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“That’s what you always say, Dad, and it’s never a lack of time. It’s money. You needed money, and I bailed you out. The next step is for you to get a real job and start paying me back.”
The smile disappears from his face. “Jesus. You want money so bad? I’ll get some. But you’re going to have to wait. I can’t pull it out of a hat. I’m not a magician, Bristol.”
No. I’m the magician. I’m the one who reached into my job and pulled money out of nowhere for this man.
I swallow rage and betrayal and garden-variety hurt. When are the twins supposed to be safe, living with him? How are they supposed to make it to eighteen without serious damage? Eight years might as well be forever.
“I’m happy to wait. I’d appreciate it if you got started, though. We don’t have unlimited time.”
I turn my back on my Dad and go to find Mia and Ben.
They’re both dressed, backpacks on. Mia nudges Ben with her elbow. “I’m not going to get into trouble today. I’m going to be more like you.”
Her twin brother gives her his biggest golden-boy smile. “Good. You might be better off that way.”
10
WILL
I’m alwaysthe first one at the office, but this is early. Way too early.
Once again, I couldn’t sleep. Nothing helped. Not the gym. Not counting to a thousand. Nothing.
I paced back and forth from my bed to my living room, as if it made any difference. I spent at least an hour staring at the painting my brother Emerson gave me.
If I wanted to downplay who he is, I’d say he was a prominent art collector in the city.
In reality, people know his name all over the world. Dealers and artists fall all over themselves to give him private showings, which are the only ones he’ll attend.
Over the years, he’s told a few well-connected people in the art scene that he insists on private showings because if he looks at art in public, it fucks with the value. Somebody’s always watching to see if he’s interested or not interested in a piece.
That’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. It turns out Emerson didn’t need the whole truth to gloss over how rarely he left his house before he met his wife, Daphne. So rarely that when he showed up at my apartment unannounced one day last winter, I thought for a minute I was hallucinating. The fact that he was wearing his winter wetsuit and a packable coat didn’t help.
Now he leaves more often, but his visits to Daphne’s brother’s house or her family’s mansion are orchestrated as much as his visits to the city. Carefully planned and scaffolded so he can always get back home.
Anyway. His ability to find pieces that will be worth millions of dollars is legendary. So is his private collection. The painting that hangs in my living room is one of the ones he kept for himself.
It’s an original Van Gogh, for fuck’s sake. Unmistakably Van Gogh. Lights reflected in the dark water of a canal. A peaceful sky.
I texted him.
Will: Why the hell would you give me this painting?
His reply came fast.
Emerson: You chose it.
Will: Are you always awake in the middle of the goddamn night?
Emerson: Are you?
I could picture his expression. My brother’s face is a mirror of mine, except the way he sees things is different. It’smore. When he turns his attention on you, it’s like having someone look into your brain and rifle through your thoughts.
His question is sincere.
Emerson: The painting is like you. That’s why you chose it.
I sent him a laughing emoji instead ofare you kidding me, prick?
