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I climb up into my truck and start the engine, watching his shoulders slump and his head drop forward. He’s still sitting there when I drive away. Fuck him. I don’t want to be his friend. I want him to realize how deeply I loathe him, and I want it to hurt.
*
Preston refuses to let me throw a party at Grandpa Darling’s manor house, fabled for its New Years Eve debauchery. I don’t put up much of a fight about it. He’s living there now, so it’sbasically his house, and the party could never have been what it once was, anyway. None of us are.
Still, I’ve been tasked with hosting. No one would say much if I refused, but even after three years away, I know the unspoken rules. It’s a big deal, like Dixie said. This is the first party I’ll attend with the elite crowd since my ostracism. The first party since the one where, apparently, I fucked Gloria Walton in Cotton Montgomery’s pool house.
I don’t want to think about that, so I throw myself into preparations at my house. I haven’t hosted a party here since before Devlin disappeared, and it takes a bit to get the place spruced up. It’s invigorating to be doing this again, to brush away the curtain of gloom that settled over the house when it lost first my brother, then my mother and sister. It feels right to have people coming again, to have a reason to set up all the furniture on the deck, get out the cushions, bring wood up for the outdoor fireplace.
Magnolia is beside herself with joy at going to a party, which makes me a little sad for her. She was too young to go to the parties back when we threw them, but now that she’s in high school, she’ll get to be part of the Darling New Year’s Eve tradition. She probably thought we’d never have another one, that she’d never get to go—which would probably be for the best.
Getting everything in order to host a party again is surreal, even more so because this exact party three years ago is the last one the Darlings ever threw. We don’t have a full staff like Grandpa, so we have to set up the party ourselves. Maggie, Dixie, Preston and his mom, and my dad help. We rent a dance floor to put in the backyard, since we don’t have the big ballroom here, and hire someone to come wrap twinkle lights around everything they can go around—every single tree along the tree line that circles the two-acre back lawn; the front and back deck railing, the firepit and hot tub; and down the gravel driveway,winding around each barren oak, sweet gum, and elm to the mailbox.
At last, we’re ready. I sit on the front deck smoking a cigarette while Magnolia frets.
“What if no one comes?” she asks.
“They’ll come,” Dixie assures her, looking up at the house with a satisfied smile. “People love a party, and it’s New Year’s Eve. I mean, sure, the Hockington ballroom is fancy, but it’s a hotel. Lame.”
“Sounds fun to me,” Maggie mutters.
She’s sitting in the chair next to me, her hands under her knees, swinging her boots back and forth and chewing at her fat bottom lip. “What if it’s a set-up?” she asks at last, staring down the driveway.
Dixie laughs. “It’s not a set-up, silly.”
“If it’s a set-up, you know what to do,” I remind my cousin. “We went over this a dozen times.”
“Right,” she says. “Get off the property.”
There’s a four-wheeler on each side of the lawn, hidden in the woods, waiting for her in case anything goes wrong. Waiting for us.
“You know the trails, even at night,” I remind her. “There’s my truck out front if you’re around this side when they attack. The key’s under the old soda can in the door. Don’t be afraid to hit someone if they’re coming after you.”
A little smile twists her lips. “That’ll be the fun part.”
There’s also a gun in all three places, plus one in the garden shed in case she needs to hide there, and plenty in the house. I have no doubt she’ll use one if she needs to—and maybe even if she doesn’t. She’s the baby of the family, sheltered and naïve, but she’s still a Darling, and there’s not a single person carrying our name, by birth or marriage, who’s weak.
If I only had the word of the Dolces, I wouldn’t believe this wasn’t a set-up for a minute, but the other founding sons are coming too. More than that, their parents have welcomed ours back into their exclusive inner circle, the place where decisions are made and only the town’s founders are welcome. Now that Tony Dolce is gone, they have no reason to keep us out, and if their sons break the newly established truce, there will be hell to pay.
“Do you think Preston will bring Dolly?” Maggie asks.
“Not likely,” I say. “I think he’s holding her prisoner in the tower until she’s desperate enough to marry him.”
“She’d have to be desperate.”
Before I can defend my cousin, Maggie jumps up with a squeal when a new Bronco pulls into the parking area. “Gideon!” she cries, skipping over to the car and flinging open the door. “I didn’t know if you’d come. I heard you were transferring. It’s like you want to get mugged or something.”
“Uh, hey, Maggie,” he says, climbing down and giving her an awkward, one-armed hug while keeping one eye on me.
Good. I start to relax, already relieved that I threw this party despite my reservations, paranoias, and the nagging knowledge that it’s all a charade. It seemed so real when we threw them before. They were exciting, full of crazy antics and adventures. I always knew, even then, that I was making memories I’d have forever. Plus, hosting them made me feel powerful and desirable as people fought for the coveted invitations that only we could bestow upon them.
Now, there’s nothing fun or carefree about it. It’s a carefully orchestrated move to cement my place in the elite circle. Now, I know how little power we actually hold, how being desirable isn’t something we are but something we’re given, something allowed by the other members of the inner circle.
Still, everyone pays their dues. Maybe us more than anyone, since we’re vying for membership in a group that doesn’t take just anyone. We’re not public school kids going to FHS for free, joining cliques with our peers just because we share interests. At Willow Heights, even being a founding heir doesn’t guarantee a spot or make someone exempt from the rules. Everyone there is rich, or talented, or smart, or a combination of all three. It’s cut-throat, every move a competition for the top spots. The elite don’t just pay tuition to attend private school. We pledge into the secret society, complete the gauntlet to join. No one is in the elite circle without earning it.
Even the Dolces earned it. They took us down, after all, proved themselves superior.
This party isn’t just a way to gain the popularity that Dixie wants or get back in with the in-crowd. It’s a chance to secure my place at the table, my family’s place. So even though I recognize now, in a way I never did when I was at the top, the impermanence and arbitrary nature of power in this town, I don’t shun it. I don’t scorn the hollow traditions and meaningless rituals.
