“Who?”
“He’s Harry’s brother,” I groan, but Will doesn’t show any signs of recognition. “You know, my sister’s fiancé?”
“Jesus,” Will squints at the page. “How did he end up in a gossip magazine? Is that Leonardo DiCaprio behind him?”
Marianne hits him with her magazine.
“Do you listen to anything I tell you?” she chides him. “Harry and Matthew are thesole heirs to one of the largest media companies in the world. They own NBP,Tiger Sports,Hapsbury Publishing House?—“
“And clearly notGlammagazine,” I tell her, pointing to the half-naked photo of Matthew holding up his bottle of scotch like an Oscar.
“What?” She holds it up, mimicking his careless facial expression. “I think he looks charming. Maybe he’ll teach you how to pose for your Instagram.”
I roll my eyes.
“Matthew Warren?—“
“You mean your new brother?”Marianne teases.
“Matthew Warren,” I reiterate, “Is apparently a full-blown Kardashian. Harry told me he’s constantly in Ibiza or Mykonos, bottle service, girls all over him—he wears Prada slippers, for gods’ sake.”
“Oh no, not the Mediterranean!” Marianne gasps sarcastically.
“When I was growing up, we went shopping at TJ Maxx and Goodwill,” I remind her. “So sorry if I don’t like the idea of wearing thousand-dollar shoes.”
“Stella,” Will interjects, “you sound like a snob. You can’t hate these people just because they’re rich.”
“Wha—I don’t hate them!”
“She’s right,” Marianne says. “She just hates money. She’s been trying to give all hers away as long as I’ve known her.”
“I have not!” I throw a salted cashew at her from the bag on the table, but she dodges and catches it in her mouth.
“Do too! Case in point,” she motions to the sagging bed behind her. “You would sooner risk bedbugs than spend adimeon yourself. You turned down a ride on an actual private jet to get here! Do you know how insane that is?”
Will looks like he’s just found out I drown puppies in my spare time.
“You bailed on aPJ?For a middle seat in front of the bathroom?”
“I’m terrified of heights!” I protest. “Small planes make it worse.”
“You’re terrified of wealth,” Marianne says between bites of cashew. She turns to Will. “Her dad was a full-blown Marxist. She’s never let it go.”
Marianne never met my dad, of course—by the time I arrived at the smelly dorm room Mer and I shared our first year of college, he’d been gone almost a year. But like any good prying best friend, she’s worn me down enough over the years to know the basics. My parents were hippies. Idealists. They didn’t value money the way most Americans do, probably because they spent most of their lives without much of it. My mom, until she left us to join some off-grid commune in Oaxaca, was a kindergarten teacher, and my dad was a socialworker: a man who spoke four languages and dedicated his life to helping refugees and displaced families put their lives back together. He valued compassion; hard work; integrity: priorities he made sure to pass along to his daughters. Instead of going to college, Jules saved up enough money to open her own hair salon by the time she was twenty-five. And I—well, Iwasgoing to be the first in my family with a PhD.
“I amnota Marxist,” I bite back. “I’m just not comfortable with the way the Warrens live. Jules drives a car that parks itself now, and has a sauna in her bathroom. And from what she’s told me, Harry is the ‘thrifty one’ in the family. The Warrens are just from a different world, one that I have no desire to be part of.”
“So don’t be,” she says conspiratorially. “Play nice for Jules, enjoy the bottle service, and go back home to Chicago with enough sunny memories to sustain you through your first ten years in the convent.”
“About that. I’ve had a change of heart,” I announce triumphantly, “convents are too formal. I’m thinking more along the lines of disappearing into the woods to become a witch who keeps owls and scares children away from her bog.”
“Ok, medusa.” Marianne rolls her eyes. “Justpromiseme you’ll try to have a little fun. You’re going on vacation, not to prison. And maybe they’re not as shallow as you think. Right babe?”
But Will isn’t listening. He’s peeking through the dusty white shades at whatever’s going on outside.
“Uh, Stella,” he turns back to us. “I think your ride’s here.”
He pulls up the shades to reveal the parking lot, where a uniformed driver stands by the door of a sparkling black SUV. For as much as it sticks out from the dusty trucks in the parking lot, it might as well be a horse-drawn carriage.
