I grip the neck of the bottle of Jameson and take a sip. It burns, making my stomach protest, but I manage to get it down without too much of a fight. Over the past few months, since I met the Hayes family, I’ve built up a tolerance to different kinds of whiskey. Still, I’m not a badass, and it takes some steady breathing, a fair amount of concentration, and mentally bribing myself with a new pair of shoes in order for me to get it down without issue.
My eyes are still closed as I suck in the salty ocean air and let it calm me. Mom and Dad have had this house since I was in middle school and Dad’s company started to really take off. This was Nathaniel Kincaid’s first large purchase. I remember the first weekend we spent here like it was yesterday. Dad had been working so hard at building his brand, and he’d missed Claire’s birthday and had actually slept at the office for nearly a week. He would have kept going on like that if Mom hadn’t put her pretty heel down and demanded he spend time with the family. They screamed and said nasty things to each other before Dad lost his shit.
“I’m doing this for you and our girls. You want a better life—I’m giving you that,” Dad said.
“I don’t need better!” Mom screamed at the top of her lungs. Claire and I were standing in the hall of our medium-sized two-bedroom on the Upper West Side as we watched our parents, who rarely fought, go at it like enemies in a fight to the death. It’s the last memory I have in that apartment.
“Yes, you do,” Dad said. He pulled at his necktie until it unraveled and tossed it on the dining room table. He leaned over the table, placing his hands atop it, breathing heavy, and turning red in the face. “You need it, I need it! Our girls need it because they fucking deserve better than the bullshit public schools we grew up in. They deserve more than the hand-me-downs and seeing their mother fucking terrified that she can’t afford groceries for the week.”
“Baby, stop.” Mom placed her hand over her mouth and stared at him in horror.
Claire didn’t say anything, but she put her hand on my shoulder to let me know she was there. At five years my senior, Claire was a junior at Gramercy—a snooty-tooty private school on the Upper East Side where all the old money snooty-tooties live that Dad could barely afford tuition for until the past year when he rubbed elbows with the right snooty-tooty and landed an account that changed everything for us forever. She always looked out for me, even when she was sick of me following her everywhere, and she always tried to keep me from the fights Mom and Dad would have when money was tight or Dad was too absent—like now.
After that fight, Dad bought this house and spent two entire days making us breakfast, playing in the water, taking us sailing, and grilling on this porch. To this day, this house is Mom and Dad’s safe haven. Anytime they struggle, they come up here and reconnect. The peace they find here makes it easy for me to relax here as well. It’s the place I feel most grounded and most myself. Like nothing bad can happen here.
“There’s the birthday girl.” I open my eyes and turn toward my sister, who’s standing in the open doorway to the dining room. She comes and sits at the foot of my chaise lounge, shoving my feet aside. Claire has her long hair thrown up in a messy bun—much like mine—and she’s wearing a pair of comfortable jeans and a flowy tank. I never changed out of the sun dress I threw on over my swimsuit this afternoon. It’s chilly out, but every time I get cold enough to think about going back inside, I just take a sip of whiskey and wait for it to warm me up.
“What are you doing out here?”
“Just thinking.” I don’t lie to Claire, not now that we’re adults. Back when we were kids, I lied to her all the time. I never felt bad about it either, and why would I? Lying got my butt out of trouble, so I considered it a worthy sin.
“About the man or the drink?” she asks and nods at the bottle in my hands.
The breeze picks up, making me shudder, and I take another sip. “Am I that transparent?”
“They don’t know you well enough to see it,” she says. “But my little sister, who can barely handle champagne and loves the spotlight, is drinking Jameson straight from the bottle, all alone on the porch, at her own birthday party.”
“She sounds pathetic.” Another sip.
“Not pathetic.” Her smile is warm and bright—that I can see despite the darkness. There’s little point in hiding out if you’re going to make it so everyone can see you. “She’s just young and a little spoiled. Used to getting what she wants and is sulking because, for perhaps the first time in her life, she can’t have her way.”
I take a sip.
And then another. The second is larger than the first and doesn’t go down nearly as smoothly.
“Wow,” I say in fake astonishment. “You kind of suck right now.”