“Twenty-four isn’t ‘about my age,’” I said.
“Don’t split hairs, Emery. It’s close enough,” Dad said, adjusting a cuff link.
Mom touched my chin, her smile watery. “Belinda has made you a wonderful birthday dinner, and we’ve left your gifts on the table.” She frowned and lifted the pendant on its chain around my neck. “This is lovely. Where did you get it?”
I took my gift from Xander off only to shower and usually kept it tucked it under my shirt. I had forgotten to adjust it after lunch in the art room.
“Oh, uh, Harper. For Christmas. It’s pretty, right?”
“Yes.” Mom smiled wanly and let it rest against my chest. “Very pretty.”
“Do you really have to leave for DC tonight?” I said, partially to change the subject but mostly because I was watching my Very HappyDinner with my Very Happy Family slide right down the drain. “It couldn’t wait one more day?”
“The timing isn’t ideal, but we’ll make it up to you when we get back.” Dad pecked me on the cheek. “Happy Birthday, Emery.”
I watched them drive off to Middletown, in Newport, where our private jet awaited. I’d turned down Harper. Delilah had wanted to throw me a party. I could have gone to Boston with Xander and Dr. Ford for moral support. I could have done anything else, but instead I’d foolishly trusted my parents.
Tears of frustration and hurt stung my eyes, but I willed them down. My parents didn’t deserve them.
In the dining room, a dozen elegantly wrapped gifts were stacked on one end. Scents of Belinda’s pot roast emanated from the kitchen. She came through the double doors, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Happy Birthday, darling!” she exclaimed, though the pity was bright in her eyes. “Your mom and dad…they had a pressing engagement.”
“I heard. Where’s Jack?”
Her hands twisted. “I haven’t seen him, love.”
“You probably made a lot of pot roast for just me.”
“Oh, it’ll keep, it’ll keep. Are you hungry?”
“Not really—” I began just as Jack came striding in.
He glanced around, taking weight of the room. “They’re not here, are they? Those motherfu—” Jack bit off his words for Belinda’s sake. “It’s only your eighteenth birthday. Not like it’s important or anything.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in,” I muttered.
“I just meant they’re the literal worst.” Jack offered a commiserating smile. “They’re lucky we don’t full Menendez-brothers on them.”
“Now, Jack Wallace,” Belinda scolded but only half-heartedly, clearly relieved he was here. “Let’s have a nice dinner, if you please. You two set the table, and I’ll be right back.”
She headed to the kitchen, leaving us alone, the years of distance and animosity like ghosts between my brother and me.
“You’re in a good mood,” I said, crossing my arms. “I don’t think you’ve spoken that many words to me in ages. Must be aspecialoccasion.” I noticed a Newport Medical Clinic visitor sticker on his shirt, peeking out from under his jacket. “What…um…or who brought about the change of heart?”
“Stuff. Life,” he said. “I’ve been a dick, and I’m sorry. They just make me so fucking angry, and I’ve been taking it out on you. For years.”
“Oh. Okay. Thank you.”
“Come here.”
To my shock, Jack wrapped me in a hug, his chin resting on my head. I sagged into his brotherly embrace, the first I’d had since Grant died, and held on tight.
“Let’s have a nice dinner where you can eat all the bread and cake you want, then open your gifts and decide which to keep and which to sell for escape money.”
I stared in shock. “How did you…? I mean, is that what you do?”
“Yep,” Jack said, setting the table for three with silverware and plates from our side cabinet. “Other than my camera, I sold everything I own to pay for my new wardrobe”—he gestured at his black jeans and shirt—“with plenty left over. And I got a job.”
