Page 120 of The Lies We Play

“Oh, it’s not your imagination.” His mouth curves. “She does that. All the time.”

I laugh again, and this time his eyes stay on mine.

The fireplace pops once behind us. The sound is small, but the room feels closer after it.

“So,” I say, because the air is getting too honest, “did you watch me from the family lodge while working for Cornelius?”

“I watched part of it from a Whistler bar with Everett.”

I look at him, confused.

“My cousin,” he says. “He wanted to talk business before the flight east. I took him to a bar with the game on.”

“Where does he think you are right now?”

Halston shrugs. “I didn’t tell him. He’s a leech.”

“A leech?” I arch my eyebrow.

“Yes. Doesn’t work. Never plans to do anything. Expects part of the inheritance because he has made breathing near money his occupation.”

“Wow, that’s⁠—”

“Sorry, I forgot to add, he’s a scammer,” Halston interrupts. “Always has a new business to pitch to anyone who will listen and, ideally, invest.”

“Let me guess. It never works out.”

He scoffs. “Never.”

There is a bite in his voice, but it is controlled. That makes it worse somehow. Halston, angry, is not loud. It’s measured. Clean. A blade put back in its case before anyone can say he drew it.

“How was Christmas?” I ask.

Halston gives me a small look.

It is the look of a man being asked how something was when he and the person asking both know there is no honest answer that fits inside polite conversation.

“Halston.”

His mouth softens at the way I say his name. Barely. Enough.

“There was assigned seating,” he says. “The napkin rings were silver. My cousin Adelaide cried at dinner on the twenty-fifth, and the family’s response was to give her a Xanax and pretend not to remember it the next morning. My grandfather drank three glasses of port and two shots of whiskey. Then he told me a story about his father that I had not heard before, which is the only reason I remain upright as a person descended from these people. Otherwise, it was as expected.”

I don't know what to say to that.

I know loud families. I know complicated families. I know people who love badly and try again in the morning.

This sounds like a room where pain gets folded into the table linen.

“What was the story?” I ask.

“For later.” He looks toward the fireplace, then back at me. “It is a long story, and tonight is not a long-story night.”

“What kind of night is tonight?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He looks at me for a couple of beats.