And it would feel like I was doing something meaningful. I like the idea that I could be a small part of someone’s transformation.
“You know,” I say slowly, “I’ve always wondered whether Aunt Grace would have spiraled so badly if she’d gotten help earlier.” My aunt became depressed after my uncle died. Everything started piling up, and she couldn’t dig herself out.
Obviously, her hoarding was a manifestation of her bigger, more complicated issues that required therapy and maybe medication. But giving people a fresh start, a clean break, agood foundation, could help them feel more in control. Happier. Better able to tackle life.
Sadie’s smile is gentle. “Once we’re established, we could take on pro bono clients—people who couldn’t ordinarily afford us. People like Aunt Grace, even, if they want the help.”
I watch her, scared to react, needing to think of all the angles before I show my excitement. Sadie, in contrast, doesn’t need that time. She’s ready to hang a proverbial shingle on a storefront. Bless her, she’s all perky, optimistic sunshine, which is a balm for my more practical, overthinking soul.
“I understand—change is scary. But it can also be awesome,” she urges, her eyes sparkling. “Let’s face it. Your life’s destiny is to Marie Kondo the shit out of everyone. And mine is to make it all pretty.”
And that’s why I’m so unsettled. Because it’s true. Changeisscary. When we were young, change usually meant devastation and disarray. Our mom dying. Our dad in an ever-revolving cycle of sobriety and addiction.
I’ve stayed stagnant for so long, needing control. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that change always comes, whether you want it to or not.
What do I have to lose besides a stable job?
A stable job with Sebastian.
It’s hard to even imagine anything different. He’s been the center of my life for so long. Anxiety ripples through me at the thought of losing that core. At not having him at the start of my every day and at the end of my every night.
Except… he’s moving on now as well. His friends have been settling down. How much longer will it be before he makes that same leap? And what will my place be when another woman has moved into the mansion? Allegra or someone like her. Would I even still have my job? Because I don’t know that any womancould keep herself from resenting the central place I hold in his life.
“It’s something to think about,” I hedge. “When the time is right.”
But deep inside, I know that change is already here. And I fear that if I don’t change as well, I’ll be left behind.
CHAPTER 7
Sebastian
The weekend rolls around again.The day is only half over, but I prowl my mansion, wandering through empty rooms with echoing walls and soaring ceilings.
The estate was built for another era, a time of uniformed servants and grand parties. I’ve held on to it all this time because selling it feels like severing my last tie to my grandparents, but it’s too big for one person. The cavernous halls make being home alone feel even more isolating. And today I have nothing scheduled.
Allegra’s in London, and Chase and Ryder are probably with their women, but I could meet up with my other so-called friends to hang out. My famous last name means I can get in anywhere, no RSVP or reservation needed.
Except, visiting the land of excess and lost souls has waned in its appeal since leaving drugs behind. I’m sick of the same people and conversations. The LA social scene is far less fun when I’m not smashed out of my mind.
Old habit has me standing next to my bar and reaching for a bottle of a rare fifty-year-old whisky recently gifted to me by a producer. My other hand settles on my grandfather’s favorite cut-crystal tumbler, which is now mine. The weight of the glass feels familiar, comforting. I think about that first sip. And then I think of where that’s led me in the past.
Drugs were always my problem, not alcohol. So I still have the occasional drink. But recently, I’ve become stricter because it’s a slippery slope. A few years ago, I found myself going down the road of one drink turning to two, which led to wanting things that weren’t good for me. So now I avoid hard liquor. And I never drink alone.
“Fuck,” I swear and force myself to walk away from the bar.
My phone rings. At first, I think the distraction is welcome. Until I see that it’s my mother. She doesn’t call unless she has an agenda.
“Darling,” she purrs when I answer.
“Mother. What can I do for you?” I ask as politely as I can.
“Sebastian, can’t a mother want to talk to her son?” She giggles. It’s subtle, but I hear a slurring in her words. She’s abused prescription medicine as long as I can remember. Something to help her wake, something to help her sleep, and something to smooth out her mood. I’ve tried to convince her to get help many times over the years. It’s never worked.
I wait.
It’s her turn to sigh, an aggrieved sound from across the world. I’m tempted to ask her where she is now. Monaco? Somewhere in the South of France? I’d guess Bali, but the whole bohemian thing she was doing last year died with her relationship to the twenty-five-year-old boyfriend who liked living in glamorous tree houses and partying it up at beach clubs.
“Fine. I do want you to do something. I want you to try harder with your father. He’s in LA now. He’s going to theActors’ International Critics event today. You know, the drinks thing they throw at Chateau Marmont every year.”
