Arya’s smiling face popped into the feed, and I clicked on it.
“I can’t believe her account is not private.” Arsène’s head almost knocked mine when he peeked into the screen. “Her parents must be dumb as bricks.”
“Her mom is kind of MIA. She’s always on some shopping trip. I think she hated Arya for not dying instead of her twin brother. And her dad is clueless about this shit.” I began to scroll through her pictures.
As suspected, Arya was having a ball while I was away. In the last couple of months alone, she’d posted pictures of herself attending the winter ball at her school, ice-skating in Rockefeller, having a girls’ night in with a friend called Jillian, and licking ice cream in the Bahamas. But the image my eyes kept getting stuck on was the last picture, posted only four hours ago. The location showed as Aspen, Colorado. Arya was standing on a mountain of snow, in full snowboarding gear, smiling to the camera, next to her father. The lava-hot anger that stirred in my stomach wasn’t from the sight of both these assholes having the time of their lives while I was stuck here in an asylum for troubled kids. I was used to getting screwed over by now. It was the person behind them who made my pulse skyrocket. The woman who stood behind them. She was holding their ski poles, looking like she was about to topple over, catering to their every need, as always.
Mom.
“Nicholai?” Riggs waved a hand in front of my face. “How’s that mental breakdown going?”
“It’s her.” I meant Mom, but they both blinked at the picture of Arya, their attention fully on the younger girl.
“No shit it’s her. We have eyes. She’s kind of hot, but not enough to get thrown into Andrew Dexter for.” Riggs scrubbed his stubble with the back of his hand.
“Hotter than Gracelynn,” Arsène spit out, like his stepsister was right here with us and could take offense. I got why he was mad. All these fuckers were off living their best lives, while the three of us were left behind, forgotten.
“No. I mean my mother. She went with the Roths on their Aspen vacation and didn’t even tell me she changed her plans. There she is.” I zoomed in on her.
It was a stupid thing to get mad about, everything considered, and still—what the fuck? Couldn’t she call? Text? Write another stupid letter? She was not stuck in the snow or in traffic or suffering from a horrible accident. She was right there, in the flesh, choosing these people over me, time and time again.
It drove me nuts. How little I mattered to this woman.
I wondered if I’d ever stood a chance in the first place. If maybe she’d given up on me because I’d always reminded her of my no-show father. Or if I’d messed it up myself.
Arsène clapped my back. It was the first time he’d touched me. That anyone had touched me, really, since Conrad had beaten the daylights out of me. “Sounds like she’s a piece of work. You don’t need her. You don’t need anyone.”
“Everyone needs someone,” Riggs pointed out. “Or so I read in the self-help books I steal from the library.”
“Why do you steal them?” I asked.
Riggs threw his head back and laughed. “What else am I supposed to use to roll up my DIY joints?”
“I need people,” I heard myself say. “I can’t get through this alone.”
This school. This life. This bitterness that cut through my skin every time I thought about Conrad and Arya.
“Fine. Then we’ll be each other’s someone.” Arsène perked up, letting the popcorn bag he was holding fall to the mattress. “Fuck them. Fuck our families. Our parents. The people who have wronged us. Fuck Christmas dinners and decorated pine trees and scented candles and neatly wrapped gifts. We’ll be each other’s family from now on. The three of us. Every Christmas. Every Easter. Every Thanksgiving. We’ll stick together, and we’ll fucking win.”
Riggs fist-bumped Arsène. Arsène raised his fist and offered it to me. I stared at it, feeling like I was on the cusp of something big. Monumental. Both Arsène and Riggs were glaring at me expectantly. I thought about that thing Arya had said all those years ago, in Mount Hebron Memorial, about how money wasn’t everything in the world. Maybe she was right after all. These kids were rich, and they didn’t seem happier than I was.
I raised my arm, my fist touching Arsène’s.
“Attaboy.” Riggs laughed. “Told you Nicholai was one of us.”
And from that moment on, I was.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHRISTIAN
Present
“Arya Roth must be good in bed, because she sure knows how to screw with a narrative.” Claire ricocheted a newspaper onto my office desk Monday morning.
I was neck deep in going through the documents Amanda Gispen had sent me over the weekend. The discovery stage was crucial for an ironclad case. I knew Conrad’s lawyers were going to file a motion in limine to keep the EEOC’s determination letter out of the case. I’d been so wrapped up in the material over the weekend that Claire and I had gone through the evidence instead of engaging in a screw-fest like we’d planned. The only thing I was in the mood for screwing was the Roth family, and hard.
I glanced at the newspaper’s headline, frowning, while Claire parked a hip against my desk, hovering over me. In the photo in front of me, Conrad Roth was seen hugging kids at a hospital. Apparently, he’d gifted each of them a brand-new gaming console, from the variety most mortals couldn’t get their hands on.
. . . Roth has donated 1,500 GameDrop consoles to the Don Hawkins Children’s Hospital, along with a generous $2 million donation . . .
“This is bullshit.” I rolled up the newspaper and slam-dunked it into the trash next to me. Claire pulled out her phone and swiped her finger across the screen.