Page 82 of Love and Lies

I stared after her, letting her words sink in, while my anger began to die down—but only gradually. Maybe it really would be best to get out of the apartment for a while. I would honor Valerie by seeking out her favorite places, getting something to eat in her favorite restaurant, and having coffee in her favorite café. Perhaps it would even be warm enough to sit on the grass in Central Park for a few minutes and write her Instagram post like I did every year.

So I went to my closet, took out a light coat, grabbed my bag, and left without a word. But I knew, even as I closed the door behind me, that I’d be back again at three to try on those damn dresses.

37 Jessiah

New York City was a little more god-awful than usual on May 28. No matter the weather, everything seemed darker, bleaker, and sadder. Sometimes I wondered why. I missed Adam every day, not just on his anniversary. But strangely, the loss somehow weighed heavier on this day than on any other.

“Do you want any more, Eli?” Trish asked my brother, indicating the oven dish in the middle of the table. It was lasagna, Adam’s favorite. We had it every year. I’d made it at home and brought it with me, like always. And, like every year, I’d suggested we eat at the loft, since it had been Adam’s apartment, but my mother had refused again—she didn’t want to commemorate my brother somewhere she had never approved of. So we sat in her penthouse dining room in the Fortress of Solitude, and the name had never been more fitting.

“No.” Eli shook his head. Normally, when I cooked, there was no holding him back—and at the rate he was growing, he needed it. But nobody had any appetite today. We pushed our food around our plates, avoiding eye contact. I asked myself why we even did this anymore; it always followed the same pattern: no one ate much, no one talked, and afterward Trish and I usually got in a fight. We were thinner-skinned than usual today, less able to keep our emotions in check.

I waved her offer aside as well and stole a glance at my phone to check the time. It was a reflex action; I did it all the time. But of course it didn’t escape Trish’s notice.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” she asked pointedly, though what she actually meant was: Is there something more important to you than the dinner in memory of your dead brother?

“No, of course not,” I said in response to both. I just want to know how much longer I have to endure this before I can get out of here. I felt bad thinking it, especially for Eli’s sake; he looked utterly lost on his side of the enormous table. But all the same, the silence was unbearable. If we had at least talked about Adam, remembered him… but that never happened. Comparisons with me were as good as it got, and I always came off worse. It didn’t upset me anymore these days, because it was the truth. Of the two of us, Adam had been the better son, the better brother, the better person. He didn’t need to run from his own life in order to be happy. He never took risks in order to feel alive.

And still, he was dead.

I reached for the water jug to top off my glass, and in doing so, the arm of my sweater rode up slightly, revealing the bandage beneath it.

“What’s that?” my mother asked at once. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Just a scratch.” I pulled my sleeve down again. “Happened when I was surfing.”

Trish’s face hardened into that impenetrable mask. “Must you really continue doing that sport? There are other, less dangerous ways to exercise.”

“I’ve been surfing for more than ten years,” I informed her. “It would be more dangerous to start playing golf or squash and get hit by the ball.”

“I want to learn to surf this summer, finally.” Eli looked to me. “You said you’d teach me last year.”

Our mother—his mother, in that moment, really—made a defensive noise. “That’s absolutely out of the question, Eli. We’ve spoken about this enough times. I will not let you do such a risky sport.”

“It’s not risky if you know what you’re doing,” I chimed in.

“And you know what you’re doing, do you?” The usual arrogance flared in Trish’s eyes.

“Yes, I do,” I replied firmly. “And you know that I’d never put Eli in danger.”

“We’re not going to talk about this—not today of all days,” said Trish, putting paid to the subject, and we went back to pushing lasagna around our plates in silence until her phone rang. She stood and went into the living room, where she’d left it on the designer coffee table. I didn’t know who was on the other end, but it seemed to be a business call.

“Can I call you back tomorrow morning? Yes, I’ll confirm the contracts are being drafted. Thank you.”

She hung up and returned to the table, and alongside the grief, there was a quiet triumph in her eyes.

“What contracts?” I asked. I wasn’t interested in what was going on at the firm, but anything was better than tense silence.

“The deal on the Winchester plot is just about done and dusted.” She helped herself to some more wine. “The contracts will be finalized shortly, and then the Westons will be as good as done in this city.”

I looked up, ignoring the stab in my gut at the mention of the name. “What do you mean by that?”

“You don’t know?” She looked amazed. “This project was their last opportunity to get back in the game. They invested an enormous amount of money in an old renovation project on the Upper West Side last year, only to discover that the fabric of the building was irreparably damaged. Now they’ve bet everything on Winchester, but the owners are more aligned with my vision for the plot’s future development.”

“So the Westons are ruined?” I’d never imagined that I could feel so horrible about the idea.

My mother gave me a curious look, and I tried to appear as indifferent as possible, so as not to betray myself.

“We’ll see. But I’ll do everything to have them struck off the list of New York City VIPs. If they’d had their daughter under control…”