When she finally emerged, bright-eyed and rosy cheeked, it was to the sound of a severe thunderstorm warning buzzing on their phones. The skies raged as they stood side by side in the empty lobby, their hands hanging loose between them. As lightning forked across the sky, he felt the faintest brush of her pinkie against his knuckle.
He thought maybe he was going just a little bit insane.
They began a new and disconcerting ritual in the following days. Every night after the Farrows finished their dinner, he slumped onto the living room couch to watch TV. Every night, Vivienne appeared like clockwork—drowning in a sweatshirt four sizes too big, her hair in damp braids. She’d curl onto the adjacent cushion, tailed by the dogs. Thomas spent the next hour pretending to watch a show, hyperaware of every shift and sigh. Most nights, Vivienne fell asleep. He’d shut off the television and drape her in a blanket, then leave as quietly as he could.
On the fourth night, he made a mistake. He hadn’t meant to do it—it was only that he’d been so tired, and the flicker of the television lulled him into a daze. Before he knew it, he woke to the distinct snap of fingers directly beneath his nose. He came to slowly and then all at once, becoming aware of two horrible things in immediate succession.
First, Vivienne was draped across him, her head on his chest, his arm around her waist.
Second—and worse—Amelia Farrow was standing over them. She was dressed in silver sequins, her eyes puffy from crying. Out in the foyer, Philip Farrow’s office door slammed shut. Something heavy shattered against the wall.
Vivienne knifed upright at the sound, wild and bleary-eyed. Thomas took the opportunity to extricate himself from the couch. For a single, tense moment, no one said a thing.
It was Amelia who broke the silence. “Vivienne, go up to your room.”
Vivienne didn’t move.
“Vivienne.”Her name cracked out of her mother like a whip. “Now. Before Philip sees.”
With no small amount of venom in her stare, Vivienne crept from the living room and headed upstairs. The dogs followed her out in a sorry, single-file line. Thomas and Amelia were left alone. On the television, a great white shark slid through a crush of endless blue.
“I’m sure you’re aware how utterly inappropriate that was,” said Amelia.
“Yes, ma’am.” Thomas’s heart was a cold, wet rock. It sat heavy in his stomach.
Amelia swayed just a little, visibly wine-drunk. “You’re lucky it was me that found the two of you, and not my husband.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She frowned up at him, her eyes glassy. Backlit by the television, she looked extremely frail. Not like something delicate enough to be broken, but like something that had already been snapped in two.
“Is that all you know how to say,” she asked with a hiccup, “‘yes, ma’am’?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, and winced.
“I care about my daughter.” She sounded defensive, as though he’d accused her otherwise. “I don’t want you to hurt her.”
“I won’t,” he promised.
“You already are.” The words came out jagged. The look on her face was one of complete disdain. “The next time I find you alone with her when you shouldn’t be, you’re fired.”
With that, she staggered out of the room, leaving him alone.
•••
The next day was Saturday. The start of his weekend off. The sun broke through the trees as he tossed his duffle bag into the rusted bed of his beaten old Ford. He’d just managed to slam the tailgate shut when a sleek silver convertible pulled to a stop behind him. The man that climbed out looked only a few years his senior, dressed for a day of sailing in boat shoes and chinos.
“Nice ride,” he said, lifting his sunglasses to examine the truck. “ ’07?”
“ ’06,” said Thomas.
“You fix it up yourself?”
“With my uncle.”
The man made a sound of approval and stuck out his hand. “I’m Bryce,” he said. “Bryce Donahue.”
“Thomas,” said Thomas, and left it at that.
