Page 44 of The Accident

But it did because we were just kids. We went to different colleges—she to Wisconsin, me to Northwestern. I started drinking, started doing the whole frat boy thing, started becoming the asshole I am now. I slept with another woman, and the first time, guilt almost consumed me. But then I did it again. And again. And after the third hook-up, I didn’t feel bad anymore. Clearly, my connection to Aleatha had withered to nothing, and the young woman was history. In fact, I was so over her that I didn’t even wait to break it off in a respectful way. Instead, I dumped her during a five minute conversation when I was home over winter break, in the driveway, with the engine running because I didn’t want to be cold while I told her I was done. I thought that made it less cruel, or at least more civilized.

Aleatha didn’t cry. She just looked at me, then looked at her hands, and said, “Oh.” Like it was a test result, or a news bulletin. Like maybe she’d known all along.

I thought about her less and less. I fucked my way through college, never called, never even responded to her texts after that night. Eventually, Supriya left my father, citing “irreconcilable differences,” which is Minneapolis code for “he drinks too much and sleeps with everything that moves.” I heard that Aleatha left too. Evidently, Aleatha even dropped out of school, and moved in with her mom somewhere across town. She got a job at a garden supply store, of all places, and it was pretty much out of sight, out of mind.

So the news about her death a year later was a total surprise. Evidently, Aleatha had been suffering from severe depression combined with social isolation, and took her own life. She’d sealed herself in the garage with a garden hose and a car with a full tank. The story was that her mother found her the next morning, not even cold yet.

I don’t talk about this with anyone. Not my father, not my brother, not the trail of women who think I might someday reform. But it’s there, always: the memory of my former stepsister’s face, the way she said “Oh,” the way she looked so calm and composed even when her heart was breaking. I think about her a lot more than I should. I think about what kind of person it makes me, to walk away from someone in such a cruel fashion, and never look back. I think about how maybe I’m wired to hurt people, and how maybe I do it on purpose.

Dad told me, more than once, that I wasn’t to blame. “There’s no logic to it, Trev,” he’d say, sitting on the porch with a fresh bourbon. “That kind of sadness, it’s like a current. It drags you under. You can’t save someone if they don’t want to swim.”

I believed him, mostly. But I also knew that I could have at least tossed a life ring. I could have done better.

Now, I’m thirty-five, and I can see every step I took to get here. I can see the pattern, like DNA. Meet a girl, get her hopes up, then be a total asshole and walk away after using her body. Hell, it doesn’t even happen in that order sometimes. Sometimes, I’m an asshole the whole way through, and yet the women don’t seem to care. The only difference is that now I’m a legit billionaire, and it greases the wheels, if anything. The pace has picked up, and I’ve dated a fuck ton in the last decade. The pussy comes so fast and furious now that I’ve literally lost count.

But then there’s Kayleigh.

She’s twenty-one, impossibly young, and she’s my stepsister. She took naked photos of herself—sexy ones, lush ones, not those awkward, blurry shots you expect from a girl her age, but honest-to-god art slash porn—and she sent them to me. I fucked her with my hands and mouth, made her come so hard she blacked out, then sent her away like I was doing her a favor. I said all the right things: You’ll regret this. You’re too young. You need someone better than me.

But the truth is, I sent her away because I was scared. Not for her, but for myself. For what she made me feel, and what I knew I’d do to her if she stayed.

I drain my drink and consider ordering another, but I know that’s not a good idea. The next time I see Kayleigh, I want to be sharp. I want to see the look on her face when we talk. I can’t be a drunk when I hurt her so badly.

Suddenly, a commotion by the entrance signals that the auction is about to start. People are gathering near the stage, filling in the rows of chairs, finding their seats like it’s opening night at the Guthrie. I spot Dad—his hair silver, his suit a perfect navy, his smile dazzling in a way that’s always just a little bit cruel. He’s talking to a blonde in a red dress, one hand on her arm, his head tipped just close enough to make her feel important.

I catch his eye. He gives me a nod, like: Ready for the show, son?

I nod back.

But before I join the rest, I look around one more time for Kayleigh. I don’t see her. The only young blondes here are clinging to the arms of donors, or drifting in clusters at the edge of the room, drinking in the action. Maybe she stayed away. Smart girl.

Or maybe she’s just waiting for the right moment to make her entrance.

I set my empty glass down, roll the stem between my fingers, and feel the ghost of Aleatha’s voice in my ear: “You’re going to regret this, Trevor.”

I already do.

But I straighten my lapels, smooth my jacket, and walk toward the stage.

It’s auction time.

16

THE BACHELOR AUCTION

Kayleigh

The first thing you notice about the North Side Country Club is that it never lets you forget where you are: even the valets, even the air, even the thick old carpet seem to whisper “You do not belong.” This thought, or some cousin of it, is in my head before I’m even through the doors. I’m twenty-one years old, three months out of college and a veteran of the county jail, but standing here in one of Stella’s sexy black dresses, I feel like a twelve-year-old playing adult—awkward, overdressed, and wrong in a way no tailor can fix.

The grand ballroom is a mirrored box, all gold molding and marble, every surface blinding with crystal refractions. The club must have spent a fortune on the flowers: every table ringed with white orchids and glass peonies, every inch of air shivering with gardenia and some other note so sharp it actually makes my teeth ache. Above the tables, three chandeliers the size of compact cars throw their prisms across the room; the effect is like being inside a cut diamond, all sparkle and no substance. I catch my own reflection in the wall of mirrors, then instantly look away.

I do not want to see myself.

But Stella’s here, and Stella won’t let me hide. She tugs me forward by the elbow, heels biting into the rug as if she owns every inch. “Come on,” she hisses. “You’re not even late. The main event doesn’t start for fifteen. Plenty of time to get our table buzz going.”

We make our way through the bar area, which is already humming with the usual Friday night fauna: a few fifty-year-old men with tan lines and Patek Phillipes, dashing in their black tuxes; and then the younger guys also in black tuxes, all of them carrying the scent of single malt and the faint, unmistakable nervousness of men about to be appraised by a roomful of women. The female energy, though, is the real threat. It pulses. It circles. The wives, the daughters, the spangled throngs of divorcees—each one sharper and more predatory than the last, eyes like lasers picking off weaknesses at a hundred yards.

None of them are interesting to me though. I keep my head down and focus on the click of my own heels on marble. Stella got me ready tonight, and she was not gentle about it: hair blown out in loose, pageant-perfect waves, smoky eyes that look too large for my face, and a black silk dress that grips my hips so tightly it feels like a third hand. It isn’t my color, and it isn’t my vibe, but Stella said it was “the move” and when Stella says things in that tone, I obey.