I can’t believe it. I cannot believe he figured it out so quickly.
He shrugs. “Braden was a simple man with simple tastes. He felt how he felt, with very little pretense. So, what’s the most basic phrase? What’s simple to the point of obvious? What kind of thing would he say to himself over and over in the course of a day when he’d log in? What’s the one thing he’d never forget?”
“If I knew, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. What was it?”
“His password was...iheartmallory.”
His password renders me incapable of speech. I needed a sign, a clue, a golden ticket.
And now I’ll have it, always and forever.
My initial moment of elation comes crashing to the ground as I realize what this means. I finally understand why Owen is always quoting Thomas Hobbes. He’s right; Hell really is the truth found out too late.
Braden and I missed our chance. We both felt the same way and we missed our chance to see where it could have gone. We blew what might have been the greatest opportunity of our lives, and for what?
What did we gain by not talking to each other, by not admitting everything? What did we win by sacrificing a future together? What if Theo actually supported our being together? We wanted to protect Theo... but what if he didn’t require our protection?
Would having shared our feelings for each other have been enough to save him? To keep his demons at bay? To bring him around?
Or would losing him have been so much worse if we’d been together?
I can’t say.
I wanted to know how he felt and now I do.
Yet nothing has changed.
I wonder, though, if I could change. Maybe that was the point of this whole exercise.
Maybe this was Braden’s way of reaching out and gatekeeping me one last time, telling me not to let anything get in the way of whomever it is I should love.
Kent asks, “So, what do we do here? Go through sent mails? You want to try the drafts folder first? How do we proceed?”
I take my laptop from him and click it shut. “We don’t.”
He scratches his head. “Wait, what? Why? That’s it? You’re done? What was the whole point of this exercise then?”
I don’t know how to explain my epiphany to Kent, so instead I say, “The point was confirmation. Braden hearted me, Kent. He hearted me. And that’s enough.”
*
“Who was that?” my mother asks after she sees me saying goodnight to Kent at the door.
“That was my friend Kent. We’re in Gatekeepers together? You’ve met him, like, three times already. And you saw him two days ago. You don’t remember?”
“There’s nothing exceptional about him so it didn’t register. And I’ve never heard of his parents. Wait, why is he here so much? Jesus, Mallory, you’re not seeing him, right? He’s not your rebound after Liam, yes? Please tell me you can do better than him.”
Oh, my God.
I get it now.
I get why I was so reticent with Braden, the biggest reason why I was afraid to show him how I felt.
It wasn’t Theo. It wasn’t Liam. It was my mother.
My mom didn’t think he was good enough for me, didn’t think he’d help my star rise like Liam would.
She didn’t care about my being with Liam because he was best for me. She wanted me to be with Liam because that was best for her.
And I was the one who wasted everyone’s time trying to argue, trying to fight a battle I was destined to lose.
The only way to win against her is not to play.
Well, I’m done playing.
43
SIMONE
Eight months later
“Welcome back.”
Mallory’s waiting for me in the arrivals area of Terminal Five at O’Hare, grinning like a lunatic as she holds up a sign that reads SIMONE AND WARHOL CHASTAIN.
She sweeps me into a hug, practically crushing me. The ten pounds she’s groused about gaining must be all muscle because her arms feel like a couple of boa constrictors squeezing the air out of me.
“I can’t breathe!” I protest.
“You’re fine,” she admonishes. “Are you exhausted? What is it, eight hours on the way back or nine? I always forget. I still don’t understand why the flights are different amounts of time going and coming.”
“Jet streams,” I explain.
“Not a fan,” she replies.
I peer at her neck. “You’re wearing it!”
She touches the simple pearl strung onto the gold box chain that I designed for her. “Oh, honey, always. This is only my favorite thing ever.”
“I’m so glad.”
“My God, he’s a moose now,” she remarks, taking Warhol’s leash. “Much bigger than when I saw you at Spring Break.”
My family returned to London not long after Jasper’s accident. But because of what we’d been through together, Mallory and I began to talk and discovered common ground. We quickly, inexplicably became tight and now she’s one of my dearest friends.
I’ll admit it, I never saw that coming.
What’s worse is that she and Cordy ADORE one another. Were thick as thieves when they met during Mal’s Spring Break. They’re going to team up on me, and soon. My shoe and trouser wardrobe will never be the same. I’m so afraid of what will happen when we’re all together at my mum’s book release party next spring.
As we head to baggage claim, she asks, “On a scale of one to ten, exactly how full of shit are you, passing Porky off as an emotional support dog?”
“Please,” I reply. “No higher than a seven. Eight tops. He’s a perfect gentleman, beautifully trained, a little prince, really. He’s not riding in the cargo hold like he’s a bit of luggage. The service dog route is the only way since he can’t exactly fit under the seat, can he? Of course, the larger lie is passing him off as a bulldog of the English variety and not the pit kind.”
To bring Warhol to Britain, we had to lie regarding his pedigree. While I’m a huge proponent of honesty, there was no way on heaven or earth we were leaving him behind. Wasn’t happening. Fortunately, with his coloring and his underbite—and everyone’s willingness to not examine his papers too closely if it meant a Suri/Chastain homecoming—our ruse worked. Plus, Warhol’s a very lazy sort and he much prefers his short jaunts in the city than the wilds of suburbia, so it’s all worked out brilliantly.
“You realize you finally sound British? I like it. Makes you sound smarter.”
“Should make me sound politer, then, when I tell you to piss off, Mallory.”
“It really does!” Mallory beams and gathers me in another crushing hug with her mighty pythons.
“Are we swinging by the Center before tonight?” I ask. We’re meant to meet up with a group of Gatekeepers for dinner tonight, with the screening of Owen’s film tomorrow. My parents are coming for it, too, but not until the morning. The three of us are staying at the North Shore house, which has since been turned into an Airbnb.
Mrs. Cho is less than pleased at this development.
Oh, well.
“Would you like to hit the Center now and not wait until tomorrow?” she asks.