“Of course. Your family’s,” Will said.
Corinne had held his gaze. It wasn’t a surprise that he knew about her family; it surprised her, though, that he seemed to care. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to ask questions about your family. I don’t want to know who they are. I want to know you. The real you.”
The real you. It was a concept she didn’t quite understand. There were the obvious basics. I am Corinne Saybrook. I went to boarding school at Exeter. I had a 3.87 average at Yale. I play field hockey, lacrosse, and ride horses; I summer in Meriweather and go to Portofino or St. Barts over spring break. I’ve read every Jane Austen book twice. I just broke up with Dixon Shackelford, and starting next month, I will be working in the foreign business department of my family’s company.
And so she said all that—even the part about Dixon. Will had given her a searching look. “That sounds like a résumé. You’re more than that.”
Was she? But suddenly she found herself telling him things no one else knew. She told him that her first-grade teacher had it in for her for some reason—she never knew why—yet Corinne always told her parents she was the teacher’s pet. She talked about how her mother used to make her walk around with a book on her head and made her go to every charitable event in the city, even though the other girls there weren’t very friendly to her. She talked about how her father seemed to prefer Aster. She’d even admitted that there were rumors that her sister was getting in trouble in Europe, and told him how worried she was about her. But angry too.
She wasn’t sure why she told Will everything. But she did, and that night a thought floated through her mind, unbidden. I love you already, something deep inside her had whispered.
Now, she looked across the bar at Will. He was still watching her. “I never thought about branching out because I never felt allowed to,” she said, the confessional floodgates opening again. “I was always a good girl. I always did what my parents asked. That meant working for the family. It meant going to the right schools and wearing the right clothes and marrying . . .” She trailed off.
“What was that?” Will asked, cocking his head.
Corinne looked down. “Marrying well,” she admitted.
Will stared at her, and for a long time he was silent. Then his fingers groped for his glass. “I’m sorry I was cold to you the other day,” he said, his voice hitching on cold. “And this might make me sound like an asshole, but you never have to deal with me again after tonight, so I might as well say it.” His lips trembled for a moment. Corinne’s heart started to pound. “Life’s too short to care about marrying well.”
She clutched her wineglass. She wanted to defend Dixon, but all of a sudden, Dixon felt very far away. Corinne couldn’t even picture his face—not the shape of his eyes, not whether he had dimples, not the way he smelled. On the other hand, she’d carried around a mental image of every contour of Will’s face and body for five years. She could have sketched him perfectly if someone had asked. Maybe that meant something; if you could still draw someone when he was gone. If you remembered him perfectly. If you were his mirror, even after lots of time had passed . . .
She rubbed her palms against her eyes, smearing her makeup. What was she thinking? She balled a napkin in her hands and stood. “I think I’ve had too much to drink. I must look awful.”
Will stood too. “You look amazing.”
He placed his hand on her arm. Her head hummed. And suddenly it was as if she had floated out of her body and was watching from above, from some other plane. She pictured herself sitting in the front row of a theater, Poppy next to her, their hands in a bowl of popcorn, their mouths agape, as Corinne reached out for Will, pulling him toward her. He fell into her, his mouth hungrily searching for hers. Bumping against each other, they backed out of the private room into one of the cellars, a space dry and dark. Will laid Corinne down and gazed at her. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but she covered it. He gripped the waistband of her skirt desperately.
The night on the boat washed over her once more. After Corinne had told him all her secrets, he’d taken her into his arms. It almost felt as if something was swelling inside her—and if it didn’t happen right that moment, she would burst.