Page 142 of Winterveil

As Julian looked down at her, Christabel said, “I’m with Blake now, by the way.”

“Who?”

“Blake Phelps.”

Julian briefly racked his brain. Blake Phelps was one of their classmates at Exeter, a junior and the gawky coxswain of the crew team. His claim to fame was a video of him tumbling overboard during the Newport Regatta.

Before he could reply to Christabel, his mother emerged to beckon them into the dining room. Their chef had been at work all day and the table was piled with food. Upon seeing it, Julian’s stomach clenched. The obvious effort his mother had gone to, coupled with her naked nervousness, overwhelmed him. She was trying—unmistakably, painfully. The least he could do in return was play the role of the good son. Even if it meant shutting out everything else.

His mother sat him at the foot of the table. His father, in his usual place at the head, stared at Julian for a long moment. The candle flames flickered, as if disturbed by an invisible wind. Then his father turned away and lapsed into conversation with Mr. Downing.

Christabel sat down at his left, folding her napkin neatly in her lap and flashing an Exeter class ring. Right, Julian remembered hazily. Graduation had been last weekend. He should have been giving the valedictory speech, hosting the after-party on Martha’s Vineyard. His gaze blurred. Julian reached for the bottle of wine.

The conversation flowed easily without him, carried mostly by the Cabots, his mother, and Mr. Downing. Mrs. Cabot tried to entice his mother into joining the pickleball league at the country club. His mother demurred and picked at her food. From this vantage point, Julian noticed how hollow her cheeks had become.

“What about you?” Between bites, Mr. Downing pointed his fork at Julian. “You’re getting back on the lacrosse field, right? You could go pro. Better than a political career!”

Nervous laughter fluttered around the table. Heat rose to Julian’s face. Truthfully, he was shit at lacrosse. He always had been. His father had bought his place as team captain by donating a building.

That dark thing shifted in his chest. “I’d rather do my time in supermax, actually,” he replied icily.

His mother looked dismayed. But for some reason, it was Nadiya’s voice that echoed in his ears. Julian, shut the fuck up.

“I’ll play lacrosse with you, Mr. Downing,” Christabel spoke up sweetly, rescuing him. “Harvard has a women’s team. Maybe they’ll let me try out in the fall!”

The chorus of laughter was sincere this time. Relieved, Julian lifted his wineglass, drained it, and then poured another. When the conversation shifted away from him, under the table, Christabel slid her hand along his thigh.

By the time dessert was served, Julian was three glasses of wine deep and his head felt fuzzy. The alcohol formed a layer of insulation between himself and the world, so his father’s sideways glances no longer cut and his mother’s quavering voice no longer made him ache. Christabel’s hand remained on his thigh. He leaned into her touch.

Both Landon and Mrs. Downing had been remarkably quiet, but Mr. Downing was as exuberant as ever, launching into loud anecdote after loud anecdote, spraying the table as he laughed. Julian’s temples throbbed. His mother’s fingers trembled as she reached for the wine bottle.

He could no longer stand it. Any of it. Julian rose to his feet suddenly and, feeling himself sway, said, “Excuse me.”

Ignoring his mother’s crestfallen expression, he stalked out of the room. As he ascended the stairs, he kept one hand braced on the railing and the other pressed on his pounding head.

Julian had just reached the threshold of his bedroom when he realized Christabel was following him. He turned, the air thick between them. In the half-light seeping in from the hallway, her blue eyes gleamed.

They landed on his bed, her mouth hot against his. Julian shoved her sundress up over her hips and fumbled with the clasp of her bra, fingers clumsy from the wine. Christabel let out an impatient sigh and unclasped the bra herself.

“You’ve gotten less competent in your time away,” she huffed, tugging down his pants and straddling him.

He grunted a wordless reply as Christabel worked to unbutton his shirt. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders; Julian grasped it in his fist and jerked her mouth to his.

All of it was so easy, expected. Julian knew exactly how she would moan, how she would dig her nails into his shoulder when he first pressed his fingers between her thighs. The faint pricking of pain bled through his numbness.

Christabel pushed him flat against the mattress. Julian reached for the drawer on his bedside table and dug out a condom. Christabel lowered herself onto him.

Briefly, Julian closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he didn’t see Christabel anymore. Her skin had paled, her hair had darkened, her pink lips had turned a rich and deep red. He saw gray eyes, curls spilling down her back. Her breasts heaved beneath his hands, full and sweet. The soft mewling sounds that came from her mouth made his groin tighten and his heart race, heady with victory. It was indecently satisfying to think that he could tease those sounds out of Klaudia’s mouth, that he could make her whimper and moan and want him, too.

When he came, it was Klaudia’s face that burned his vision, Klaudia’s voice that brushed the shell of his ear.

Christabel crawled off him and perched on the edge of the bed. She smoothed her dress and clasped her bra. Julian pushed himself up onto his elbows, pulse pounding.

“And what is Blake going to think about that?” he asked, even though it was cruel. Maybe because it was cruel.

“We’ll see. He’s supposed to be picking me up.”

There was a note of challenge in Christabel’s voice. She wanted him to be jealous. Once upon a time he might’ve been.