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It took me a little bit to put those pieces together. But after I saw Mr. O’Hara at Elise’s house, I knew. My old man had gotten more than one warning. I think he didn’t stop because the FBI kept telling him they’d move us out soon. Telling him that he was almost finished. Roberto sort of told me all that without telling me outright.
Thinking about my dad—even peripherally—makes me feel all weird and cold and spacy again. There’s some fruity liquor punch shit. The second I manage to get away from Bart, I grab a cup of it…but I think that goes against the rule. Wine then liquor, never sicker. Wine than beer, never fear? Shit—I should know this stuff.
Just to be safe, I dip back into the kitchen, pour a tall glass of Roberto’s wine, and step into a back hall with it.
Pathetic, I tell myself. And it doesn’t work. My hands are damp around the glass. My heart is racing like it might explode.
I’ve got a phone now. It’s this little one that flips open. I pull it out of my pocket and check the time, but it’s not late.
I drink the glass in a few swallows. Makes me warmer. Heavier. Sort of slower. I like slower. I look up and down the dark hall. It’s a worker hall—thin and narrow.
I close my eyes and let my head lean back against the wall, let my lungs fill up with air.
I’m okay.
Soren needs me. And my mother needs me. Things with her have only gotten worse.
The wine is like a blanket. Now I understand. Sometimes you need a blanket.
I know where they’re playing cards. I know why he asked me here; if I’m honest with myself, I know.
And I can do it. I’ll be twenty-one soon. Definitely not a kid now.
I feel warmer. Okay.
I go back out through the kitchen. Leo’s in there. I waggle my eyebrows at him, and he smiles with his brown eye and his blue eye. There’s a girl beside him, smiling at him as he smiles. Short girl, blonde braid, big tits. I make a note to tell him later.
I step into the hall. It’s not that night. Everything is different. Everything is okay. But it’s like a joke. It’s all a bad joke. Because that’s when I see her.2EliseI look at myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. It’s got a thick, gold frame that makes me feel as if I’m in a portrait. Me, standing alone in this lush, dark parlor. Me, with my hair cascading down my back, feeling pretty in my red satin gown. It’s one with a mermaid bottom—delicate ruffles that flip up, so you can see my pretty heels. I bought it just for this party.
Mom had a marathon in Greenwich tomorrow morning early, so I’m Dad’s stand-in date. He likes working with the charity. Even if it is a braggy Manhattan wealthy people thing, I think it’s good for him to do something that fulfills him.
I blink, then reapply my lipstick.
Now that Dad is playing cards with his friends, it’s time for me to spruce up and find Jace. In just a little while, we’re going to waltz around the ballroom, taking care to waltz right by his grandfather. Jace is pretty sure his father’s father is gay, but he married Mrs. Margaret, had three kids, and went full homophobic jerkwad. Jace is at Georgetown—he’s learning how to run the family business—but he came home to dance with me tonight. It was my idea—after he came out to me last month.
I flex my left arm, wondering if anyone will notice my new tattoo while we’re twirling around the crowded ballroom. In the coat room—not the mob-front coat room that’s not a coat room, but the real coatroom—I have a shawl. But it looks like my adorable smiling salamander won’t show too much. It’s my second little inky thing—gotten about a year after the adorable glass of lemonade just above my ankle on the inside of my lower calf. Lemonade from lemons. Salamanders for the regrown limbs.
With a final glance at myself, I walk quickly out of the parlor, feeling ready for whatever comes my way.
But not what’s right in front of me. It’s like a joke. One the universe just won’t quit playing. I’ve seen him two times…since, so at least this time, I’m able to brace myself for the pure bolt of adrenaline I get. It’s a wash of tingling sweat that leaves me ice cold in its wake.
My heart throbs as my body goes weak. I feel like I’m on the centrifuge ride at Coney Island: pinned to the wall, incapacitated as I drink him in, aching as he moves through me like poison.
He’s moving from the dining area into this narrow hallway, looking handsome in a tailored tux. He looks bigger.
