A laugh sprays out of Nellie. “God, Mom, you sound like you’re in a movie from the thirties or something. But yeah, I met a new boy I like.”
“And…tell me…what’s his name?”
“Oh, fuck it. Okay. His name is Luke. And he’s bad, Mom. A bad boy like I’m a bad girl. He’s so hot, too.” Nellie shivers.
Charleigh’s insides clench.A bad boy, bad like her?“What do you mean,bad?”
“Well, he’s covered in tattoos for one thing, has longish hair, drives a Camaro. I don’t know, he’scool. From Dallas—”
“Nellie, how old is this boy?”
“Eighteen, Mom.God.”
Charleigh takes in a deep breath, resets herself. Getting infofrom Nellie is like trying to herd a scared cat. She must tread lightly. “But what else do you mean about him being bad? Like bad-bad? Or just…?” She keeps her voice neutral, like a middle school shrink.
“Like, he didn’t graduate from high school. He’s here for the summer trying to better himself or whatever.”
“Where does he live? What part of town?” Charleigh takes a long gulp of her drink.
“You’re not gonna like it.”
“Try me.”
“He lives out with the Swifts, and he’s learning how to woodwork under Mr. Swift.” She sucks the remainder of the lemonade through the straw.
Dread swamps Charleigh.Not that fucking family again.They are literally everywhere, closing in on her. She lets out a forceful breath.
“What?!” Nellie stabs her with her tone, jolting her back.
“The Swifts? We hate them, remember?”
“Well, like, whatever!” Nellie practically shrieks.
Keep calm, Charleigh, keep calm.
But it’s too late, Nellie’s face has already darkened. “Don’t have a hissy fit,Mom.” She saysMomas if it’s the most disgusting word in the whole world. “It’s not like we’retogether. I’m pretty sure he’s with Blair. But…I’m gonna work on him because he’s, like, everything I’ve ever wanted. I have to have him.”
Charleigh feels like she’s going to have a heart attack. She’s never heard Nellie gush about a boy like this. This could end sobadly. It could end like…well…Thor over in Sweden. Not being able to get Nellie exactly what she wants is a source of excruciating pain for Charleigh.
“Well, what can we do?” she asks.
Nellie recoils. “Nothing. Like, don’t doanything. I got this.” Her chair scrapes against the concrete as she stands up and storms inside, slamming the door shut behind her.
Great.
Charleigh pokes at the ice in her glass with her straw, wonders how she can so quickly go from confidant to shit for brains with Nellie, faster than Alexander can go from zero to sixty in his Wagoneer.
38
Jackson
The pile of discarded clothes on Jackson’s bed keeps growing. He yanks shirts off the hanger, holds them up to his chest, then studies his reflection in the full-length mirror he picked up in Italy one summer with Charleigh.
Florentine, ornate with a gold rim, it looks like it belongs in a king’s chambers. He loves it. It cost her one thousand bucks. Jackson balked, but they were at an auction house, and the Andersens’ bill was already over $20K.
“It’s nothing,” Charleigh insisted. “Plus, you deserve it.”
With that, he could not argue. That morning alone, she’d dragged him for hours over cobblestoned paths in search of the perfect entryway piece. Something grand to announce their wealth the second folks stepped inside their home. A piece they wouldn’t find until the following winter in Paris, where they scored a dazzling marble-topped table, the legs carved with intricate scrolls.
