She adjusts her Ivy Park bucket hat like it’s doubling as her thinking cap. “Just call, pretend to be your dad, and get your limits upped like I did. Problem solved.”
“Not the problem I need solving right now, remember?”
“Right, right.” She puzzles. “Wait. Doesn’t your grandma own that Hamptons house and that Paris apartment? Why don’t you just steal a key and sneak off to one of those?” The nail tapping increases in speed.
If Mom and Dad were hearing this, they’d say, as they’ve said before, that Bentley’s a bad influence. However, I’m in the camp that believesbadis a highly subjective term. I wouldn’t be New York City’s reigning Party Prince (yes, it’s a play on my last name, deal with it) without a proper bad—excuse me—badassParty Princess.
“You’re thinking of my dad’s mom. This is my mom’s mom who lives in a log cabin overlooking a river. She runs a used bookstore in the center of town.”
“If there is anything worse than books,” Bentley says, “it’s books people have already sneezed in.”
“Gross.”
“Epically gross.” She pastes on a clownish frown. “Ugh! Matty Baby, what about our New Year’s Eve bash? You already secured the Greenpoint warehouse and the Russian aerial silk artists. That vodka ice fountain carved in our likenesses is probably already being…made, chipped at? I don’t know the details, but it’s getting done.” She pouts. “Ineedthat party after all this family holiday bullshit. What are you going to do? Youcan’t, and I repeat,can’tcancel.”
It’s like she doesn’t think I know that. It’s like she doesn’t realize that’s the whole reason I called. The only time I’d cancel a party is if I died, and even then, I’d probably strike some deal with the devil to come back as a ghost to throw an epic funeral for myself.
I must sit in silent, stony contemplation of this for too long because—
“Hello? Are you frozen? Did the wintry weather already turn you into an ice pop?” Bentley taps her screen like a kid on a tank at the aquarium. “All I’ve gotta say is you better not be planning any wicked parties while you’re away. Do you hear me? I’ll murder you. I’ll murder you, and I’ll get away with it too. I have people who know how to make it look like an accident.”
Maybe that funeral won’t be so far away after all.
Bentley isveryserious about her parties. She took me to my first EDM rave, forced me to go on an ayahuasca retreat, and talked me into dropping Molly at a former president’s daughter’s birthday celebration. We may or may not have destroyed a bouncy castle. I’m adventurous, but Bentley is downright wild.
“No murder necessary,” I assure her with feigned confidence. I use what little I have left to declare: “I’ll be back by then. My parents will be checking in with my grandparents for updates. All I need to do is convince them that I’ve learned my lesson, and I’ll be home free. I have to be.” The last remaining shards of my reputation depend on it.
Since high school, every New Year’s Eve, Bentley and I throw a massive, balls-to-the-wall party and invite everyone who’s anyone in young New York City society. Over the years, it’s morphed from a chaste evening of chatting and dancing to a Bentley-approved rager fueled by top-shelf alcohol, amphetamines, and shirtless, tatted DJs spinning sick, frenzied sets.
But now, the one night it gets to be about me, andnotabout my imposing parents, has been taken away in the name of punishment toconceal a storyor some shit.
“Matty Baby, you better make sure your ass is back by then. I can’t do all this myself. You need a plan and you need—”
A crackling starts, then a full-blown cutting out. My phone screen blinksdisconnected. I mutter expletives under my breath. That didn’t make me feel any better.
The WELCOME TO WIND RIVER sign flies by out the window. Population: Who fucking cares? This is the kind of town you drive through on your way to your summer home or make a pit stop en route to a ski slope. This is not the destination for most, but tragically, it is for me.
As we pass through the center of town, a holly-jolly bubble of nauseating joy, I do what I always do when the panic of a situation starts setting in: I begin planning a fake event in my head to distract myself. This one is an I Should Be Home for the Holidays Hoedown. I’m envisioning a dress code of leather chaps (pants optional) and designer cowboy boots. For drinks, there would be a Blue Christmas bourbon concoction. Aside from authentic square dancing, in the center of it all there would be a pellet-shooting game where you could ping metal cups stacked in the shape of a Christmas tree pressed with pictures of people on your own personal naughty list. I’d have Mom and Dad set up as the prize-winning bull’s-eye.
It’s petty and kitsch but calming somehow. A coping mechanism designed by my highly sought-after therapist.
Our car clips the last few miles uphill until we come to a stop at the end of a long, bumpy driveway. We’ve pulled into Isolation Station, and I don’t have a return ticket.
In a clearing sits a house smaller than even the most modest vacation homes I’ve stayed in. Patches of dirt sit dormant where greenery thrives in sprouts of color in the spring months. The plentiful tree branches hang down low like ominous, barren arms reaching out to grab hold of me.
I slip out of the car, careful to avoid the huge, slushy puddle we’ve parked in. It takes me a moment to adjust to air that isn’t tinged with the stale scent of single-bagged bodega garbage cluttering the street. It would almost be nice if this was just a quick visit and not a staycation.
The cabin has an A-framed roof and a rustic porch where a bench swing sways. Twinkle lights chase each other down every slanted edge, making it look like an oversize sparkling gingerbread house even in the dwindling daylight.
Driver Man—whose name I now remember is Maxim, thanks to a helpful name tag tacked onto his lapel—drops the last of my bags at my feet, trying hard not to get any water on my Gucci black-leather ankle boots.
“Do you think their housekeeper will come grab these?” I ask.
He looks at me with sympathy before shaking his head. “No, Mr. Prince. I’ve been told they refused the housekeeper your mother hired for them. I’d help you myself like usual, but unfortunately, the drive took longer than expected. I’m due back to meet your father at the office to ferry him to an important business dinner. You understand.”
I do understand. I understand that in the family hierarchy I’m the least important Prince. The Prince that gets punished for no decent reason.
“No chance you’ll take me back with you, I presume?” I flick on the false charm.
