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Jericho brings me a fresh mug of coffee before kissing me goodbye. I let her hug me long and hard. I nod against her head as she tells me it’s going to be okay. I let the platitude go where platitudes go in my head, to the back of the line. I try to remind myself I have options.
Once she’s gone, I refocus my mind on the here and now, moving through my routine one step at a time, only thinking as far in advance as the next step. Otherwise, the overwhelm comes, and I’ve already been overwhelmed twice this evening.
The only saving grace to this nightmare of a day is that The Heir doesn’t make an appearance. Granted, I have to watch a dozen other rich people come and go throughout the night, but none of them lords their privilege over me like he does.
Since it’s snowing, the night is fairly quiet, which makes it drag, and unfortunately also gives me a chance to examine the state of my finances and think about what I’ll need to sacrifice to cover another five hundred a month—plus utilities, which we also split four ways. The five hundred is just for the rent.
I guess I could see if Jericho wants to move in.
I immediately dismiss the thought. I refuse to lead her on any more than I already have, and I would hate myself for dragging her down with me.
There’s only one real option. The one thing that’s been looming for a while now. I need to leave New York.
The thought hits like a brick to the chest, but it’s the only one that makes sense. It’s the smart thing to do. I’ve failed. I’m a failure. But the facts are these: I never went to college. I have no marketable skills. Best I’m qualified for is probably being a waiter working for tips and maybe a food delivery guy at night.
I’m a fucking loser with a loan strangling me and a sister just waiting to say I told you so.
The only thing to do now is plan my escape. Where to? When? Can I even afford a move? I wonder if there’s room in my parents’ basement.
When Killian shows up to relieve me in the morning, his chubby cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are wide. He looks like he’s ready to burst. “Did you see?”
“See what?” I ask.
“The video. Did you see it? It’s viral.”
Killian is thirty-five, but he looks ten years younger with his baby face. He’s married with a wife in Queens and a second kid on the way, so I can’t see how he has time to stay up to date on whatever TikToks are trending.
I couldn’t give a shit about some fucking viral video. I’d much rather hand off and head home, have a drink, and pass out.
But Killian’s already setting down his bagel and coffee to show me the video on his phone.
I sigh, clicking play on the TMZ clip he pulled up.
It’s jerky, unfocused bodycam footage. Police lights in the background give the context for a slurring, disheveled, dead-eyed dude asking, don’t you know who I am?
Holy shit. I’d know that voice anywhere. Dreams do come true. It’s The Heir himself.
I stare at the screen with growing amusement.
“Out of the vehicle sir.”
“Fuck, you, sir. Do you know who my father is? He’ll have all your jobs, you fat pigs.”
My eyes widen. Oh shit. Is this the act of God I’ve been hoping for?
I watch in fascination as Olivier Arnaud kicks and slaps the two cops’ hands away, resisting being pulled from behind the wheel of his vehicle. He hurls insults the entire time, frizzy curls flopping over wild eyes. His pants are open. Shirt untucked. I laugh for what feels like the first time this year.
And then—the fucking idiot makes a run for it. Next thing you know, he’s face down on the pavement, spewing obscenities and being read his rights.
Killian snatches back his phone. “You gotta see his mug shot, too.”
4
OLIVIER
Iget zero kisses or smiles when I show up for brunch two days after Jefferson bailed me out of jail.
The mood in my parents’ penthouse is somber. The heavy gray skies dumping all the snow I had to walk through to get here add to the drag in the atmosphere.
