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I stop listening. My dad orchestrated all this for her. Setting me up with Rich, letting me create my own position at work, handing us the reins. Maybe it was a conscious choice, maybe it wasn’t, but he’s trying to give me a life that would’ve made my mom happy. And I’m rejecting it.
On some level, I suppose I knew. I played along, because it meant we could keep sweeping things under the rug. It meant neither of us had to say what we truly believed.
If it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive.
And if she were, what would she think of the choices I’ve been making?
Would she be proud that I’m taking back the reins? Or, like Rich, would she think I’m in the midst of another giant mistake?
22
I dash down the hall to Finn’s room, squealing as champagne erupts from the bottle in my hands. “It’s spilling everywhere,” I cry over my shoulder.
“That’s because you’re running,” he calls after me.
I get to his bathroom sink, holding it over the drain. “Bring the glasses.”
“Got ’em.” He comes in behind me and takes the bottle. Once he pours two glasses, he kisses me on the mouth. “Drink up. It’s almost midnight.”
“Should we have stayed at the bar?” I ask, pouting. “Are we old farts for coming home before the ball dropped?”
“I don’t know about you, but I had my fill of twenty-dollar cocktails and sweaty bodies. You are, without a doubt, the only person I’d brave New Year’s Eve in the city for.”
“Aww.” I rise to the tips of my toes for another kiss, but I sway and spill champagne down the front of my multi-colored sequined dress.
“Perfect. I’ve been looking for an excuse to get you out of that,” Finn says, laughing. “Did you I tell you how jaw-droppingly beautiful you looked tonight?”
“You might have.” I hold onto his arm for support as he lifts my dress by its hem. “I’m very sparkly.”
“Yes, you are.” Sequins scrape my tummy as he pulls it over my head. “And very beautiful.”
“You said that already.” I wrinkle my nose with a smile. “You’re drunk.”
“I might’ve had a couple tumblers of Scotch. It is a special occasion.”
“New Year’s.”
“New Year’s with you.” My dress is flimsy in his hands, no more than a scrap of fabric. He takes it with him. “Bring the glasses.”
In my bra, panties, and heels, I follow him to the studio with the drinks. “Are we taking a picture?”
“Yep. A New Year’s post.” He lays the dress on the ground, shifting it around. He points to a spot right next to it. “Heels. Take them off here. One standing, the other on its side.”
I do as he says without question. He’s in work mode, and his serious side turns me on. “What else?”
“Champagne flutes. Fill them up and set them on the corner of my desk.” He looks back. “Actually, take a sip from one and leave a lipstick mark.”
“Yes, sir.” I get to work, leaving my lips on the glass before pouring the champagne so it’ll be nice and bubbly for the picture. “Now what?”
“Panties.”
I peel off my black lace thong, hand it over, and sit in his desk chair. He repositions the articles of clothing. I’m getting wet just watching him. On the leather. But I’m certain Finn will be more interested in my arousal than the condition of his chair.
I rest my elbow on the desk and bump the computer mouse. The screen wakes up to reveal Finn’s inbox. “Is this your work e-mail?” I ask.
“Yep.”
He doesn’t say anything else, so I nose around a little, reading the subject lines. Since my work is his work, it should be our account anyway. “What’s this one about an article?” I ask.
“That came in this afternoon. A reporter from Gotham magazine asking if he could include us in an online feature.”
“Really?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He looks back at me. “I responded to ask if you can remain anonymous. Otherwise we aren’t interested. Read it.”
I open the e-mail. Finn’s right. The reporter mentions Finn’s photos and my captions. A real, legitimate publication. I pitter-patter my feet on the carpet, bouncing in the chair. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can.” He’s smiling, I can tell, even though he’s turned away from me.
“Did you know we have over six thousand followers now?” I ask. “The Christmas post was such a hit. How long do you think it’ll take us to get to ten?”
Finn comes over to the chair and squats, aiming his iPhone at the clothing. He usually uses his camera, but I think the alcohol’s made his head as fuzzy as mine since he rarely drinks. “Probably much faster than it took us to get to six.”
“I looked into sponsored posts a little. That offer from Butter Boudoir was pretty high.”
He checks his work, swiping through photos.
“Finn?”
“Hmm?”
“I said that offer we got—it was sort of out of the ordinary.”
“The article?”
“No, the lingerie.”
He frowns at me. “I thought we decided against that.”
We did. Well, he did. I don’t want to tell him that in my head, I’ve fantasized about accepting their offer, slipping into their beautiful things, playing for Finn and his camera. I just know he’d made me look good; he always does. And we’d get even more followers, both from the nature of the pictures and from Butter Boudoir themselves. Nobody’s ever made me an offer like that. I’ve hardly ever been noticed like that, not by anyone but Finn. But I don’t want to ruin our night, so I just say, “I was using them as an example. If we can get a few more thousand followers, offers like that would be standard.” I bring my knees up under my chin. “I think we should try to hit ten by mid-January.”
He returns to his session. “Sounds good to me.”
I swivel back to the inbox. The browser refreshes and bolded e-mails from the past few hours appear. The subject line on top snags my attention.
The stockings
I move closer to the screen. Stockings? My stockings? The sender’s name is Jack Guthrie. Doesn’t sound familiar.
“Got it,” Finn says as I’m about to click on the e-mail. “I’m just going to run it through an editing app instead of doing the whole thing. It’s almost midnight.”
“You should share it at midnight on the dot.”
“But that’s when I’m supposed to kiss you.” He winks, thumbing around his screen.
“Post it, then kiss me.”
“Too late.” He shows me the photo, two champagne glasses in the foreground, a trail of my out-of-focus clothing behind them. It’s muted, the sequins as matte as the gold fizz. My lipstick stain is a deep, sultry crimson because of the low-contrast filter. “What do you think?”
It’s the first time he’s ever not asked me for a caption, but when I see why, I smile. He’s turned it into a joke, also a first. “From us to you,” I read. “Make your New Year’s extra special—the poor bastard only comes once a year.”
He hands me my glass and holds out his, but before we can cheers, there’s commotion in the
street. People yell out the countdown. “Twenty . . . nineteen . . .”
“Shit.” Finn puts down the champagne and tosses me my underwear. “Come on. We’re going to miss it.”
I look back at the e-mail, my fizzing drink in one hand, a ball of black lace in the other. I have fifteen seconds, which means I either open it or go to Finn. I should do the latter. But if I don’t read it, I’ll be wondering what it says while the ball drops, and that’s no way to bring in the new year, wondering about another man. I click on it.
I can’t stop looking at them. Where are they from so I can buy my girlfriend a pair.
I swallow. He’s just admitted to staring at my crotch. A man named Jack is looking at me, fantasizing. And he has a girlfriend. He has a real live woman, but I’m the one he’s thinking about. It seems so wrong, and yet . . .
“Halston!” Finn calls. “You’re missing it.”
“Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
I hit reply.
Intermix on 5th & 19th
In case he thinks I’m Finn, I also sign the e-mail.
—Anonymous.
“Four . . . three . . .”
I hit send and abandon the drink and underwear to sprint into the living room. Horns blare in the street. The TV is a blur of confetti and beaming B-list celebrities with microphones. Finn turns and laughs at me in just my bra. He grabs a cream, faux fur throw we picked out together and opens it to me. “Happy New Year, babe,” he says, wrapping me up and tying me off with a kiss. “So far, it’s turning out to be pretty great.”
I smile against his mouth. “It’s only been five seconds.”
“And isn’t it pretty great?”
I nod. “Extremely. We forgot our drinks.”
He rubs my back. “I’m good.”
“I’ll get mine, then.” I pull out of his embrace and return to the studio. Before I even reach the computer, I see the subject line bolded at the top. It’s 12:01 and Jack already responded.
