There was also a segment that cited new evidence in the plane crash that had killed Poppy’s parents two summers before. Bullshit. If the experts had finally found the black box in the depths of the Atlantic, Rowan and her family would be the first to know, not this idiotic blog. And finally, at the very bottom, was a piece about Rowan herself, jogging in the park. “Ro on the Go.”
She clicked on the link, enlarging the photo. Her face looked confident, and her legs were strong and supple. Whenever she saw paparazzi pictures of herself, she felt as though she were looking at someone else altogether—someone more glamorous, more together than she actually was. She closed out of the site, wishing she could turn off the public’s fascination with her family with the same ease.
The doorbell rang, and the dogs barreled back into the foyer. Rowan hurriedly shushed them as she walked to the door. A familiar face appeared in the peephole. “James?”
“Hey, Saybrook.” Poppy’s husband offered a boyish smile when she pulled open the door. His hair was unkempt in a messy-hipster way, and his nails were bitten to the quick, something he used to do before his old band, Horse and Carrot, performed.
Rowan looked past him into the empty hall. “Where’s Poppy?”
“Actually, it’s just me.” James shifted his weight. “I came from work—I had a late night finishing up on a launch.” He was a creative director at a tech company. “You mind if I come in for a sec?”
Rowan stepped aside so he could enter. Jackson bounded up and put his paws on his shoulders. “Oh, Jackson,” Rowan scolded.
“He’s fine.” James patted the dog’s fluffy head.
Rowan walked into the living room, and James followed. He sat down on the couch and looked around. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked noisily. “Did you redecorate?”
“Two years ago,” Rowan admitted.
“It’s very you.”
Rowan tried to see her apartment through his eyes. She had several leather pieces and distressed-metal side tables. There was a large propeller from an old Charles Lindbergh–era plane on the wall, and an antique metal plaque for a defunct brand of cigarettes hung near the window. Compared with Poppy’s feminine touches in their own place, Rowan’s apartment looked like the inside of a cigar bar.
She cleared her throat. “Can I get you something to drink? I have water, lemonade, beer—”
“What about Scotch?”
She held his gaze for a moment, then crouched down to the antique cabinet where she kept bottles, as though this were all completely normal. There was a half-drunk bottle of Glenfiddich; she grabbed that and two crystal tumblers. The amber liquid burned her nostrils as she poured them both a few fingers’ worth.
She handed one to James. “So what’s going on?” Rowan asked casually. Her heart, she realized, was pounding, though she wasn’t sure quite what she was anticipating.
James cocked his head. “Can’t an old friend come see his buddy?” He shifted on the couch. “It was fun hanging out at Skylar’s party. I miss you.”
Something inside Rowan wrenched. She raised her glass and clinked it to his. “Well. Cheers.”
James slugged it back. Then he raised his head and wiped his mouth. Rowan handed him the bottle, and he poured more. A few moments of silence ticked by. “Remember that time we skipped the bill at the Plaza?” James suddenly said.
Rowan blinked at him. “That was years ago.”
James shut his eyes. “I forgot my credit card. And you were like, Hey, let’s ditch! I’ve never laughed so hard in my life.”
“It was your idea, not mine,” Rowan chided. A bartender, dressed in a tuxedo and tails, had dashed out after them. James and Rowan looked at each other, and each swore the other had paid. After the bartender left, cash in hand, they doubled over in laughter, imagining the headlines in the paper the next day.
“Heiress Dines and Dashes?” James said now, clearly thinking the same thing.
Rowan snorted. “Ro-Ro Has No Dinero.”
“That old guy could move fast, though.” James took another slug of Scotch. “Though not as fast as Jell-O Shot Alex.”
Rowan groaned. “Jesus. Are you trying to kill me?” Alex had been in the philosophy department at Columbia and had asked Rowan to a party he was throwing. Despite the fact that he could debate the pros and cons of Foucault and Derrida, he’d downed a batch of Jell-O shots in under a minute and then tried to grope Rowan.
“I don’t know why you went out with that guy,” James scolded.
Because I didn’t have the courage to go out with you, Rowan wanted to say, taking a drink instead.
She thought back once more to the night she threw the party for him at Meriweather, when she almost had said something. Poppy had found her in the bathroom. “You’re missing all the fun!” she’d said, bursting in as Rowan sat on the edge of the tub, trying not to cry. Poppy had leaned over the vanity to touch up her makeup, but then she seemed to sense Rowan’s distress. “Are you okay?” she’d asked, blinking hard. “Am I hogging James?”
“Of course not,” Rowan sputtered.