Page 7 of Filthy Beautiful
No one was ever really in the house except my brother, and he pretty much lived in the giant music studio on the west side. Once a week, Rose was granted access to the studio to clean for him. She took care of the rest of the house, too. But really, what was there to clean in an empty house no one ever used?
I crossed back through the big foyer and headed over to the back hall, where the set of tall, soundproofed double doors led into my brother’s studio. They were closed, as always, and I would’ve bet my life that they were locked. The studio was a self-contained unit and even had its own separate alarm system.
I tested the doorknobs. Definitely locked.
I tried not to let it bother me, because what good would that do?
I’d just bailed on pretty much everything in my life for my brother. Even quit college in the fall. And he wouldn’t even come out to see me when I got here.
But really, I didn’t expect him to.
I set the takeout coffee on the floor in front of the door for him. It was in a reusable mug that I’d bought for him; a belated birthday gift. It was black and saidGood Morning, Handsomein gold script. It was hard to know what to get for a man who had everything—and nothing.
A man who wanted nothing from me.
I went back out to the kitchen. I put my purse and the gift bag on the counter and sent my brother a text.
Me:I’m here. There’s coffee at your door. Left you a gift on the kitchen counter from Nana.
My brother’s thirty-second birthday had been last week. He didn’t come to the dinner, the one our parents insisted on having for him every year even though he never came anymore.
I hesitated, then quickly sent him another text.
Me:Let me know when you want to meet.
He texted me back almost immediately.
Cary:Thanks CC.
The text was punctuated with a heart emoji.
I softened all over like a baby.
My brother was the only man I’d ever met who sent me heart emojis. He’d always called mecupcake, at least when I was small. Somewhere around thirteen, I’d insisted he stop doing it, though I later kinda regretted that. Now he called me CC—my initials, and his.
But in secret, he’d told me it was CC for cupcake.
How could I not adore him?
Cary was fourteen years older than me, and in some of my earliest memories he was maybe seventeen, eighteen years old, swaggering into the room with his wavy, sun-streaked hair and summer tan, sitting down next to me and saying,How’s it going, my little cupcake?
By the time he was twenty, my brother was a rock star. And still, he always made time for me—when he was around. Dollies, tea parties, dress up, whatever I wanted to play, he was game back then.
Now, I made my way through his silent house. He’d bought this place about five years ago, just before he went on that final tour, and he was so proud of it. He hired someone to decorate it, and he had a big party with all his friends. A real grownup party with cocktails and caterers, and pretty girls in bikinis lounging by the pool. I was thirteen, but he still invited me to the party—while the sun was still up and maybe it was still appropriate for a thirteen-year-old.
He’d walked me out back to the pool and said,Look, cupcake. I got you a floaty. You can hang out here anytime you want.There was an inflated unicorn floating in the pool, just for me, and he’d meant what he said. I was always welcome in my brother’s house.
I still was. At least, in the parts of it he didn’t use anymore.
I walked through the fancy living room behind the foyer, the one he never used, with the plush furniture he’d so carefully chosen and the massive flat screen TV on the wall. I looked out the wall of French doors along the back, through the trees, into the private backyard surrounded by the high fence. Like most things in his life, Cary paid people to take care of it, though he barely used it. The lawn. The gardens. The pool.
The poolhouse.
I actually got a weird sick feeling in my gut when I looked out at the small building at the back of the yard, just past the pool. My brother’s guesthouse. I could see it there, just barely, through the trees.
I remembered when Cary had the poolhouse built, just after he’d moved in, during the decorating phase. I was so damn excited about it. That poolhouse was going to be my everything. A place to escape my parents’ house. A place to hang with my girlfriends by the pool, sneak booze, talk about boys. Bitch about whatever we needed to bitch about.
Grow up.
