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“Am I your son, or am I an Arnaud?”
She looks directly into the camera. “I can’t say I was ever sure you wanted to be either.”
“What?”
“You’ve only ever tried to destroy yourself, you know?”
“What about when I was a little kid? Was I trying to destroy myself then?”
She stands and starts to walk. “Did I ever tell you about the time we found you in your crib, not breathing?”
I rear back. “What? No.”
“You were six weeks old. The night nurse found you, brought you back to life. Fortunately, I didn’t have to see it. I had to be hospitalized after that for two weeks to get my nerves back under control.”
“Who took care of me?”
“The nanny and the nurse.”
“Did it ever happen again?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Your father asked them not to tell me if it did. I was too fragile. Postpartum, you know?”
This conversation is going to require at least a year of twice-a-week therapy to unpack. My throat is completely dry when I try to swallow. “Did you stop loving me after that?” I ask, my voice raspy and weak.
She stops walking and flicks her eyes from my image on her screen to her own. “I love you the best I can, Olivier. But if you think that love extends to letting you ruin my reputation or this family’s reputation, that would be a mistake. No Arnaud is any more important than another, and the family itself is paramount. I agree with your father. You’ll marry Elodie, keep yourself out of trouble, and inherit at thirty. If you defy us, I won’t be coming to your rescue. You’re a grown man now. You can fend for yourself, provided you keep breathing through the night.”
I stare at her as bile climbs my throat. “Got it,” I whisper.
“Oh, don’t make me sound like I’m evil. You’re getting a beautiful wife and a fortune—two fortunes, in fact. Any man should be so lucky.”
At least she sounds defensive. Like maybe some part of her knows how bad this sounds—how inherently cruel. “You’re right,” I say, thinking of Drew and his mouth and the way it feels to have my arms around him, his around me, his fervent pleas for his love to be returned. “I’m very lucky. I’ll let you go now, Mom. Good night.”
I close the call and breathe through my nose as I hunch over my lap. I refuse to let her make me sick.
44
DREW
Imissed an email from my boss saying I would be training a new employee tonight. At first, I’m irritated because I really did want the time to think about everything Olivier and I have said to each other over the last twenty-four hours, but ultimately, it makes the night go by faster, even if constantly talking is exhausting.
Matthew is training as a fill-in—part time, no guaranteed shifts, but one of a pool of about four or five people the management can call on to cover vacations and sick days.
He fits the mold of the ideal doorman on the Upper East Side. Young, tall, built, handsome. Like a more refined version of a club bouncer. It makes the tenants feel safer to have some muscle on their door, and the better-looking, the more attractive the property. He’s looking for a full-time gig, but hasn’t found any openings on this side of town.
It’s one of those annoying reminders that as stupid as my job is, it’s a coveted position. Posh as hell.
Matthew, who prefers the long version of his name, is also a sculptor. During some of our downtimes he shows me his metal and stone work on his phone.
“I know nothing about art.”
“I’m not sure I do either,” he says, and we both laugh.
When my food arrives from the Italian place down the block with the spinach calzones I’m obsessed with, Matthew gives me a disapproving look. “When did you order this? I mighta wanted something.”
“Oh, I didn’t. My, uh…” My face heats. “My boyfriend did.”
“Is there enough to share at least?” he asks.
