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Nate picks his head up, and for a split second, he’sbeaming. Like having a spot in this family,myspot, would be the best thing that ever happened to him. He coughs a laugh.
“Happy to pass the torch,” I say, and my throat closes. I swallow past a crushing sensation, a cut-off air supply, then swallow again. I’m still trying to push the ache in my chest away when I turn toward the cabinet with the coffee mugs in it.
Then I’m staring at shelves filled with neat rows of mugs. We’re all represented in here. Charlotte, with the blue Donald Duck mug I got her as a wedding present. My baby sister Remy, with herMy life is in ruins!mug. Mason with his fancy-ass Phoenix Enterprises mug, which is black with the company’s logo etched in gold. Elise has a mug now, too. It has Take the Cake, the name of her bakery, on it with an illustration of a croissant. Inarguably hilarious. Even Nate and Lydia have mugs. His is a museum souvenir printed with Van Gogh’s Starry Night, and hers is a word-cloud turned mug with a bunch of art terms in some Baskerville-ass looking font.
Mine’s missing.
I can’t find it on the shelf.
It’s a bright red mug with Mickey Mouse on it. It’s always right here.
Makes perfect sense, though. The mug isn’t here, and if I’m honest, I shouldn’t be here. Crime scenes don’t belong in penthouses. Eventually, all the wreckage spills out over red caution tape, and everybody’s fucked. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck and all down my spine, cold and panicked. This is a sign I should leave.
“Jameson? Are you looking for this?” My mug is right there in Charlotte’s hand. Her smile is sincere and apologetic, which she thinks I almost lost it over merchandise from the Magic Kingdom. “I got it out earlier. Should’ve said.”
“You’re an angel.” I take the mug, comforted to a ridiculous degree by the weight of it in my palm. “I’ll let you pour my coffee at the table.”
Charlotte grimaces. “Can I pour it in spirit? I can barely—”
“Lean over the table. Don’t think about it anymore. I promise, I can handle the coffee.” We all go out to the big dining table in Mason’s main room. It’s in a corner of his penthouse that’s all massive windows. The first time we ever had a family brunch, Remy couldn’t come, and Mason almost punched me up against one of those windows.
We’ve come a long way.
Theyhave, I guess. I’ve never brought anyone to brunch. The only woman I think about with any regularity is a woman who ran into me on the sidewalk last fall near a certain corrupt, piece-of-shit judge’s house in Cobble Hill. She was cute, almost glowing with innocence and confidence, and the first thing she did was suggest I mug someone else.
I can still see her pointing her thumb over her shoulder.You’re not a mugger, are you? Because I’m, like, almost done running. Maybe get the next one?
When I didn’t mug her, she ran past me, then turned back to shoutI think you look hot. Bye.
A stranger. Someone I’ll never see again.
Brunch is already out on the table in covered dishes, courtesy of Mason’s chef. I open the biggest one. Steam wafts up from perfect stacks of waffles.
I’ve eaten three and an enormous helping of sliced strawberries, hardly tasting any of it, when the empty seat to my left nags at me. Remy’s almost always a couple minutes late to brunch, but we’re past the usual window.
I catch Mason’s eye. “Is Remy at some new study group she didn’t tell us about?”
The wry, my-life-is-a-circus smile fades from his face. “No, she’s here.”
I make a point of looking around the main room of the penthouse, at the empty seating area and the quiet living room beyond. “Where?”
“Bedroom. She said she wasn’t hungry.”
Mason’s eyes sayI think it’s bullshit, but she already thinks I treat her like a little kid, so I can’t go in there.
I hope mine communicate Iknowit’s bullshit. It’s never mattered if she was hungry before. Remy’s even come to a couple of brunches hungover, which is frankly miraculous for a person in a five-year degree program. She still came to sit with us.
Mason shrugs.I don’t know.
I salute him and drop my fork onto the remnants of my waffles. “I’m going to see if she needs anything.”
First stop is the kitchen for a bottle of Black Raspberry-flavored Smartwater. It’s her current favorite. The second stop is Remy’s bedroom, right next to mine.
I rap my knuckles on the door. “Rem? Can I come in?” Her answer is too muffled to understand. “I can’t hear you, so, fair warning. I am now entering. Prepare yourself.”
The door’s barely cracked when I know something’s wrong. Remy’s a sunbeam person like Charlotte, but her bedroom is murky like a cloudy day. My pulse jumps up. Is she sick? Hurt? Heartbroken?
Piteous, stifled crying comes from a ball underneath the comforter on her bed.
