“Let’s burn it down.”
“I’ll block the exits, you find the matches,” James replies, looking over the party.
It’s ostensibly a fundraiser, held in the opulent Park Avenue gloom of Jamie’s childhood home, redolent with secret laughs, moneyed smiles, the soft hiss of champagne. Harp music—sedate, sly—winks under the throng of well-dressed, well-regarded bankers and their wives, their lawyers, their politicians, their children. On the walls, dark paintings of naval battles contrast with the Francis Bacon nude over the fireplace; chandeliers drip crystal, flower arrangements bloom large as coffins. Balancing platters of drinks, waitstaff negotiate their way through the crowd of Herrera and Packham dresses, bespoke suits,Mayflowerlast names. Not for the first time, Lili wonders how James emerged from his childhood relatively unscathed.
“What exactly is your stepmom raising money for?” she asks, torn between distaste and skeptical amusement. Tax breaks masquerading as philanthropy; there’s enough money here to fix most problems, if only they’d actually try. It’s a familiar feeling, this sense of hovering on the margins, an outsider looking in. Not just in relation to the wealth lacing the room—but with most people in general. But she comes for Jamie. She girds herself to perform.
“Children? Land mine victims, I think... no, wait—child soldiers who were also the victims of land mines?”
“Stop before you dig a hole you can’t crawl out of,” Lili advises, trying to adjust the floor-length hem of her borrowed black dress so the aggressive slit settles more conservatively; Amina has several inches of height on her.
“Ami was really going to wear that?” James asks, wistful.
“Eyes up here,” she grumbles.
It’s Friday evening, and she’s here as a favor. Amina’s parents were unexpectedly in town from Europe, and Amina had retreated into her usual terse anxiety at the prospect of time with them.Could you go with Jamietonight to the fundraiser?she’d implored Lili that morning.I have a dress and everything. Please—I promised he wouldn’t have to go alone.
Lili had said yes, because they always tried to make sure James never went to these family functions alone, however much he reassured them he was fine—It’s been almost four years since she died, I’m not an invalid,he’d snapped once—and because she was finally free for the foreseeable future: her revision submitted to Kerr that morning, their check-in meeting that afternoon. As she’d left his office, buzzing from too much coffee and good discussion, she’d felt something like satisfaction—pride—growing.
She’d done it: revised her thesis, and did a fucking good job, too.
On the train back from Columbia to Tribeca, her phone kept buzzing with texts from her friends. She stifled a smile, reading their congratulations and plans for tonight’s celebrations. She kept checking her other messages, too; wanting to see a text from him, without being willing to send one first.Sunday,she told herself as she got back to the loft.He’s back on Sunday.In the master bathroom, she unzipped the borrowed garment bag with Amina’s dress. A small bag of her own toiletries perched on the marble counter.
It had been easier to focus if she just stayed at the loft. Over the course of the week, the dining table became littered with her draft revisions, her open books, empty coffee mugs. She’d savored the rigor of hours of uninterrupted, strenuous writing, with minimal human interaction save for conversation with Louis when she went out for air, and a flustered exchange with housekeeping, reassuring them that she did not need the fridge restocked or rooms cleaned, she was just staying a few days.
Looking up, hours later, it’d be dark outside. Traffic thick on Broadway, restaurants bustling—and she could keep working, or take a bath, or nestle into the couch and read. Freedom, loose on her skin, a relaxing fit, even borrowed.
Every so often, a sharp spike of anxiety reared, reminding her how delicate this was.
This is temporary,she’d think.All of this. Enjoy it while it lasts.
“Do you think you have to trade your soul to get this far in finance?” she asks James now, glancing over the party; trying to push away how she’sbenefited from wealth of this scale, in a different form, this week. “How many deals with the devil are we looking at here?”
“I mean, I technically work in finance,” he counters, tugging at his collar in discomfort. His tie is too tight.
Lili sighs, reaching up to loosen the knot. “You’re the boss’s son and perhaps the least-motivated analyst Goldman has ever seen,” she corrects, adjusting the fit so he can breathe better. “I don’t think nepotism counts as working.”
“I’ve been thinking about going rogue,” he confesses, grinning.
“You mean moving to LA and fucking off?”
“Hush. No, I’ve been talking to some seed-stage funds focused on underrepresented founders. Women, people of color. Thinking about using my trust fund, getting involved as a LP. I mean, depends on who’d want to partner with me. My charm does have some limits.”
She frowns, taken aback. “Jamie, that actually sounds good.”
“Don’t act so surprised.” He grins again, chucking her under her chin. “I might get offended. I contain both brains and beauty, it’s almost unfair for the rest of you—Jesus,hide me, my brother just walked in.”
Lili scoffs as he ducks behind her. “Yes, I’m the perfect height to hide behind.”
“You scare William.”
She grins. “I do?”
“Yeah, ever since you eviscerated him for spying on you and Amina skinny-dipping last summer. You accused him of sexualizing female joy, I don’t think he’d heard that many polysyllabic words since the SATs.”
“Oh, I remember that!” Lili nods fondly. “Great day.”
“On bad days you scare me, too.”
