in the way of his story. He leans too close to me with sour, tree-bark breath. “Ethan got up in front of three hundred million people and accused one of the most powerful men in American of sedition and treason, is what he did.”
“Twenty million,” he says.
Jim’s face crinkles. “Huh?”
“The magazine’s readership. Roughly twenty million. At most.”
Ethan glances at me with a sardonic little glint in his eyes. Smart-ass.
“And Kreight Industries,” I say. “What do they do?”
Jim swallows the rest of his drink. “They make your toothpaste, your laundry detergent, your paper plates—everything. Half the shit in every home in the country. Half the civilized world, for that matter. Every time you wipe your ass or blow your nose, Walter Kreight makes a nickel. And this motherfucker,” he says, shaking one fat finger through the air and too close to Ethan’s face, “took a big shit right in his lap. You’ve got a serious set of big, brass floor-draggers, my friend.”
The vein in Ethan’s neck is bulging, but thankfully Jim spots someone else he must accost, so we’re spared his further attempts at banter.
“Why would Walter Kreight be here?” I ask Ethan as he presses his hand to the small of my back and diverts us outside toward one of the five bars set up around the party. “Are your parents’ friends of his, or…?”
Ethan takes a glass of champagne from the bar and I wave off the one he offers to me.
“It’s like living in a small town. Once you reach a certain tax bracket, everyone knows everyone. The people here tonight make up half the Fortune Five Hundred. The rest are lobbyists or would-be politicians. I’m sure if we looked around, we could find a senator or two.”
“What do your parents do for a living?”
“My dad helps rich people get richer. These parties are an excuse to do business. You get everyone in a room for a circle jerk and tomorrow there’s a new skyscraper going up and a merger announced and somewhere an inconvenient piece of legislation quietly dies in committee.”
He makes no attempt to hide his disdain as he surveys the yard. Though he’s impeccably dressed, khakis and a sapphire sports coat over a powder blue button-down, you don’t have to look too closely to notice Ethan doesn’t fit in here. He might have been bred from the same stock as these people, but his collar’s unbuttoned and he hasn’t shaved today. His hair’s a bit too long. Ethan’s the black sheep. The disruptive voice.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” he asks, downing another glass of champagne because it’s there and someone’s got to drink it. “I can’t handle these things sober.”
“No, I’m good.”
I don’t know how long I can get away with not spelling it out that I don’t drink. It isn’t a conversation I enjoy having. You tell someone, and their reaction is usually a surprised Oh followed by a judgmental Ohhh. Because the first place their mind goes is that you’re a raging alcoholic. Somewhere, not so far in your past, you were a sloppy, degenerate, booze-soaked pile of stumbling human waste getting tossed out of bars and waking up in your own vomit. They expect that right at this very moment, you’re a rabid animal held back by a very thin leash, ready to swallow a gallon of hand sanitizer. Might just Hulk-out and go on a tear through the party, grabbing drinks off tables and draining every bottle in the building until you drown in liquor and self-loathing.
Fact is, no one expects to be an alcoholic. Like finding out you’re allergic to shellfish when choking on your tongue with a piece of shrimp lodged in your throat—it’s just bad fucking luck.
I don’t know if I’m an alcoholic, but I could be. I’m an addict—same thing.
“And your mother? What does she do?”
This party’s been going for three hours and I still haven’t met Mrs. Ash.
“She was a thoracic surgeon. Until recently.”
Darkness again falls over him like a shadow. That same saturnine vacancy creeps across his face. I expect him to elaborate, but instead he downs his third glass of champagne.
“Tell me you dance,” he says.
“Not professionally.”
“Good enough.”
Taking my hand, he leads us to the center of the dance floor built on the lawn overlooking the beach. Huge white balloon lanterns illuminate the backyard. Strings of lights span the floor between posts driven into the grass. A band set up on a platform stage launches into the first chords of “Moondance” as Ethan takes me by the waist, my hand in his. He holds me flush against the length of his body and gives me not a moment to blink before he’s driving me backward, making my feet move. The jazz beat and sensual bass guitar possess him, transform him. A smile spreads across his lips while I cling for dear life just to keep up.
“Don’t you dare spin me,” I tell him, feet barely touching the ground.
“Don’t tempt me.”
He moves like a man made of music and rhythm. Confident, his body talks directly to mine, my mind left standing on the edge of the dance floor. For a few too-brief minutes I’m aware of nothing but his hands and his steady shoulders and the way his eyes watch only me. I lose myself in them. In the reflection of what might be. A glimpse into a future that hasn’t yet come to pass though I feel it as if it were yesterday.
The music ends too soon.
“You don’t have any idea, do you?”
“What?” I ask.
Standing still, ignoring the chords of the next song, he runs his hand up my back and into my hair.
“What it does to a man when you look at him like that.”
“Excuse me.” A waiter comes up and taps Ethan on the shoulder. “Your father needs a moment.”
Eyes fixed on mine, Ethan hardly reacts but for a regretful smile. His hand untangles from my hair as he leans in to speak against my ear.
�
��Don’t wander off.”
Then he kisses my cheek and follows the man to find Paul.
To wait for Ethan, I make my way back to the bar and ask for a club soda. As the bartender pours my drink, a woman in a conspicuous black dress steps up beside me. She’s every movie’s version of the Other Woman: a tall, thin, gorgeous twenty-something. She stands out even among the many second and third wives on the arms of much older men. The woman the first wives eye with suspicion should she come too near their husbands.
“Vodka tonic,” she says to the bartender once he hands me my drink.
But she has an air about her. This woman’s never been any man’s honey or sweetheart. She doesn’t get her ass pinched; she grabs men by the balls.
“He does have a thing for redheads,” she says.
I glance over to see her staring at the side of my face.
“What?”
“Ethan. Like a moth to a flame.”
And now I hate her.
“What an odd way to start a conversation.”
She smiles. Like she thinks I’m cute. A cat impressed that the maimed mouse still has some fight left in it.
“But you never can get him to stay in one place very long.”
Scanning the crowd, I sip my drink. At this point, I’d run into Jim’s hairy arms if I spotted him.
“I wouldn’t know.”
The bartender sets her drink on the counter and she ignores it.
“Where’d you two meet, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I mind, and she doesn’t care. But if I walk away now, I might not find Ethan till morning.
“Mutual acquaintance.”
In a manner of speaking.
“It is sort of odd, though, don’t you think? A man who’s forever chasing after a character from his own book? A character he based on a child, for that matter. Makes you wonder what sort of issues a guy like that keeps buried in his closet.”
Setting my drink on the bar, I turn to face her. “If you’ll excuse me, you’re a spectacular bitch, and I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
Then I walk back toward the house with my heart beating double-time and my fingers going numb. Rage swells in my chest and seeps into my blood. The kind that makes you envision grabbing a woman by her hair and dragging her across hot coals. Inside, I search for Ethan, but I can’t find him. There are just too many people. My lips begin to tingle and curl in around my teeth. Cramps pull at my arms and clench my hands into fists. I’ve got to get somewhere quiet. Somewhere alone. I don’t think I can make it all the way back to the beach without collapsing and causing a scene, so I head for the closest bathroom.
It’s occupied.
And so is the next one.
I go upstairs but every door I try is locked.
My hand can barely grip the doorknob when I find one that’s unlocked and stumble inside.
“Hello?”
Shit. My eyes snap up to see a woman in a bathrobe sitting up in bed among several pillows, blankets folded down at her lap. This is the master bedroom.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I turn to run out. “I was just looking—”
“Don’t go.”
I stop in my tracks. My blood turns to acid, legs close to total paralysis.
“Oh, you’re not okay at all,” she says, climbing out of bed.
I stand there, frozen, my vision going black around the edges. I’m like a worm on a hot sidewalk, burning, curling in on itself to die.
“Come on,” she says, taking me by the arms to bring me to the bed.
I sit down and close my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe and what comes after eight and thinking, Please don’t let Ethan find me like this.
“It’s all right. It’s all right. Just take deep breaths.” Standing in front of me, she holds my hands. “Nice and slow. Clear your mind. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Seven, six, five…
“That’s it. You’re doing well. In and out.”
Four, three…
Feeling returns to my limbs. My muscles begin to relax.
“There you go. You’re okay.”
Two, one.
The worst part isn’t the panic attack, it’s the aftermath when someone’s watched it happen. The overwhelming feeling of embarrassment that, for no good reason whatsoever, your brain simply turned on itself. In an act of spontaneous revolt, it’s just tried to kill you.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, unclenching and opening my eyes to stare at my ghostly pale legs and shaking feet. “I was—”
“Have you had panic attacks before?” the woman asks.
“Yes. I’ll be fine. I should get—”
“Please.” She sits on the bed beside me. “Stay. Take a minute. There’s no rush.”
“I was just looking for a bathroom or…”
“Somewhere to hide?”
I look up to see her empathetic smile. That’s when I notice the scarf wrapped around her head and her missing eyebrows.
“Yeah.”
“I used to get them in college. All through medical school and my residency, in fact. They got so bad I nearly dropped out. Twice.”
“I take medication,” I tell her. “I, uh, didn’t expect to be here tonight, so I didn’t bring it with me.”
“Yes…” She scoots back on the bed to cross her legs. “I understand my impetuous son carted you off in the middle of the night. He can get a little carried away.”
“You know who I am?”
She winks. “Educated guess.”
Right now I might prefer death.
“Really, Mrs. Ash, I didn’t mean to barge in on you like this.”
“It’s no bother at all. It was getting a little lonely up here anyway.”
She doesn’t look sick the way you imagine dying people should. Her skin is a bit pale, eyes a little sunken and tired, but there’s life in her. She can still smile.
“Not much in the mood for a party, I take it.”
“It’s one of the perks of cancer.” She shrugs, unconcerned. “You can stop doing everything you don’t want to do, and no one can tell you otherwise.”
Got a point there.
“My husband means well.”
I guess I have to take her word for it.
“He hoped a party would lift my spirits. The truth is, I don’t want to spend a minute more of my life making small talk with a bunch of pretentious assholes.”
A loud, shotgun blast of laughter erupts from my throat. I can’t stop it. The pressure valve is released, and it’s like everything I’ve kept suppressed until now explodes out of me all at once. Ethan definitely takes after his mother.
“What brought you up here, if I may?”
The laughter leaves me.
“One of the pretentious assholes downstairs.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Staring down at my lap, I pick lint off my dress.
“This woman came up to me, talking about Ethan. She wasn’t very pleasant to begin with, then she made a comment about…” I study her eyes—dark, deep-water blue like her son’s. “You know who I am, right? Who I really am?”
She nods. “He told me.”
“It’s just that everyone who sees Ethan and me together, they make the connection. That I look like Enderly. And they wonder.”
“That’s an unfortunate burden.”
To say the least.
Standing next to him, I might as well wear a sign. All this time I’ve been trying to get away from Echo and my father, but Ethan’s name will forever be linked to them. It’s unavoidable. The difference is, he had a choice.
“But if I might offer an unsolicited opinion,” she says.
“What kind of person would I be if I said no now, right?”
“He’s worth it.”
Not what I expected.
“Not because I’m his mother. From one woman to another. If you ever find yourself wondering. He’s worth it. Don’t let that be the reason it doesn’t wor
k out.”
“Oh, well, I mean, we only just met, so—”
Mrs. Ash rests her fragile hand on my arm. She knows what I’m going to say, but she’s already made up her mind.
“Just be good to each other.”
The door opens. Paul stands at the threshold. A slight flicker of anxiety tightens my chest as he appraises me sitting with his wife. He has the same eerie presence his son exudes. The same gravity that sucks out all the oxygen in the room. He’s surrounded by the empty vacuum of space. It makes me wonder if he was always like this, or if it was the death of his elder son that cast a pall over his being.
“Linda,” he asks, “is there anything I can get for you?”
She shakes her head and climbs back up to the head of the bed to get in under the blankets.
“I’m fine. Just getting to know Avery. Maybe you better take her back to the party before Ethan gets himself into too much trouble down there.”
She certainly knows her son.
As I’m walking out, Paul enters to give his wife a kiss. But I make it only to the bottom of the stairs before he’s caught up to me. Unlike his wife, with her welcoming energy and a sincere, patient smile, Paul makes me nervous. He’s the wolf you catch out of the corner of your eye, stalking just on the periphery. The predator might do nothing at all, might simply be curious. Or it’s corralling you into an ambush.
“Avery?” he says, and comes up beside me. Paul gestures with his hand toward the hallway that leads to the other end of the house. “Join me for a moment.”
Not like I have a choice, I suppose.
Paul leads me into a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stocked on every wall. There are two high-back leather chairs in the center of the room and a desk near the far wall opposite the tall windows facing the beach.
“This is a gorgeous library,” I say, scanning the room. “You have an amazing collection.”
Clearing his throat, he takes a seat in one of the leather chairs and motions for me to sit.
“A renovation three years ago. The decorator insisted. After a certain price point, it improves resale value.”
