I spent the rest of the weekend working hard on redeeming myself in the eyes of the Blacks.
At lunch, I was glued to Katie’s and Lori’s sides, making pleasant conversation and helping Lori stitch back a part of her favorite vintage dress that had gotten torn. I then rolled up my sleeves and made scones for everyone, bantering with the family baker (because what kind of family didn’t have a baker on their payroll?) and laughing with Katie, who didn’t participate in the baking but was content to sit on the counter and tell me about the half marathon she was training for.
“It’s the only thing that makes me feel accomplished. My dad gave me a job and threw enough money at my education, but running? No one does it for me. It’s all me.”
When the family went wine tasting, I opted to stay behind, seeing as I’d drunk my own body weight the previous night and was afraid even the scent of alcohol would upset my stomach. I sketched and watched the sunset at Foster Memorial Beach, the ocean crashing ashore tickling my toes with its foam. The air was salty and clean. My heart twisted painfully. Mom would have loved this beach.
My phone pinged with a message.
Layla: Wellllllll?
Maddie: Welllllll?
Layla: What’s going on? Also, I think Sven is onto you. He knows the Blacks are in the Hamptons this weekend. Coincidentally, he dropped by your apartment earlier and I had to tell him you’re out. Anyway, should I be worried for Ethan’s marshmallow heart?
Maddie: Nope. Chase is gross as ever.
Layla: Totally gross. In a want-to-have-his-sociopathic-babies way, right?
Maddie: First of all: I cannot believe they let you work with children. Second: I told you. He is a cheating cheater who cheats and we are not warming up to him (we = me and my body).
Layla: This sounds a lot like you trying to convince yourself.
Layla: Also, I just want to point out, I was voted teacher of the month last July. So HA.
Maddie: You mean during summer break, when kids are not at school?
Layla: Bye, party pooper. Tell the cobwebs on your va-jay-jay I said hi.
I must’ve gotten carried away with my sketching, because when I got back to the Black mansion, the door in our en suite bathroom was back on its hinges, unlike yours truly. Chase was already showered, dressed, and looking like the billion bucks he was worth, ready for dinner. I’d managed to successfully avoid him throughout the entire day by spending time with his family. I refused to thank him for taking care of me last night on the grounds that he cheated on me and was still a jerk, and I decided to continue ignoring his good deed. Chase asked if he could count on me not to spontaneously puke at the table. I flipped him the finger and headed to the still-steaming shower. He went downstairs to spend time with his father and niece while I threw three bath bombs into the hot tub, lay in it until my skin became prune-like and I’d shrunk to the size of a ten-year-old, and chose my outfit for the night (A-line black dress with cat ears on the shoulders paired with an orange cardigan and blue heels).
I did not drink a drop of alcohol through dinner and politely ignored Amber’s death stares. The stainless beauty of her, paired with the fact her husband thought I was subpar, rattled something I hadn’t known existed in me. Luckily, her daughter, Clementine, who looked to be around nine years old, turned out to be an unexpected delight. I hit it off with the little ginger thing immediately. We talked about which princess dresses were the best (Cinderella and Belle, hands down), then about our favorite superheroines. (That was where we agreed to disagree. Clementine exclaimed Wonder Woman was her first choice, while I thought the clear, obvious answer was Hermione Granger. Which led to another subargument about whether Hermione was a superheroine or not.)
(She definitely was.)
Clementine was fantastic. Open and bright and full of humor. It helped that she looked nothing like her grim father and gorgeous mother. A completely fresh entity, with different coloring, a constellation of freckles on her nose, and uneven teeth.
I got into bed early, avoiding all communication with my fake fiancé, and was delighted when I woke up in the morning and not only felt brand new but found Chase sleeping on the floor again. I took a moment to watch the frown between his eyebrows as he slept, the thick slash of his dark eyebrows pinched together. A pang of something warm and unwarranted unfurled in my chest.
Devilishly handsome.
I turned my back to him and slept through the morning, but not before writing him a note and leaving it exactly where he’d left his, on the nightstand.
C,
Thank you for brushing my teeth Friday night.
Next time don’t use all the hot water.
PS:
You’d look ridiculous on a horse.
—M
CHAPTER SIX
CHASE
I crumpled Madison’s last note while she was in the shower before slam-dunking it into the trash can. I scribbled another one before she came out.
M,
Can’t help but notice you failed to comment about the jasmines. No wonder we broke up. You’ve always been unappreciative (Xmas diamond earrings come to mind).
PS:
Re: me on a horse. Do I smell a bet?
—C
I had trouble wrapping my head around the fact my convenient, timid ex-girlfriend had turned into a feisty, take-no-bullshit warrior.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in.” I put the pen down. I expected Dad. We hadn’t had time to talk one-on-one during the weekend, and I wondered if he’d picked up on the tension between Jul and me. We hadn’t had many weekend-long family gatherings with Julian in the past three years. Not since Dad had announced I’d be chief operating officer of Black & Co., the second-in-command to his CEO and chairman position. He’d given Julian the CIO position—chief information officer—and the message was clear: I was to inherit the CEO seat when it was time for Dad to retire.
Julian had been resentful since then. He thought, considering he was the elder “son,” that he would be the natural successor. Only he didn’t feel so much like a son anymore and opted out of most family gatherings these days. In fact, I was surprised he’d come to the Hamptons. But of course he had—he’d wanted to see Madison, find out what kind of woman I’d decided to marry.
I looked up at the open door. It wasn’t Dad. It was Amber.
Fucking Amber.
She wore a pair of leather pants tighter than a condom and a blouse she’d conveniently forgotten to button around her generous, surgically enhanced rack. Her dyed-blonde hair was freshly blown out, and her face was immaculately made up, including her painted-on eyebrows, which gave her a Bert-from-Sesame-Street edge. I jutted my chin out in hello but didn’t stop shoving Mad’s clothes into her suitcase. My fake fiancée’s unaccountability infuriated me. She had nonexistent organizational skills. I couldn’t trust her to be ready in time, and I wanted to be out of here before we hit traffic. Another prime reason we were a terrible fit.
And here was another one, in case I was tempted to dip into Madison’s jar ever again—she was a dreadful drunk. On a scale of one to Charlie Sheen, she was a solid Mel Gibson. Embarrassing to be associated with. Still, I applauded myself for being pleasant and supportive of her when she’d been about to pass out. Of course, I’d had to be. She was my fake fiancée, and tossing her to another room, letting her fend for herself, seemed cold, even by my arctic standards.