“Vienna’s my best friend,” I said. “And I want to be part of Libby and Kitty’s crowd, I want to be taken seriously, I want people to stop making up rumors about the most salacious thing they can imagine me doing.” The current winner of the title: a sex actwith one of the dinosaur skeletons at the Museum of Natural History. “But none of it’s worth it if I have to be mean to my friend. That’s how I’m trying to live.”
She blinked, as if she’d truly never considered it before. “Huh. Vienna’s always been really kind to me too. And I’ve…” More blinking in fast succession. “I should be better to her. I’m going to try to be better to her.”
“I’m glad,” I said sincerely. Then nodded at the cake stand. “I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t get one of those cakes on a stick. You want to share? We can bring one back to our guys to make up for ditching them.” Hopefully they’d found something to talk about. Probably how delicious and/or terrible yak was.
“Sure.”
We got in line, and neither of us even complained as it inched forward, even though it was in direct sunlight and I could practically feel the skin cancer bubbling up on my shoulders (I’d done so much tanning as a teenager that I knew it was only a matter of time). “So, you and Kevin,” I said. “You make a cute couple.”
She wrinkled her nose, but her light tone didn’t reflect whatever feeling was scrunched up there. “You think so? People definitely judge us for the age difference, but it wasn’t like we met on an app where his age range was set only to girls in their twenties. We met at a benefit for young musicians where he was funding a scholarship, and I don’t think he even realized that I was twenty years younger than him.” Her lips quirked. “He’s trying out wearing a wig today. Apparently he’s self-conscious about balding, which, hello, really drives the age difference home.”
I was in a tricky position here—either I could nod along and risk her realizing she’d said she looked old and that I was agreeing with her, or I could disagree, tell her how young and fresh she looked, and then her boyfriend would come off as a creep. Fortunately, she spoke again, before I had to make a decision. “I thought it would be tougher than it was,” she said. “Considering where he came from. Honestly, I was a little excited about being withsomebody who might shake things up a little. But even Libby and Kitty like him. I guess he’s been in society so long that he knows all the unspoken rules.” We moved up in line. She gave me a sidelong glance, which was impressive, considering the delicious smells wafting toward us from the booth. “Not like your man.”
I sighed. “So you’ve noticed?” We both snorted. Little snorts, not big ones like Bibi’s. “It’s definitely a change. But I think it’s a bigger one for him. During my fall from grace, I was totally shocked by how most people live out there. I had no idea what I was doing. Did you know that most people in this city don’t have laundry machines in their apartment?”
“Hmm.” Her brow wrinkled as if she was thinking hard. “I’m not sure if I have laundry machines. My clean laundry just… appears.”
We stepped up to the front of the line and ordered a brown sugar cake. I realized belatedly, as they handed it to us, that there was no real, neat way to use a utensil to eat this cake or to divide it between us. We’d have to gnaw at the cake, biting over each other’s teeth marks like savages. “Thank you,” I called as we stepped away. Persimmon hadn’t thanked the vendor. As much as she’d like to think she was so different from my old friends…
“Anyway, I think it’s been hard for him to try and fit into our world,” I continued as we stepped aside. I wouldn’t go into too many details—I didn’t know Persimmon well enough to really spill; who knew what she might spread around or try to use against me later—but it wasn’t like Gabe’s struggles were some well-kept secret. “I’ve been meaning to ask Kevin if he has any advice. Maybe I should buy Gabe his book.”
“Ugh, don’t bother.” Persimmon leaned in conspiratorially. Her hair brushed my cheek. Honestly, it smelled better than the cake. I had to try whatever she was using. “He didn’t even write it.”
“Well, obviously. No one writes their own books.” Writing a business book, like writing a political book, was basically a money-laundering scheme. My grandparents had a book all abouttheir rise to success as the founders of Afton Hotels. They’d given a bunch of interviews to some ghostwriter, who’d actually written the book, and then the hotel bulk-bought, like, a million copies to give away at business retreats and stuff and wrote it all off on their taxes.
Maybe I could break the cycle. A little thrill ran through me at the thought. Everybody wanted my memoir, and I’d assumed I’d have to find an excellent ghostwriter with the skill of capturing my voice—a difficult, if not impossible, task. But maybe I wouldn’t do that. Maybe I’d tell my own story. Writing a book couldn’t bethathard.
I shook the thought away. Not the time. “The fact that he didn’t write it doesn’t mean there isn’t anything good in there. I assume the ghostwriter spent lots of time with him to try and make it as accurate as possible.”
Persimmon rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding? I read the thing back when we first started dating to try and get to know him better without, you know, talking to him. The whole thing’s full of empty inspirational platitudes. ‘The only one who can pull yourself up is you.’ ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ ‘If I could do it, anyone can do it.’ Blah, blah, blah.”
Unfortunate. Maybe he wasn’t as charitable as he wanted people to think and didn’t really want people to be able to imitate his ascent. Just pay to hear all about it.
Before I could respond and ask her what she thought about my own potential book deal, my phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. It was possible it might have been buzzing all throughout our altercation and I had been too busy showing how serious I was to notice.
The first thing I saw as I pulled it out was a bunch of text notifications, topmost from Gabe. Could the man please have some patience while I was off mending a cataclysmic rift in society? The first one he sent me told me that yak tasted like gamy beef. The second, I guess from a new line he was waiting in, asked if I’drather have pork bao or shrimp bao; the third asked if I wanted some watermelon boba tea because the girls next to him in line told him it was “dreamy.”
But then it took a turn.Pom, why are reporters calling me?
Oh. That’s why.
It’s not true, is it?
No. I know it’s not true. Of course it’s not true.
I’m not supposed to talk to them, right? I don’t want to talk to them.
Somebody just cornered me behind the pierogi tent. Help!
I grimaced. One exclamation point from Gabe was the exact equivalent of seven exclamation points (and probably an emoji or two) from a regular person.
I ignored most of the other texts, which were from family and friends with an assortment of variations onIs it true???I did take a second to dip into the one from Vienna, which gave me the name of a “fixer” who could “take care” of “this” for me before “it” got any bigger.
???????
I clicked over to Google, which I probably should’ve done in the first place, and to my usual Google Alert for my name. It popped up right away. The headline:
Trouble in Pomona Afton’s Paradise? Not only is the socialite and Razzie Award–winning actress’s charity venture crumbling, but there are rumblings about her relationship too.
