I hold her gaze, searching for words that won’t ruin everything. I want to tell her about Claire, about the lie, about the ticking time bomb we’re all sitting on. But how do you destroy someone’s happiness when they’re looking at you like you’re part of the solution? Instead, I kiss her like I’m trying to stop time through lip contact alone.
She nestles into me, melting into the moment, fingers finding my hair with the familiarity of someone who knows exactly where I’m sensitive. We move together without hurry, like we have forever, like tomorrow isn’t lurking with its inevitable revelations. I lift her with the power that comes from ballet-enhanced strength—turns out grand pliés are good for more than just hamstring repair—carrying her toward the bedroom.
She pulls my shirt over my head, fingertips tracing my body. Her touch finds scars from hockey, new muscle definition from ballet, the places where I’m still becoming whoever I’m becoming.
The sheets are cool beneath us, but her skin is warm. My lips travel down her collarbone on a journey south, and when she gasps my name, it sounds like absolution. For a while, nothing else exists. Not the looming lockout. Not the trade rumors. Not the secret that’s eating me alive from the inside. Just this—two bodies trying to say things words can’t capture. Just us, pretending tomorrow isn’t coming with its invoices for today’s happiness.
The pasta was perfect. The wine was excellent. The evening was everything it should be. Except for the part where it’s all built on a foundation that’s about to crack, and I’m just here, holding her in the dark, pretending I don’t hear the crackling of everything about to fall apart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Newman townhouse tells of Upper East Side money that predates income tax. The five-story Beaux Arts mansion is tucked behind manicured hedges and gates that look borrowed from Versailles.
Inside, the air has that specific quality of expensiveness. The ceilings stretch toward heaven. Crown moldings remain untouched by time or taste, restored rather than replaced because when you have this kind of money, you preserve history rather than update it.
Bunny Newman moves through these rooms like she was born to them, though a quick Google search (conducted in a moment of pre-meeting panic) revealed she married into this altitude of wealth. She’s wearing what I assume is casual wear for the obscenely rich: silk that whispers when she moves, jewelry that glimmers and blinds but somehow isn’t ostentatious.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say, taking a sip from a bone china cup so delicate I’m afraid my hands might crush it through proximity alone.
She smiles from her throne—sorry, Louis XVI armchair—upholstered in velvet.
“Thank you, dear. It’s been in Harold’s family since the early nineteen-aughts. Before that, one of the Rockefellers owned it back when this part of the city was only for the old-money elite.” As opposed to now, when it’s for…the old-money elite plus Russian oligarchs.
I let my gaze wander the museum-quality room that somehow still feels lived in. “You kept a lot of the original features.”
She nods. It’s obvious she’s never had to choose between authenticity and affordability. “The fireplaces, the moldings, even the mahogany paneling in the library—all original. Though I did redo the kitchen. No one wants to cook in a gilded age relic from the 1880s.”
I chuckle, carefully setting my tea down on a marble coffee table.
“So, thanks again for agreeing to meet with me,” I say, sitting forward in a chair that makes me hyperaware of my posture.
“Of course, dear. What is it that you wanted to discuss?”
Here goes nothing. Or everything. Possibly both.
“Well, I’m not sure if you remember, but at the ballet gala a few weeks back, Petra mentioned that her younger sister, Claire, was going to be attending Parsons.”
Bunny’s smile remains but sharpens. “Yes, of course. The school is thrilled to welcome its newest class. We’ve introduced a whole host of new professors this semester, top minds in the design world. Our last board meeting approved an expansion plan to ensure Parsons remains the preeminent design school in the world.” She delivers this like someone who’s practiced it for donors, which she probably has.
“So, without boring you with the details… Claire didn’t actually get accepted into Parsons.”
Bunny stirs her tea once, twice. No other reaction. Just stirring.
I press forward into the silence, which looks like I need to fill it with the details. “She told Petra she did because she was scared Petra would take the offer to join the Royal St. Petersburg Ballet as a principal. She didn’t want to lose her sister to another continent. It wasn’t malicious—she just panicked, and it snowballed.” Like every lie that starts small and ends up requiring congressional hearings.
Bunny sits back, studying me. Finally, she exhales quietly, her gaze drifting toward the room’s bay windows that probably have historical significance and were imported from some European country.
“Ah,” she murmurs, like she’s discovered something in the bottom of her teacup. “The ripple effect of our actions.” She takes a slow sip before continuing. “When I was younger, I lied to my mother once. Told her my father had stopped drinking.” Her eyes find mine, sharp despite the soft delivery. “I thought if she just believed it, they’d stay together. That everything would fix itself.”
I stay silent because this feels like she’s about to dispense some wisdom.
“Of course, it didn’t,” she continues. “He never stopped drinking and she knew all along. So, she left him.” A small smile emerges on her face. “But for a while, I thought I was helping.”
She taps her fingers on velvet. “I understand Claire’s impulse. We rarely anticipate the full consequences when we’re young. We just act. And we pray it turns out alright.”
Somewhere, deep down, I sense hope.
“So,” she says, “I want to help.”
