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I send an apologetic glance her way.
She rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you tell us what you’ve been doing lately, Lucian? You’ve missed lots of dinners this year. Aren’t you supposed to be in charge of everything?”
“I’m here now. That’s what counts.”
My father comes in at seven sharp, stepping around the staff who are serving the soup course. It’s what the chef calls rustic tomato, which means there are crushed tomatoes in it. My bowl comes down in front of me, china meeting hardwood with a dull click. I stare down at five fat croutons and a sprinkle of green oregano on the red surface. Leo hates this soup. I’ve watched him eat it a million times. You’d never know he hates it. He never gives it away.
One look around the table and my father’s face darkens. “Where is my son?”
“Lurking around London, I’d imagine.” Sometimes it’s hard to tell if Lucian is being deadpan or an asshole. I like it best when he turns it on our father. I don’t like much of anything tonight. Obviously, our brother Carter is not here. He’s the smartest one, both in terms of grades in school and getting away from Bishop’s Landing. He only comes home for special occasions, and sometimes he skips those, too. I wonder how he learned not to care. Or maybe he doesn’t feel the same pressure. Most times, it’s an obligation to be here, but easier than the consequences. My father’s anger. My mother’s disappointment. Path of least resistance.
Silver clinks against china. One of the servers refills Sophia’s water glass. I could tip my bowl over onto the white linen tablecloth in a big, dramatic spill. Tomato and crouton everywhere. It would break the tension. Explode it, probably. I don’t do it. I put the spoon into the crushed tomato and take a bite.
“Leo.” My father’s eyes tick down the table and meet mine. “Did he have somewhere better to be?”
I make my eyes big and slightly blank. He’s watching me, but he’s not necessarily asking me. The question could be for the room at large. I hope I look like I don’t know. I hope he doesn’t keep asking. Lucian looks across the table at Tiernan, who eats his own soup in silence.
This wouldn’t be happening at all, if it weren’t for everything else. That’s how life is, right? Everything depends on the past. And in the recent past, my brother got shot by a Constantine bulldog in his own house. He spent a week in the hospital afterward. I saw him the other day, and he pretended to be fine. I know he was pretending because when I hugged him, the breath went out of him. I didn’t hug him hard enough to make that happen.
Dying, I want to spit at my father. He’s probably dying, or maybe even dead. Things like that happen, you know. Things take a turn. Your brother goes home from the hospital and days later he’s burning with a fever that could kill him. That’s all Eva would tell me. She won’t tell me anything else.
I panicked, after I got that first phone call from her. I called Robert back and told him I’d sell the paintings to Emerson. The two things felt connected somehow. Like maybe, if I sold the paintings, he’d leave me alone and things would be better.
I don’t plan on touching his money. It feels fake in my account. Strange.
“Oh, Eva called earlier,” my mother says from my right side. And what? Did Eva tell her the truth? Her expression is as placid as it always is. I don’t know how she can stand it. Waiting around for my father to snap. He always does, eventually.
Fear skitters over the backs of my arms. I swallow it with another crushed tomato. There’s nothing to be afraid of now. It would be great if my body would remember that. Usually, I don’t have trouble. Usually I sit through dinner with a smile on my face and plenty to say about the weather. Usually Leo is here, and Eva, and there’s nothing much for me to say anyway. I stay quiet. I stay invisible. It’s a strategy that works, except for the times it didn’t. But all that was a long time ago. I’m not a child anymore.
“And what, Sarah?”
“One of her charities, I’m sure.” This, from Lucian. I keep my expression very, very neutral. He’s still eating tomato soup.
“That’s what she said.” My mother waves her spoon above her bowl. “A donation of some sort. An endowment.”
Dad doesn’t buy this. “What would Leo have to do with that?”
Lucian laughs. “He’s a whore for recognition. Probably made the donation himself.”
My mother covers her mouth with her hand. “Lucian.”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. “Maybe it’s the tax deductions he likes the best.”
It’s easy to be irritated with Lucian. Nothing gets to him. Nothing bothers him. Rattles him. Makes him any less cocky, or mean. And now he’s openly being an asshole about Leo at dinner for no reason. My fist tightens around my soup spoon. I don’t know what I plan to do with it. Hurl a crushed tomato in his face? It would be satisfying. It would also cause a scene.
“What about you, Sophie?” My mother poses the question like we’re all sharing things about our lives. Casually, like I’m sure other families do. “How’s the contract with Tommy going?”
Only my mother calls world-famous designers by their first name. My sister swirls her spoon in her soup, which is still completely full. Her tone is flat. “Super great.”
My father’s frown deepens.
“That’s lovely,” my mother says, but her attention is on the server she’s summoned from the side of the room.More wine.She may not be a perfect parent, but she’s always been a perfect hostess.
Sophia is two years older than me, but smarter and more mature than me by far. I don’t understand half of what she talks about. What I do know is that sometimes she comes to my apartment above Motif late at night, sparkling drunk and tired enough to sleep on my couch. She won’t tell me where she goes or what she’s doing, but she’ll tell me endless gossip about the artists she sees in the clubs or at the bars or wherever she’s been. We have coffee. We eat brunch. And then she puts on dark glasses and goes.
“And Daphne sold some paintings,” she says, grinning at me.
I raise my eyebrows at her. Why? Why would she do that? I narrowly avoided my dad’s attention, and now look.
