The deejay begins playing something much softer, and my eardrums appreciate it. When another couple of minutes pass without Sterling’s return, I search the crowd for him. The ten-foot-tall champagne fountain, lit with an artist’s care, shows no sign of him, nor does the table holding the remnants of the wedding cake.
Just then I hear something that makes my blood run cold. It’s a sound I’ve heard often at Windfall, and my ears catch it despite the noise all around me. No one else seems to have noticed, but I do. Somehow—even at a distance and through thick walls and carpet—the spite in my father’s voice carries all the way to me. Everyone at Windfall has felt his voice cut through them. It had been that way since as long as I can remember. My body’s conditioned to respond to it like a survival mechanism.
I whip around, now desperate to find Sterling.
But he’s not here.
Sterling, who is in love with me. Sterling, who is completely caught up in the romance tonight. Sterling, who wouldn’t leave me, isn’t here in the ballroom.
And my father is spitting venom.
2
Sterling
I want to give Adair a night like this.
The thought turns over in my mind, again and again. She deserves to be the center of attention, to have everyone care about what she thinks and what she wants—exactly what her family will never give her. The problem is that I can’t imagine how I’d do it. I told her earlier that I imagined a small wedding, attended only by people we care about. But what would that actually look like?
Me, her…and Francie? Who else is there? Maybe Poppy and Cyrus? In a room rented by the hour from the rec center near our place in Queens? Or maybe we could do it in Central Park, fast, so no one will be able to ask if we have a permit?
She says it doesn’t matter to her, but that’s a lie she’s telling herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like for her stomach to grumble with hunger, or to be bone tired but unable to sleep over worries about money. Her heart means well, and she loves me, which is something like a miracle, but she doesn’t know what she doesn’t know.
What I know.
I duck into the men’s room, considering what major I should declare. Economics or business? They’d help me make the most money. But something steady, like medicine or law could give us a nice life, too. It’s the only shot I have at keeping her: becoming a man who deserves her. I’m no nearer the answer when I toss a hand-drying towel in the bin by the door, and shoulder my way back into the hallway.
“I’d like to have a word,” a croaky voice says behind me.
It’s Angus MacLaine.
His wheelchair is almost baroque—trimmed with carved wood, upholstered with green velvet, and tasseled with gold thread. It’s motorized, of course, and I can’t help noticing how he sits on it, like it’s a throne, rather than in it. He twiddles the carved marble joystick that controls his chair, already turning his back to me and making his way to an office room farther down the hall.
I hate that he thinks I’ll just come along because he said so. I hate even more that I do.
I’ve always known this was inevitable. I had to meet him in private at some point. I’ve managed to avoid it purposefully mostly because I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t haul off and hit him. Now? I’m not ready. I haven’t thought enough about how to play it. Should I be defiant? Honest about how he treats his family? Or should I be cordial, like all that matters is avoiding the worst outcome? I just don’t know. When he asks me my intentions, do I tell him the truth?
I slide into the room behind him, resolved to talk as calmly as I can, until I get a better feel for how he sees me. The room is a cheap approximation of something at Windfall, with slightly warped wood coverings on the walls, and thin, industrial grade carpet on the floor. A wood-veneered desk sits squarely in the center of the room, and Angus wheels his way behind it, his lip curling into a sneer as the sharp edge of the desk catches the fabric of his suit near his elbow and nearly ripping it.
“Fuck!” he says, he eyes flailing for someone to complain to, but there is only me. He shifts in his chair and turns a bug-eyed glare on me. “Having a nice time at the wedding, boy?”
Boy? Five seconds in and I’m already fantasizing about hitting him.
“It’s a very nice wedding, sir,” I say, starting with something neutral but respectful. I’d much rather tell him that he needs to treat me with some respect. But I get the sense that he doesn’t take verbal orders. If I want respect, I’m going to have to demand it through actions.
“Been spending a lot of time with my daughter?”
“Yes, sir. She’s very special—”
“Of course she’s special! She’s a MacLaine.” He says it like he can’t believe he has to tell me the sky is blue.
“Right, I—”
“And what do you hope to gain by seeing her?” he asks, his eyebrow raised. Otherwise, his face remains neutral and business-like. It’s his poker face, but a man like him doesn’t gamble. He buys, sells, and takes—that’s what he’s really hiding behind that mask.
This is a negotiation.
“Nothing besides her company,” I say, trying to deflect his suspicions while pretending I’m not afraid of the consequences of my answer. One wrong step and the discussion portion of this chat will be over.
“Bullshit,” he says casually, then sniffs.
He’ll have to do better to unbalance me. “Believe me. Don’t believe me. I can’t change that.”
His dark eyes narrow to slits, studying me like a boa constrictor regarding a mouse, his full attention on me for the first time. He takes stock of my appearance, his eyes raking my expensive tuxedo, my shiny Italian shoes. Does he see the price tags that go along with each? Does he wonder how I paid for them? Does he know she bought them for me?
“I see why she likes you,” he says, drumming his fingers on the desk. “You clean up alright, anyway, and you don’t mind playing the part you’re given, do you?”
A pregnant pause unfolds, both of us refusing to break eye contact.
“Meaning?” I say.
“You know EXACTLY—” his voice roars out of his mouth, moving the air around me and making the hair on my neck stand up, “—what I am talking about! Who paid for that tuxedo you’re wearing? ”
I tried to tell Adair it wasn’t a good idea. And it turns out we were both right. I was right to think her father—who forces everyone at Windfall to live under his surveillance—would not approve. But she was also right. Because she can’t let this ugly toad’s whims control everything. We can’t.
I grit my teeth, trying to calm my temper by reminding myself of her, of the importance of salvaging as much as I can from this conversation. He doesn’t like me. Now. He might not ever like me. But he doesn’t get a say in how she feels about me.
“Adair paid for it,” I say. There’s no point in lying about it. Then, I’ll just be what he wants me to be: a gold digger and a liar.
“Suddenly stupid, boy?” Angus roars again. “No. No. You’re not, though, are you? If you took a swing at me—and I can tell you want to—this would all be over in a moment. Better to play the part you know she wants: the misunderstood pauper, the diamond in the rough. Stick to it, you think, keep yourself under control, and the door to all of this will stay open.” He waves expansively, meaning the wedding, the country club, everything he has that I don’t.