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So she heard, but she doesn’t know how it happened. Good job, Winnifred, on keeping our shit private and not letting people put two and two together.
Christian watches Winnifred as she makes her way back to who I assume is her agent. “Met the girl before. She seems kind, talented, and attractive. Don’t worry, my love. Arsène doesn’t stand a chance even if he tried.”
“Money talks,” Riggs points out. “And our boy has plenty of it.”
“She doesn’t care about money.” Tiff, his date, reminds us of her underwhelming existence. “She was married to someone super rich and signed a really shitty prenup or whatever. Then when he died, he left her with pretty much nothing. She’s been doing odd jobs to make ends meet.”
Collective murmurs fill the air. My eyes follow Winnifred. Is this true? Was she really left with nothing? Knowing what I know about her late husband, I wouldn’t put it past him. And she’s naive enough not to protect herself.
“Anyway, she’s off limits.” Arya snaps her fingers in front of my eyes, trying to catch my attention. “Got it?”
“My apologies, Arya. I must’ve given you the false impression I give two craps about what people think.” I flash her a sincere smile. “Once I make up my mind about a woman, no one can save her. Not even God.”
I walk off, leaving my cluster of friends behind. I drift toward the outdoor balcony. This room is too crowded, too hot, too pretentious. The night breeze hits my face. I splay my fingers over the wide, blond-bricked banister. When I look down to Fifth Avenue, the people below appear as ant-like dots. Tightroping the banister is the last thing my drunk self should be doing.
Then again . . . what’s to lose here?
I’ve no mother, no father, no fiancée. As Riggs pointed out charitably, I’m not exactly the most lovable person in this zip code. There is nothing to tie me down to this universe, and I’m starting to suspect this is precisely the reason why people take mortgages, pop out kids, make commitments—so that suicide wouldn’t be a valid option when things are in the shitters.
Not that I’m contemplating suicide. This banister is wide and not very long. I can do it.
Just one time, for old times’ sake. Grace’s voice is throaty and tempting in my head. Even beyond the grave, she entices me to do the wrong thing.
Glancing behind my shoulder, I make sure the coast is clear. It’s just me outside. I hop on the banister, righting myself until I stand up straight across the surface. I don’t look down.
The first step is solid. The second makes me feel alive. I spread my arms in the air, like Grace and I used to do when we were kids. I close my eyes.
“Time me,” I mouth.
And I can hear her in my mind answering. Three. Two. One. Go!
I take another step, and then another. I’m almost at the end. One more step . . . and my foot doesn’t land the hard surface this time. It’s all air beneath it. I sway. Lose my balance. Tip to the left. It all happens fast. The memory of Grace falling slams into me again.
The tears. The pleas. The silence.
I’m going to be pancaked to the street in a few seconds.
You shouldn’t have done that, idiot.
I’m falling.
Out of nowhere, sharp, desperate claws sink into my right arm. They rip at my suit, pulling me back into safety.
My body slams against a hard surface. The balcony’s floor. I’m a jumbled mess of limbs. Not all of them mine. Some of them small and lean and hot and all foreign flesh.
Count your blessings, asshole. You aren’t dead.
I open my eyes, rolling onto my back. I prop myself on my elbows, looking to see who my savior is.
A cherubic face shoves itself into my line of sight. Familiar and angelic and absolutely, beyond any doubt, pissed.
“Now you’ve really done it, you conceited fool!” Winnifred growls, balling my bow tie in her hand, shaking a fist to my face. “What the heck were you thinkin’? What’d have happened if I weren’t here? I’ve no words to describe you!”
She is standing above me, her face as red as a ripe tomato, her eyes so big I can see my reflection in them.
“You don’t?” I ask casually, lounging on the ground as if it’s the most comfortable spot in the building. “Well, here are some useful suggestions: idiot, moron, drunkard, imbecile, reckless asshole—technically, that’s two words, but—”
She tries to slap me. I catch her wrist effortlessly, stopping her from doing so. Drunk or not, my instincts rarely fail. I stand up, her delicate wrist still captured between my fingers. She stares at me with undiluted hatred. It shines from her sapphire eyes. I find it disturbing that I can’t hate her as properly and thoroughly as I should. She is a simpleton. An anecdote in my life. Nothing more.
