I work for Richard’s mother in the design firm his parents own, Abbott Interiors. Well, worked. The company is a true family affair. His father is an architect, and his mother is an interior designer. Richard manages the office, which includes several other architects and designers as well as support staff.
When Richard and I started dating a couple of years ago, we kept our relationship a secret. I insisted on it, actually. I didn’t want things to be weird in the office, or for his parents to think I used my position to get close to their son.
The Abbotts are old money Manhattan aristocrats, their name spoken in the same breath as Astor, Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, and Morgan. Unfortunately, by the time it was their turn to inherit, most of their wealth was gone. Lost to generations of mismanagement and overspending.
Abbott Interiors was born of necessity, a way to capitalize on their network of high-society friends and natural talents. To their credit, Anne and Erik have been incredibly successful, building a business from the ashes of their greatest embarrassment.
I clear my throat, take another slug of vodka. “That’s over, too.” And I had loved my job. Abbott Interiors’ clients are among the wealthiest individuals in the city, with enormous budgets and a sky’s-the-limit approach to design. Luxe fabrics, priceless art, custom lighting, hand-crafted furniture. Working for them was a dream come true. “I walked away from it all. Richard, Abbott Interiors, even—”
Savannah’s features pinch together in a horrified wince. “No. Not the brownstone?”
One of Abbott’s latest projects is the gut renovation of a six-story brownstone. After a pipe in the fourth floor burst, destroying nearly six months of work and six hundred thousand dollars of custom cabinetry and woodwork, the client insisted that someone live there during construction. I volunteered, using the money I saved on rent to pay off the last of my school loans.
I nod morosely. “Turned in my keys, along with my phone and laptop. That’s why I didn’t get your calls.”
Savannah and I wade through the sea of my parents’ friends and neighbors, eventually making it out to the backyard. It’s clear my mom expects the party to spill out here, too. Gently glowing Edison bulbs are strung between trees and exterior beams, and smaller fairy lights glitter from inside lanterns scattered around the patio.
Out of habit, we walk to a back corner of the yard, to the tire swing suspended from the sprawling branches of an old oak tree wider than the two of us put together. It’s darker here, but the shadows feel comforting. Savannah and I have spent hundreds of hours in this swing, and we manage to get into it without spilling a single drop of our drinks.
“Even I might have put up with Richard to live in that brownstone. What happened, Viv?”
Savannah has never been a fan of Richard. No surprise, though. Her taste in boyfriends is eclectic, to say the least. Starving artists, tatted bikers, burly construction workers. If a man owns a suit, he’s immediately disqualified.
“Anne was in talks with a potential client about their new oceanfront estate in the Hamptons and she asked if I wanted to run lead on the project if we were hired. I said yes, of course. She sent out a firm-wide email announcing the date of our upcoming pitch, what we needed to put together, and my expanded role.”
“That’s amazing. Good for you.”
“It would have been. I never got to see the house or find out who the clients were.” I ease the tightness in my throat with a gulp of my drink. “Richard responded, questioning whether I was the right person to represent the Abbott brand on such a high-profile project.”
“Ouch,” Savannah says with a groan. “But how did you . . . ?”
“He accidentally hit REPLY ALL. Everyone in the firm saw what he thinks of me.”
“Idiot.”
“It was humiliating. At first, I thought it was Richard’s knee-jerk reaction to finding out I’d be spending so much time away from him this summer. Kind of a caveman ‘I can’t live without you’ move.”
“Caveman?” Savannah scoffs. “More like selfish, self-absorbed narcissist.”
“That too.” I shake my glass, ice cubes rattling as a heavy sigh leaves my lungs. “Anyway, I told him that I didn’t appreciate him sabotaging my career for his own reasons. That if he was upset about me taking on a project outside of the city, we needed to talk about it. Come up with a plan for our future together.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much.” I can’t bear to tell Savannah the truth.
That Richard had laughed. As if the idea of us having a future together—or at least him having a future with me was so far-fetched as to be ridiculous.
And that’s when I realized that, although it had been my idea to keep our relationship under wraps, Richard had never once suggested otherwise. That horrid email, the jarring sound of his laugh, had finally ripped the adoring curtain from my eyes, allowing me to see Richard for who he really is. Not charming, but condescending. Not poised, but pompous.
Richard was just stringing me along. Waiting until someone better came along, preferably someone with blood as blue as his own and plenty of green in her bank account. I was never his girlfriend; I was an employee he happened to be sleeping with.
Looking back, I’m not sure he ever cared about me. I was just . . . convenient.
“To hell with Richard. He’s a dick—pun intended,” Savannah mutters. “And you deserve better.”
A noncommittal sound makes its way out of my mouth. “Either way, my job with Abbott is going to be pretty tough to top.”
“You are crazy talented, Viv. You’ll find something else—something great—in a heartbeat.”
I lob an appreciative smile her way. “It might take a little longer than that. And longer still for another Hamptons project or Upper East Side brownstone. In fact,” I finish the last of my drink and gesture toward the patio, “I think this will be my view for a while. I’m going to ask my parents if I can stay with them until I figure things out.”
“If you just need a place to crash, you know you can stay with me.”
“Thanks, Savvy. But I think I need more than just a few nights on your couch.” I explain my precarious financial situation. How I’d been so certain Richard would ask me to live with him after the brownstone was finished and the owners moved back in that I hadn’t kept enough in savings to afford the requisite first and last month’s rent, plus security deposit, for anything decent. “It’s going to take me a while to get my life together. At least a couple of months. Maybe the whole summer.”
Her face transforms with a mischievous smile, her eyes lighting up with an idea. “Nope. You’re spending your summer in the Hamptons with me.”
I choke on a sliver of an ice cube. “Please. I can’t even afford a shack in the Hamptons right now.”
“You don’t have to! I went in on a weekend summer share house, and apparently, the person they hired to live there full-time to take care of things quit. As far as I know, they haven’t found anyone else to replace her yet.”
“Wait—that’s a job? Living in the Hamptons all summer long, rent-free, to take care of a house that’s mostly empty?”
“Pretty much. And isn’t that almost exactly what you were doing in Manhattan?”