I look at the pies on the counter, reminded that I do this for them. That all of this is for them. And yet, what if she’s right? That I deserve to just…try.
The conversation I had with Ian plays in my mind, and I let myself imagine it: wanting Sloane out loud like I did at that bar, unafraid to hold back, and with none of the guilt that’s polluted my good will for years, if it worked. If he could really undercut him, free me.
“When do you think the turkey will be done?” I ask sitting up abruptly. Carmen glances over suspiciously but decides to ignore me going back to opening the tape I just purchased.
“A couple hours…why?” Mom asks, her eyes fixed on the hand written stuffing recipe in the notebook on the counter.
“I need to go grab a book I left on campus,” I lie. “I’ll be back.” I grab my coat and slide out the door just as Carm opens her mouth to argue.
The city is quiet as I let my feet carry me up the steps of the MBTA. The train is fifteen minutes late which means I’m shorter on time than I want to be when I reach Cumberland Park, just on the outskirts of campus. The cobblestone streets are uneven as I weave past the closed store fronts my peers frequent but have always been astronomically out of my price range. I always aspired to be here, to be able to afford one of these three story walk ups, the townhomes owned by almost every family at my school but being here on Thanksgiving, seeing how quiet it is, how empty, I find that I miss Nancy yelling at me on the street, the obnoxious blinking of Marcus’ open sign that you can see clear down the road. My community, or at least a community. Here, you can tell it really is just every man for himself.
The black doorway of my father’s corner townhouse is ominous, the giant gold knocker something out of a horror movie. I know he isn’t home, know he’s out of town on business like he is most holidays, so it’s a safe time to visit the person I’m really here to see. I lift the large gold bar letting it thud heavily against the wood door frame before raising it again and again until I hear a latch, the sound of a lock turning. The door creeps open and I notice inside the curtains are all closed, the home masked in shadow as Ian pokes his head out, his face uncertain until he realizes it’s me, and he raises an eyebrow.
“You’re alone?” I ask, peeking around him.
“Obviously.” He rolls his eyes.
“But it’s Thanksgiving…” I trail off realizing he’s telling the truth.
“Just another day in the fabulous life of Ian Rivers. How can I help you Andrew?” He’s annoyed and impatient—typical for him.
“You said you’d take care of my mom…my sister…if this all goes to shit.”
Something like excitement flickers in his eyes. “I’m not a monster, Andy. Of course I would.”
I nod, because I believe him. Because even though the past few years I’ve told myself the opposite, I do believe that he and I can be good, despite the man who made us.
“I’m in.” I nod and I watch a cheshire like grin grow on his face.
“Come on in, brother.” He opens the door wide for me to enter. “We’ve got work to do.”
22
Sloane
“I need those.”
Swiping the keys Grant was just eyeing off Evie’s pristine marble counter, I brush past him and cut toward the sink to rinse the apple in my hand. The window kitchen curtains flutter in the icy breeze that pulls in, shaking the roses Evie just snipped from the bush in the back this morning.
I spin to find Grant glaring, not even bothering to hide the twitch in his jaw, lifting his gaze past me as he pulls in a breath. “Take Clem’s car.”
Something about Atlanta amplifies the tit for tat we’ve engaged in since probably the womb. Avoiding him in Boston was simple enough, what with my long days at the conservatory in the lead up to the Nutcracker and his long nights at practice. But here, back home with nothing to do but shoot him daggers anytime he even starts to mention that I’m not in California, we can’t help but run into each other like this.
“I like that one.” In all fairness, we both love Beau’s 1969 Mach 1 Cobra Jet, probably because it’s the car he’d use when he’d take us out one on one. ButIlove it more.
I cock my head to the side, flaring my eyes as I cross my arms only for him to scoff and grab the keys to the Mercedes instead. An eruption of deeply held emotion regarding the woman he’s probably left on read all week, would’ve been welcome. More than that, I’d hoped he’d asked about our mom by now, would have wondered why I’ve been seeing her in the first place.
Instead, silent irritation comes off him in waves as he passes through the heavy front doors, letting them fall shut with an aggressive thud. Sinking my teeth into the ruby red apple I’m clutching, I tell myself I have time to convince him to see Connie. That before things really take a turn, I’ll get him to her, give her a chance to tell him she’s sick, to make amends. Maybe tomorrow I can convince him, or whenever one of us ends up folding with a hollow apology.
Footsteps sound on the staircase, and my frustration slowly fades away.
“Okay—is this better?” Clementine huffs a sigh, letting her plaid trench slip just far enough off her shoulders to expose the denim mini dress I forced her to try over her burgundy turtleneck. The trousers—that I’m sure the sales associate told her were multifunctional—were not going to cut it for dinner in Buckhead.
“Yes,” I tell her, pleased that we’re the same size shoe, admiring the way my black thigh highs wrap around her long legs. She really doesn’t know how lethal she can look when she plays to her strengths. “Does your program dress code saypretend this is a nunnery?”
Her laughter sounds behind me as we head towards the car, sliding into the cool leather with the relief of two teen girls who just escaped Beau Fielder’s interrogation before a night of near debauchery.
“The goal isn’t really to woo patients. It’s to therapizethem,” she says as her laughter dissipates, her brows lifting when she notices Grant sitting in the G-wagon. “What is he doing?”
