“Europe?”
“Australia.”
Alex hums appreciatively. “Enjoy retirement.”
“It’s not…” Robert trails off, then says, “Thank you.” He heads for the front door, pulls it open. “Don’t forget what I said about BTH. You’re in a strong position of leverage right now. If I gave you anything besides good looks, it’s the Harrison hustle.”
“Says the early retiree.”
His father raps his fingers on the door. “Don’t be so sure about that.”
As soon as it closes behind him, I pop open the pantry door and peek around the edge of it. Alex slides across the floor in black socks, flicking the front lock closed. I barrel-roll out of the pantry, and by the time I look up, he’s above me, offering a hand.
“Your dad seems…”
Alex hauls me to my feet. “Demanding? Authoritative?”
I frown. “I was going to say it seems like he doesn’t know how to act around you.”
“That’s because we’re only one degree removed from strangers.” He looks down, at the folded white envelope in his hand, the faint outline of a single key within. Eyes glazed, he shakes his head and murmurs, “He’s never invited me to his home. Not the one in New Havenorthe one on the Upper East Side. And he’s certainly never called mesonbefore.”
I’m proud of you, son.
A small, barely there flame of hope glimmers behind Alex’s eyes. It twists my stomach up in knots. Because I know the feeling, in a way.
I have my own issues with my parents. Frankly, I don’t think there’s ever been a child that, at some point or another,hasn’tfelt less than enough. It shows up differently for all of us, but for me, not feeling enough looks like a teenage kid staring at her parents’ bodies of work—plaques and portraits and signed guitars and old refurbished cameras—andknowingtheir legacy is marked on the world. It’s there. Tangible. Art they created, together, and apart.
The absolutely mortifying thing is that their biggest expression of humanity was supposed to be me—andthisis how I turned out.
Crying in art class because I don’tgetit.
Stage fright so bad I pee a little.
And then, this strange sense of calm, of certainty, when I discovered an old book of sudoku puzzles at the recording studio. When I could calculate the exact grocery bill before the machine. When my brain started to estimate the net worth of all my parents’ art—every royalty, every gallery sale—and I wondered if I’d ever see the world the way they saw it. As an expression. Not an equation.
But despite it—despiteallof it—I’ve never,everquestioned that they love me.
Yet here Alex is, brilliant, one of a kind, misty-eyed because hisdad doesn’t want him to quit his job anymore, said he was proud, called himson,and did it all to soften the blow of leaving Alex behind to battle Robert’s own worst enemy.
“I should go,” I whisper, my voice thick with emotion. Suddenly everything’s hitting me wrong, and my suspension of disbelief that any of this is normal has ended.
Alex’s attention snaps back to me. The hand he used to pull me up, still interlaced with mine, tugs. He looks down at my body covered inhisclothes, and his face changes into something more concentrated. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I really should.” I look down at myself. “I’m covered in bar tar, and sweat, and fragrance-scented laundry detergent remnants.”
“Shower. If you want,” Alex says. “There’s hot water for another hour.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I should head out. I told Mir we’d hang today.”
I pull my hand from his and cross to the bed, where my clothes, shoes, and purse got stuffed beneath the comforter before Alex opened the door for his dad. I change in the bathroom, leave the clothes he let me borrow folded neatly on the foot of his bed. Alex hovers, waiting, watching me.
“Well. Thanks for…” I gesture around lamely. “This.”
“You’re welcome anytime.”
“I’m welcome to hide in your murder closetanytime?”
“Next time, I’ll even let you taste test one of my beers while you’re in there.”
