Page 43 of The Accident

“Trevor, right?” she coos, putting a hand on my forearm. Her nails are immaculate, the color of dried blood.

“That’s me,” I say, giving her the full wattage of my business smile.

She leans in, lowering her voice like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m so glad you agreed to be auctioned. Half the ladies here were threatening to riot if you dropped out. Some of us have bets going.”

“I’d hate to disappoint,” I say. I can’t even remember her name, but I know her type. Married, probably has kids at Breck, hasn’t come in ten years except by accident. She’s beautiful, but brittle.

She smiles, letting her teeth show just enough to hint at something feral. “See you up there,” she says, and floats away, trailing a scent of Chanel and gin.

I snag a scotch from a passing tray, drain half of it, and scan the room. If Kayleigh’s here tonight, she’ll be at the edge, probably chewing her lip and trying to avoid the scene. She’s not the type to squeal and embarrass herself—more likely she’s elegant, in something sexy but demure, hair in loose golden waves, makeup subtle, with high, high heels. The thought of it makes my cock stir. I force the image of the gorgeous girl away, but my body doesn’t listen. I’m half hard, and the room is a heat map of potential humiliation.

The auction stage is at the far end of the room, lit like a prizefight. Someone’s already up there doing a sound check, and the crowd is starting to drift toward the rows of gold chairs set in front. My father is nowhere in sight, but that’s fine—Henry will make his entrance sooner or later. I move through the throng, nodding at people I only vaguely know, smiling and nodding mechanically. Every time I let myself look around, I think I see her—Kayleigh, head thrown back, laughing at something outrageous; or Kayleigh with her arms crossed, biting her lip, eyes scanning the ceiling for a way out. But she isn’t here. Not yet.

A thin, sour note rises in my chest, and I kill it with another swallow of scotch.

I tell myself this is good. I’m here to prove a point, to show that I can be in the same room as my beautiful stepsister and not lose my fucking mind. That I can play the part my family expects, that I can survive an hour of being sold off before a roomful of strangers without throwing up on the podium or texting her at midnight.

But I feel her everywhere. Like a phantom. Like a stain on my heart.

God, what the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve become so fucking soft.

A familiar voice jolts me from my self-disgust.

“Trevor?” says Victoria, her tone bright but wary. She’s in a navy sheath dress, pearls, hair up, the very picture of Minneapolis Upper Middle. She holds a flute of champagne like it’s a shield.

“Victoria,” I say, and kiss her cheek. She smells like verbena and dry cleaning.

“You look tired,” she says, and I smile at the understatement.

“It’s been a week.”

She glances at the crowd, as if to see whether anyone is listening. “I’m glad you came. I know this isn’t your scene.”

“It’s my father’s scene,” I say, letting just enough edge show. “I’m here for him. And for the children, of course.”

She half-laughs, then glances away. “Kayleigh might be coming later. Just so you’re aware.”

I keep my face still. “Why wouldn’t she?”

Victoria studies me for a second. “No reason,” she says, then changes the subject to Henry, and whether I’ve seen him yet. I tell her I haven’t, and she says he’s probably near the stage, glad-handing the other donors. She touches my arm, says, “Just do your best tonight. It’s not that hard to be sold to a beautiful woman!” and then floats away, lost in the crowd.

I drain my drink, set the empty on a side table, and tell myself I’m fine.

But I’m not fine.

I’m the least fine I’ve ever been.

And if Kayleigh does walk through that door, I don’t know if I’ll be able to look at her and not want to ruin her all over again.

Victoria’s exit leaves a vacuum at my side, a little void of ozone and vanilla and nervous energy. The club is noisier now, the bar a hum of voices just below the level of actual conversation. I lean against a high-top and let the scotch warm me from the inside out. My eyes roam the crowd, but I’m not really seeing anything. What I’m doing is counting the seconds until I have to walk up on that stage and play the perfect, unblemished bachelor, smiling and waving with a thousand watt grin.

I replay the exchange with Victoria. She said, “Kayleigh might be coming later. Just so you’re aware.” Like she thought it would matter. Like she thought I might need warning.

She’s not wrong.

Victoria’s my father’s third wife. Not that anyone in this city keeps score, but I do. First there was Mom—who left Minnesota and her two sons as soon as she could clear the runway. Then there was Supriya, and that was supposed to be the one. The real one, the storybook love, the best friend and partner. I was in high school when Henry and Supriya married, old enough to know what was going on, but young enough to not understand how quickly things could rot.

But Supriya didn’t come alone when she moved in. She had a daughter, Aleatha, who was fifteen at the time. I was sixteen, and we both had the brittle, exposed nerves of kids who’d suffered through our parents’ divorces, and never fit in anywhere. We fell for each other like it was a bad dare—hard, fast, secret. I thought I was going to marry her. I told her that, on the roof of the house in late summer, with the stars close enough to catch if you tried. We made out in my bedroom, in the unfinished basement, in her mom’s Lexus, and once, for a full hour, in a guest bedroom during Thanksgiving while the adults argued about zoning laws and campaign finance downstairs. It was the kind of fever that burns so hot, you’re certain it’ll never cool off.