Dying, I want to spit at my father. He’s probably dying, or maybe even dead. Things like that happen, you know. Things take a turn. Your brother goes home from the hospital and days later he’s burning with a fever that could kill him. That’s all Eva would tell me. She won’t tell me anything else.
I panicked, after I got that first phone call from her. I called Robert back and told him I’d sell the paintings to Emerson. The two things felt connected somehow. Like maybe, if I sold the paintings, he’d leave me alone and things would be better.
I don’t plan on touching his money. It feels fake in my account. Strange.
“Oh, Eva called earlier,” my mother says from my right side. And what? Did Eva tell her the truth? Her expression is as placid as it always is. I don’t know how she can stand it. Waiting around for my father to snap. He always does, eventually.
Fear skitters over the backs of my arms. I swallow it with another crushed tomato. There’s nothing to be afraid of now. It would be great if my body would remember that. Usually, I don’t have trouble. Usually I sit through dinner with a smile on my face and plenty to say about the weather. Usually Leo is here, and Eva, and there’s nothing much for me to say anyway. I stay quiet. I stay invisible. It’s a strategy that works, except for the times it didn’t. But all that was a long time ago. I’m not a child anymore.
“And what, Sarah?”
“One of her charities, I’m sure.” This, from Lucian. I keep my expression very, very neutral. He’s still eating tomato soup.
“That’s what she said.” My mother waves her spoon above her bowl. “A donation of some sort. An endowment.”
Dad doesn’t buy this. “What would Leo have to do with that?”
Lucian laughs. “He’s a whore for recognition. Probably made the donation himself.”
My mother covers her mouth with her hand. “Lucian.”
“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. “Maybe it’s the tax deductions he likes the best.”
It’s easy to be irritated with Lucian. Nothing gets to him. Nothing bothers him. Rattles him. Makes him any less cocky, or mean. And now he’s openly being an asshole about Leo at dinner for no reason. My fist tightens around my soup spoon. I don’t know what I plan to do with it. Hurl a crushed tomato in his face? It would be satisfying. It would also cause a scene.
“What about you, Sophie?” My mother poses the question like we’re all sharing things about our lives. Casually, like I’m sure other families do. “How’s the contract with Tommy going?”
Only my mother calls world-famous designers by their first name. My sister swirls her spoon in her soup, which is still completely full. Her tone is flat. “Super great.”
My father’s frown deepens.
“That’s lovely,” my mother says, but her attention is on the server she’s summoned from the side of the room. More wine. She may not be a perfect parent, but she’s always been a perfect hostess.
Sophia is two years older than me, but smarter and more mature than me by far. I don’t understand half of what she talks about. What I do know is that sometimes she comes to my apartment above Motif late at night, sparkling drunk and tired enough to sleep on my couch. She won’t tell me where she goes or what she’s doing, but she’ll tell me endless gossip about the artists she sees in the clubs or at the bars or wherever she’s been. We have coffee. We eat brunch. And then she puts on dark glasses and goes.
“And Daphne sold some paintings,” she says, grinning at me.
I raise my eyebrows at her. Why? Why would she do that? I narrowly avoided my dad’s attention, and now look.
“I did.” I put on a big smile. “A few of my pieces at the gallery.” I never should have told her about this. Clearly.
“That place,” my father says, “is an embarrassment.” He’s definitely looking at me now. This is for me. Next to him, Lucian checks his phone under the table and frowns. Did Eva tell him what was going on? If she did, does he know more than I do? We’re in the same room, and I can’t ask him. Even if I do, I probably won’t get answers. Another flare of anger burns me up. Embarrassment rings in my ears. “You should know better than to associate yourself with a place like that.”
I move my spoon in a slow circle through the soup. “I don’t know, Dad. They put up my painting for me, and it sold. That’s how I’ll get recognized as an artist.”
“By living in a hovel?” His face is getting red, which is not a good sign. “Stop pretending, Daphne. Insisting on that place is childish. If you want to waste your time on playacting an artist, I don’t care, but you don’t have to slight this family to do it.”
I’m pretty sure my ears have burst into flame. “I don’t think it’s a slight. My work is good.”
“Not good enough.”
“Good enough to sell. Good enough to get a commission.”
I don’t know what I’m thinking, talking back to him. It’s never worth it. Always dangerous. Blood hums in my ears. My face has to be as red as this soup. It’s bullshit, being here. Leo could die, and I’m angry at him. I’m worried sick about him. I should have skipped the dinner too. I could have made an excuse and painted until I was too tired to see straight. I’d have sorted all my feelings out on the canvas instead of swallowing them like curdled milk.
“Are you painting others?” Lucian asks.
I look at him, instead of my father. I can’t tell whether he actually cares or whether he’s saying something to end the silence. His dark eyes are narrowed. Bright. “For the gallery?”
A bored shrug, but that light doesn’t leave his eyes. Lucian’s always watching to see what makes people react. Or overreact. “For anyone.”
“Maybe. Why?”
“Morelli Holdings could use some updated art in the meeting rooms.”
“If you want art, use a dealer,” my father snaps.
“Art dealers are thieves. Unless you know someone who’s not.” Lucian aims this at our father.
It’s enough to turn the conversation away from me.
“Sophia,” my mother says, and then there are two conversations happening. The crushed tomatoes are disgusting. I eat the entire bowl. My mother is still going on about an event she’s planning. How Eva will be helping her, though time is getting a bit short, and people will notice if it’s a disaster.
I sneak my phone out of the pocket of my dress and put it on my lap.
Daphne: I’m coming over after this
The main course comes. Braised chicken with a side of Brussels sprouts. I can’t stand Brussels sprouts. They’re never good. Tasteless, and the texture is always off.
Eva: Not tonight
Eva: Not good here
Not good at Leo’s house. I have no idea whether that means he dies by morning or he’s in a terrible mood, and I want to know. Maybe I should get over it and wait for the news like everyone else. But I can’t force myself not to care. I can’t get all these feelings in a decipherable order. What are you supposed to do when your favorite brother might die but no one wants to tell you anything? And all this to protect me. The way he always does. Except then what? What happens if it’s actually as bad as Eva says it is?