“My mother’s network?” I spat, laughing incredulously. “Where the fuck have you been for the last decade, Maman? Even before you moved to Florida, you didn’t give two shits about LBC. You only attended board meetings, and even that was half-heartedly and solely for the chance of screwing Dad over somehow. You could have managed it yourself, but you chose to give it to some incompetent asshole because working is not your jam. I spend ten hours a day in the newsroom. I live it. I breathe it. I eat it. But when I make one decision that has nothing to do with it, it’s suddenly an issue. This network is not yours more than it is mine. Just because Lily was born into the right family doesn’t mean she’s right for me. And that bullshit where you marry someone without standing up to their fucking face? I had a front-row seat to that scenario at home, and I’m sure I’m not spoiling it for you when I say it ended badly. One last thing—Judith is not, in fact, disposable,” I noted. “But I know a few people who are.”
Now it was my mother’s turn to stand up and throw her hands in the air. “All we ever wanted is for you and your sister to be happy. Don’t give me this holier-than-thou attitude. If I may recall, you’re not innocent, either.”
I kicked her precious sofa’s frame. The price tag fell, and I took sick pleasure in how symbolic that felt. “Yeah, you made us very fucking happy. Especially the part where Dad sent Camille’s boyfriend to a goddamn war zone to keep him away from her because his blood wasn’t blue enough, then proceeded to fuck my girlfriend. All while you were standing on the sidelines doing what, exactly? Finding more hot, young ass my age? Really, you two should host a talk show on how to raise kids. Or, you know, on how to kill them.”
She blinked at me, cupping her mouth with the hand that held the cigarette. “I thought you were the one who sent Phoenix away.”
I turned around, glaring at her. “Huh?”
She rubbed the side of her forehead, looking around for an imaginary person to explain everything to her. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Lost. She looked lost.
“When I asked Mathias what happened, he said you sent Phoenix to Syria, and that he would never forgive himself for letting you get away with it.
“I was mad, Célian, so mad. I divorced him solely for not standing his ground, but I couldn’t divorce you. You’re my baby. I tried so very hard not to hold it against you. I love you so much. I always will, but I didn’t know why you needed to interfere with Camille’s life like that. You and Camille…you were different. I called you Célian because you were like the moon to me. You shone bright in the darkest time of my life. I gave Camille her name because she was virginal, unblemished. She was always so different from us. A free spirit. She loved who she loved and didn’t care about the consequences. That’s what made her different.”
No, I wanted to correct. That’s what made her good.
Camille had been happier than the rest of us. Her smile had been contagious. I’d used to tug at her braids and call her sunshine, because her face was round and full of cheeks and always bright. Because I was the moon.
I shook my head. “He lied. He’s always lied. Why would you ever believe him? Only reason I let him do that was because I figured if I could play house with Lily Davis, she could find another charming fuckboy to piss her daddy off. When I realized she was miserable and told her the truth, she ran into the street.”
“I thought she was mad at you.”
“No. She was mad at Mathias.”
“Then why do you always think it was your fault?” She plopped on the sofa, holding her head in her hands.
“Because I should have told her somewhere else. Because I should have fought Mathias. Because I fucking failed her.”
There was a coffee table and an ocean between us, and I realized I hadn’t given Jude the entire truth when she’d asked about my relationship with my mother. In all honesty, I had no relationship to speak of with either of my parents. Truth was, I no longer had a sister, or a fiancée. I was no less lonely than she was.
“You never loved Lily,” my mother’s voice softened, and her eyes followed suit.
I shook my head. A year ago I’d cared for her—in some fucked-up way. But to say I didn’t love her now was like saying I disliked eating shit-smeared rocks. A real under-fucking-statement.
Maman nodded. “Can you save LBC?”
“Not at the price of being unhappy for the rest of my life.” I tilted my chin up. All the fucked-up mannerisms of a heartless prick had been picked up at home anyway, so she could hardly blame me for them.
Heart attacks at fifty.
Nameless girls in bikinis every weekend.
An ex-wife who would love to see me in a casket.
Yeah, no thank you. I didn’t want my father’s life. I’d take shitty pasta and a Yankee game in a two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment every day of the week over life in a lonely, sixteen-million-dollar penthouse.
However, watching my family’s business die was going to make me unhappy. I was headed straight into misery no matter which path I chose.
Maman stood up, walked cautiously toward me, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed my cheek, her lips halting at my ear.
“You’re nothing like Mathias,” she whispered, “I promise you.”
No shit.
I dragged my suitcase up the stairs to my apartment, letting out a feral groan. Why had I packed my entire room before I left for Florida? Oh, that’s right. Because I’d wanted to dazzle my emotionally stunted boss by showing off my alluring wardrobe, consisting of eighty-year-old librarian’s conservative dresses and an unhealthy amount of Chucks.
Célian had offered to help me with the suitcase, but I’d politely declined, and I guess he was relieved. He knew Dad still thought I was with Milton. As much as my dad liked him, he would punch both of us in our reproductive organs if he thought I was two-timing my long-term boyfriend.
Our Floridian getaway had taken a sour turn after we’d left his mother’s place. The stone-skipping and record-shopping was replaced by the usual dark fuck-a-thon in which we were lost in a tornado of feelings and numbness. We’d walked the main street in heavy silence before Célian had dragged me into a Cuban dance club. We’d watched other people dance and grind into one another while we drank tequila.
“Your father seems to think you fell in love with me.” I’d tried to laugh it off.
He’d pressed his thumb to my lower lip and pushed it down, licking the inside of it. “My father thinks women should stay in the kitchen and global warming is a hoax. Let’s try not to take him too seriously.”
“Célian…”
“I don’t hate you, Judith,” he’d said. “And that’s more than I can say about the rest of the world right now.”
We’d stumbled back to our hotel suite and had enough sex to repopulate an entire continent—if that was how sex worked. It was angry and sad and intimate. It felt like we’d risen together in the air and evaporated somewhere else safer, better. But in the back of my mind, I still remembered that I was an obstacle to Célian.
That all of his professional issues could disappear if I stepped out of the picture.
He could marry Lily. Or at least stay engaged forever.
He could save LBC.
He could have everything he’d worked for, for many, many years, and still be the detached bastard who picked up strangers at bars to satisfy his physical cravings.
Uncomplicated. Straightforward. Simple. Just the way he liked it.
That Sunday afternoon, I pushed the door to my apartment open and froze on the threshold, my heart dropping to the pit of my stomach. My suitcase fell to the floor with a thud. No.
My father was sitting at the dining table, having what appeared to be a pleasant conversation with Milton over my favorite Manhattan donuts and cups of coffee. My ex-boyfriend laughed wholeheartedly and pushed something over the table, and that’s when I noticed they were playing Scrabble.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
“Oh, there you are!” Milton clapped and swiveled his body toward me in his chair, his face glowing with a genuine smile.
He looked handsome in a polo shirt and new haircut, but in a generic way. Not only did he not hold a candle to Célian, he didn’t even hold a damp match. Not that beauty had anything to do with the fact that my room service breakfast was threatening to come up my throat for another puke-fest. The other thing Milton ate Célian’s dust at was being faithful—even when we weren’t technically together.
“Hello.” I threw my keys into the ugly bowl Mrs. Hawthorne had given us by the front door, looking between them. Dad put his letters down and turned in his seat.