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Fuck. I was fully out of character now, and ready for podcast episode three: CityStyle editor Lara Stevens, also not what she claims to be. She’s not the editor, just ajuniorjunior reporter at a trashy local gossip magazine. An unsophisticated wine-drinker who can’t tell the difference between aChateau de Charles PrinceChampagne and anElla Booker VineyardsSparkling Wine, becauseof courseCharlie must have been humoring me: his brother (the wine guy,he had said) Philipwrote a fucking wine columnfor the magazine that I sometimes got stuck editing, double- and triple-checking the spelling on all the unfamiliar terminology. How could Charlie not know how to tell the difference with a brother like that? He probably got quizzed on merlot vs malbec on his twenty first birthday, under threat of getting cut off from his stupid fucking trust fund.
The sound of the audience politely applauding brought me back to myself. Charlie–Charles–handed the microphone to the serious-looking brunette, then looked out over the sea of people, a broad, welcoming smile on his face, so different than the small, suggestive smile he’d given me. Then I realized:his brother Philip wrote an occasional wine column for the magazine. He wouldknowEditor Stevens.
I was such a fool.
There would be no more pretending for me. No dance. No offer to drive me home, and certainly no kiss on the cheek. Red-faced, I turned and nearly ran for the door.
Charlie
I was thankful,as I stepped down from the stage, that Natalie was still up there, still speaking passionately about the project. It meant that I had a moment to myself, to regroup, to take off theCharlie Prince, Tech Billionairemask and replace it withCharlie Prince, Charming Youngest Prince Brother,the mask I wore most often. So much that it almost–almost–fit me now. I attempted to make my way to the back corner of the hall–I had spotted Rose there, from on stage–but halfway across the room, Natalie’s short plea for donations had concluded, and as the string quartet struck up its first pop cover of the night, I was waylaid by schmoozers, wanting to chat with me. I was pleased, actually: most of them weren’t asking what I planned on doing next, what my next moves were, etcetera, they seemed genuinely interested in the foundation. Honestly, I didn’t much care whether they were interested; Natalie had enough drive for a hundred people, and she didn’t put much stock in “awareness raising,” focusing instead on deliverables. She was fantastic: a cold, hard bastard of the “too ambitious,” “too aggressive,” “too assertive” variety, and I loved her for it. She didn’t need these people to care, she only needed them to open their checkbooks. They would.
The ensemble was four pop covers deep before I was able to extricate myself from the mass of suits enough to attempt a search for Lara. I could smell her scent faintly, just a trace of peach caught here and there, but not the omega.Myomega.I double checked all the places I knew cheese puffs to have been staged, even, hoping perhaps she would have installed herself near a platter of the shamefully truffle-less hors d'oeuvres, but…
I pivoted, and decided to look for Margaret, instead, finding her chatting with Asterid, my brother Jack’s mate, each omega holding a glass of champagne. I rudely interrupted them, pulling Margaret aside.
“Have you seen the girl I was talking to earlier?”
“Your… mate?” she queried, face still and calm as always.
“Yes,” I said, trying not to let my exasperation show in front of our pack’s ice queen.
“I haven’t, no. Actually, I think I saw her heading towards the lobby, just as Natalie went up on stage, but I haven’t seen her since then. I’ll keep an eye out, if you want me to.”
I nodded, letting her drift back to Asterid and their conversation. I knew them too well to assume they were talking about that mysterious topic of conversation between people of their persuasion, “omega stuff,”but I also didn’t care about books, whether old (Asterid, an archivist) or new (Margaret, in publishing). And I was busy with my own task: finding Lara.
I caught exactly zero glimpses of blonde hair and blue silk dress as I zig-zagged among the crowd of donors, smiling and shaking hands and chatting distractedly, always keeping half my attention cued to her scent, searching for her presence.After a few more pop covers, I knew. I could tell–my body felt it. Mysoul.
She was gone.
* * *
We had all gone from the gala directly to Jack and Asterid’s house for a little cozy family bonding time. I had been looking forward to it; it was always nice to spend time with my brothers and Margaret and Rose, and now Asterid, the latest addition to our family. Our pack. We were close, and now that I wasn’t living with any of them I found that I missed them.
I had been distracted for the second half of the gala. Even knowing she was gone, she had taken up residence in my thoughts, and I kept finding myself looking for her. It was almost a relief to leave, having double checked that everyone was out of the space, handed the reins to the clean-up crew, and tipped the caterers and musicians. At least I knew that at the house, there would be no question of her showing up unexpectedly. I could pine in solitude.
It was the sudden appearance of the house, as I rounded one last hill, that shook me from my thoughts of my mystery woman: a large, stone building with a symmetrical facade that I hadn’t seen or thought of in years. I had grown up in this house, at least in part: the Prince Estate, as it was grandly called, was where my parents had brought me when they came home from the hospital. It was the location of my only vague memories of my mother, before she died when I was just a little kid. It was where I had learned the news of my father’s death, having been shuttled home early from middle school.
And then we had moved, the four of us boys, to the townhouse near my father’s office, and Jack, barely 18, had quit school to take care of us idiots and run the family business. The townhouse had become home, filled with all our shit, four boys worth of school books and comics and lacrosse sticks and dirty socks among my parents’ priceless collections of antiques and art. It had been witness to our comings and goings as Philip fucked off to France, then returned, and Richard went to school, and then finally it was my turn, and then we’d all graduated (even Jack,) and Philip had gone and gotten married and then Richard and now Jack had moved out here (mated to Asterid but as yet unmarried) and left me in the townhouse solo.
I had never been back to this place. Not for years.
Now, Jack and Asterid were fixing it up. It had stood uninhabited for over a decade as I grew from a sulky teen into a (brooding, let’s say,dashing and roguish) man, and according to Jack, it had shown. They’d had a platoon of contractors and designers and whatever in and out of place; I knew because the two of them had been spending nearly as much time at the townhouse as they had before they had “moved out,” and Jack’s constant bitching about the noise had been a pleasant distraction from my own problems. I grouched about him being there all the damn time, but it was nice. The place was too big for just me.
And this place was too big for them: the center section of the house was already wider than the townhouse, and then there were two additions, one with stables (always, to my memory, unused) and the other containing a warmly-glowing kitchen where I expected to find my family. It would be nice for them, I thought, to have it filled up with our pack this weekend, and I understood my gala was just a convenient excuse.
I pulled up on the end of a row of familiar vehicles: Margaret’s silver coupe, Jack’s understated black sedan, and Richard’s boring-ass wagon (not, I noted, his wife’s glitzy convertible, as this was neither the correct place nor weather), and made my way around to the side entrance. I braced myself for the full effect of everyone, all at once, and pushed open the door and into the coffee-scented kitchen.
“Charlie!” Rose called, still appearing a bit tipsy, as she spotted me, the last to arrive. I could tell that the crowd was a bit muted but they still put on a display of excitement for my sake, though, with everyone clapping as I entered. I bowed, awkwardly, and accepted their congratulations.
“Thank you, thank you, assembled Princes.” I stood there for a moment, looking at my family, back in our old home for the first time in… a long, long time. The kitchen, though, was unrecognizable, the clean white marble countertops looking different than the–what had they been? Butcher block? Brownish granite? Something tan, I think–I remembered from my childhood. Suddenly, I needed to be alone. I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage being here for a whole weekend, surrounded by all the people who could read me best. People who knew me, as I sometimes suspected talking to Jack and Margaret in particular, better than I knew myself. They could read me like the books they were so obsessed with. My scent, my moods, my face. Despite that, I knew they still saw me as the youngest brother, the baby. The one who doesn’t have to try, the lucky one, the one who gets everything handed to him. The one who doesn’t have to remember, not like Jack does, with his inherited title and his inherited business and his inherited fuckingname. Not like Philip, with his rebellious phase and his flat in Paris that used to be our mother’s and his prodigal son return and his marriage to Margaret, the family’s emotional center. Not like Richard, with his… steadfast Richardiness.
Well, I thought, letting my emotions get the better of me for a moment,I didtry, I had beentryingfor a long time, had been working hard.The problem was that now I didn’t know how to do anything else. “Jack,” I floundered, turning to my oldest brother, “where’s the bathroom?”
Philip took pity on me and led me to the powder room, but not before I saw Jack’s face crumple slightly.I didn’t remember.
I closed and locked the door behind me, turning the water on full bore. The pipes shuddered before kicking on, and I had a brief flicker of memory, there and then gone: my father cheerfully saying “they don’t make them like this anymore, boys,” as he fiddled with the separate hot and cold water taps in me and Richard’s shared bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, leaning over the bowl of the pedestal sink with my eyes closed against the sudden upwelling of tears.
I mostly got by trying not to think about the past, always looking ahead, thinking of the next project, the next launch, the next achievement, but now… I had sold my company. I had launched the non-profit that was, specifically and intentionally, not mine. I didn’t have a next step, a next project. The only thing left for me to look forward to was…
