Chapter 1
The Diagnosis
PRESTON
There is a specific kind of silence that only exists in the Hamptons.
It isn't a peaceful silence. It is the heavy, suffocating weight of old money, suppressed emotions, and the collective unspoken agreement that we are all having a wonderful time, even though we would rather be undergoing root canal surgery without anesthesia.
"The Hollandaise is separated," my mother announces.
She says it with the same gravity one might use to announce a nuclear warhead is inbound. Catherine York sits at the head of the patio table, wearing white linen and oversized sunglasses. She prods the Eggs Benedict with a silver fork, looking betrayed.
"I’ll have the chef shot immediately, Mother," I say, taking a sip of my mimosa.
"Don't shoot him yet," Jax says, shovelling a forkful of theoffending eggs into his mouth. "He makes good bacon. Priorities, Catherine."
Dr. Jax O’Connell—Chief of Trauma, my brother’s now long term boyfriend, and the only person allowed to wear jeans at a York brunch—winks at me. He looks wildly out of place among the crystal and linen, like a golden retriever that crashed a cat show.
"It’s about standards, Jackson," Catherine sighs, abandoning her plate. "If we stop caring about the emulsion of our sauces, we might as well be animals."
"Animals have better instincts," my father mutters. Alistair York is currently staring at a sailboat on the horizon like he is calculating the insurance payout if he sinks it. "Animals don't invite their children to brunch at 10:00 AM on a Sunday."
“You didn’t invite all of us, Father," Maxwell says, buttering a piece of toast with surgical precision. “Preston lives here, remember?”
I laugh, stealing a strawberry from Maxwell’s plate. Max slaps my hand away, but he is smiling.
"Leave the boy alone, Max," Jax says, stealing a piece of bacon from Alistair’s plate. Alistair doesn't even blink; he just moves his mimosa closer to protect it. "Preston needs his strength. Lifting that champagne flute is a workout."
"It’s heavier than it looks," I counter, raising my glass to Jax. "It’s crystal lead. Very dangerous."
"Preston," Catherine says, turning her sunglasses toward me. "Now that you’ve had your little...sabbatical... have you given any thought to your future? You graduated from Yale at nineteen, darling. You are currently twenty. You have been 'finding yourself' for twelve months. Did you find anything, or are we still looking?"
"I was thinking of becoming a professionalvagrant," I offer, leaning back and letting the ocean breeze mess up my hair. "I hear the benefits are terrible, but the travel is extensive."
Maxwell rolls his eyes. "Mother is asking if you are ready to take your seat on the Foundation Board."
"The Board," I repeat.
"It’s a good position," Alistair grunts. "You show up once a month. You drink the scotch. You vote 'yes' on whatever I propose. It’s the York family way."
"It would suit you, darling," Catherine adds. "You’ve always been so good at... mingling. And the hours are very civilized. No night shifts."
"Plus, the chairs are ergonomic," Jax adds helpfully. "Good lumbar support for all that napping you do."
I feel a slight prickle of irritation.Mingling. Napping.As if my entire existence can be reduced to holding a champagne flute.
I look at Max, expecting him to back me up. Expecting him to say,Preston has a brain, you know.
Instead, Maxwell nods.
"She’s right, Pres," he says, his voice warm, reasonable, and utterly condescending. "The Board is perfect for you. You’d hate a real job."
I freeze. "Excuse me?"
Maxwell chuckles. "Come on. You like your sleep. You like your silk sheets. You called 911 when you saw that spider in the bathroom last Christmas."
"It was a wolf spider!" I protest. "It had fur, Max! It made eye contact with me!"
