“Eight bathrooms,” Townsend corrects. “And this is nothing. You should see my friend Jackson’s house.” He knows it’s not nothing—this 7,500-square-foot home—but it’s all he’s ever known, so nothing about it feels extraordinary. It does feel good, however, to see Talia—who usually does a good impression of someone accustomed to wealth—slip and expose her greed. She can pretend to be unfazed by his building’s luxury amenities—which include a private spa and wine cellar—but on occasion, he still catches whiffs of it, like an inoffensive but potent odor: hunger. And he is more than happy to keep her fed.
He likes giving her a taste of this world, and her gratitude reminds him that he should feel more thankful himself. Not everyone has his status and privilege. A memory comes to mind of Amanda holding up one of his vintage Patek Philippe watches—inherited from his father and made almost entirely from 18-karat yellow gold—and asking, “Don’t you feel like an asshole owning a golden watch when there are people in your own country starving?”
“It was a gift,” Townsend said. “Am I supposed to donate it to an orphanage?”
She grinned in response, showing off the dimple in her right cheek that he loved. “Or you can donate it to me. I’ll make sure it goes to a good cause.”
Nope. He’s not thinking about Amanda today. Townsend takes another sip of his drink, washing away all thoughts of her.
“I can’t believe how many people are here,” Talia continues. “My parents don’t know this many people.”
Her parents. Townsend hasn’t heard Talia mention her estranged family since the birthday brunch with Mother at the club. He’s tempted to follow up with a question, but when he turns, he finds her gaze directed at the floor—her way of sayingI don’t want to talk about it,as he’s learned. It’s time to change the subject. “Sure I can’t get you a drink?”
Talia shakes her head no. “I feel like I’ve just recovered from all that wine I had last Friday with Meera.”
Fucking Meera again. Townsend bites his tongue. He doesn’t want to start another fight, so instead, he takes her by the hand. “Let me introduce you around.”
For the next hour, he leads Talia around the party, stopping every few feet to present her to a new family member or friend. She meets Townsend’s little sister Blake and her giggly friends, his racist aunt Ruth with the botched fillers, his childhood T-ball coach, the lesbian neighbors his mom considers herself very progressive for inviting, and—of course—the old St. Augustine gang.
“Y’all remember Talia, right? And Tal, this is Brett, Warren, and Jackson.” Townsend points to each guy as he names them, feeling slightly guilty that he’s avoided them all summer so far. But they must understand: They’re still doing the same old shit (drinking, dating around, going to Party Island) while he’s grown up.
“Nice to see you all again.” Talia smiles brightly, and he can feel his friends’ envy; she may not have the pedigree, but damn, does she have a nice smile.
“Nicole is somewhere around here too,” Brett says. Townsend didn’t think they’d last through the summer, but apparently Nicole and Brett are still going strong. “She’s probably out back smoking with my brother and hoping your mom doesn’t catch them.”
“We’re not in high school anymore, dude. My mom doesn’t care if you smoke.” Townsend isn’t sure he believes this even as he says it. Then something occurs to him. “Wait, your brother is here?”
“Yeah. Like I said, you’ll probably find him out by the pool.”
As discreetly as he can, Townsend brings his mouth to Talia’s ear. “Babe, will you be okay if I leave you here for a minute? I just want to have a word with Orson.”
“Sure,” Talia says, though her eyes betray her nervousness. He’s thankful that she knows enough not to cling to him. Few things are less attractive in a woman than clinginess.
As Brett suspected, Orson is by the pool with Nicole, a glass of whiskey in one hand and the other wrapped around the waist of Nicole’s friend Chrissy. Are they an item now? Townsend really is out of the loop.
“Ladies.” He nods to Nicole and Chrissy. “Long time no see.”
“Look who it is.” Nicole gives him a clownish grin. “We haven’t seen you all summer. That lady friend of yours really has you pussy whipped.”
Townsend cringes at this. “I’ve actually been busy expanding my company’s platform. Speaking of which”—he turns to Orson and offers his hand—“thanks again for taking that meeting with me, man.”
Orson removes his hand from Chrissy’s hip to shake. “Of course, dude.”
“Any word yet from the team at Silicon Hills? I’ve pitched a few VC firms, but I’m still waiting to find the right match.” Townsend thinks again of that mortifying Reddit comment, which has been haunting him since he first read it:He pitched his healthcare startup, AutoInTune, to us last week. It was kind of a shitshow TBH.If Orson really wrote that, Townsend is going to get him to admit it.
“Oh, c’mon.” Orson takes a swig of his whiskey, his discomfort palpable. “It’s a party. Let’s not talk shop here.”
“It’s been weeks. I’d love to just get some feedback.” He’s pushing too hard, Townsend knows this, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Those spicy palomas must be heavy on the tequila.
“We’ll talk soon, okay? Soon.” Orson pats him on the shoulder and then points back into the house. “Right now, I think someone else may need your attention.”
It doesn’t take Townsend long to find who Orson is referencing. There, in the sitting room, he sees his worst nightmare: Mother talking to Talia, their faces too close. As if on cue, Talia turns to look at him, her eyes panicked.
“Dammit.” Townsend grabs another paloma from a passing tray and hurries inside.
By the time he pushes his way through the kitchen and into the sitting room—it seems the party has doubled in size in the past hour—Talia’s head is bobbing rhythmically, the clear sign of a person who has stopped listening and started planning their escape. Townsend touches the small of her back, and she turns.
“All good over here? What are you two talking about?”
