“What else should we say?” I scrape the plate, just to piss them all off.
He finishes his drink. “Well, I thought it would be nice for you guys to spend some more time with me, so I arranged a brunch for tomorrow. Your mother”—he looks pointedly in her direction, as if she should confirm—“said that it would be fine, and that both of your schedules are clear. There’s this woman I’ve been seeing, Sara Beth. She’s lovely. It’s getting serious, so I’d like you girls to meet her.”
My mother pushes away from the table, startling everyone.
“I’d rather not—” I start to say, but she interrupts.
“You didn’t tell me that.” She turns to my father, her voice cold as the November air. “Not happening. Not anytime soon.”
“Rebecca, you can’t be serious about this.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious. You are welcome to take your daughters to brunch. Alone.”
“You know I’ve been seeing Sara Beth—”
“Way more than you see your daughters? Yes, we’re all well aware of that fact. Especially given that Bette has been suffering enormously the past few months, and you’ve barely been around. And frankly”—she waves away the staff—“maybe it’s better that way. This whole ‘family Thanksgiving’ was an error in judgment on my part, girls.” Her words feel directed at Adele, who has been silent this whole time. “Robert, I think it’s best if you leave.”
My dad looks floored, but he doesn’t wear humiliation well. “Girls, you know, honestly, that I’m just a phone call away, right?”
Adele chooses that moment to speak. “That’s just it, Dad, isn’t it? You’re just a phone call. That’s all.”
My father looks devastated as he walks out. So why am I the one who feels like I’ve been socked in the stomach?
Adele starts on her pie, and aside from the clanging of the fine china, we eat in silence. All in all, it feels very much like your typical Abney holiday celebration.
The next day, I sit at the desk in my bedroom in front of the lawyers’ boxes, poring over files again, when Justina comes in with a large box. The postmark features the conservatory’s zip code, and my heart leaps. I tear into the heavy cardboard box. Inside is a stack of People magazines, probably about a hundred copies, all identical. I don’t get it. There’s some random country star on the cover. I flip through the pages, trying to figure it out, and there is Gigi, beaming up at me.
I always wanted to see my name in this magazine. Now, I finally do. But in this heartwarming story about this phoenix’s rise from the ashes at the American Ballet Conservatory, Bette Abney has been cast as the villain. Not by Gigi herself. Oh no, she’s too “nice” to point a finger like that. The article mentions the settlement, though, implying that it was in the seven figures. Implying my guilt.
I expect tears, rage, fury. But all I can manage is exhaustion. Maybe the battle is really over. Maybe she’s really won. I run my fingers over an image of her as the Sugar Plum Fairy, and she really is luminous.
That’s when I see the pictures of her and Alec, a cutesy, lovey-dovey photo booth strip running down the side of the third page of the story. They look smitten. Seeing those photos of her cuddling up to Alec, my heart sinks all the way down to my toes, and I realize, maybe for the first time, just how much I really miss him. How much I really miss us. Especially on a thankless day like today. I shiver and pull my wrap sweater tighter around me. I want to curl up in my bed and not wake up until after New Year’s.
I know Will sent these to me. Or worse, maybe Gigi. They pulled that trick right out of my playbook.
I open up my phone. I click on the camera app even though I know Gigi went to California and Cassie is probably home with the Lucas clan for the Thanksgiving holiday. The dorm rooms are empty. My father’s words echo in my head like they’ve been said through a megaphone: The settlement is done.
I throw my phone across the room. It crashes into a stack of CDs on the shelf, then rings. I’ve probably messed up my phone, but it still blares out. I scramble for it and answer.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” the voice replies. “Who is this?”
“How’d you get this number?” I ask.
“You left it for me. On YouTube.”
I suck in a breath and hold it in my chest. I don’t know what to say. Maybe: Hi, my name is Bette Abney and I think you have footage of the night when a girl was shoved into a car, and it got blamed on me, and I need to see whatever that is.
“You there?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Here.” I put on my mother’s most professional tone. “My name is Bette Abney, and I’m a dancer with the American Ballet Conservatory. You might have—”
“You’re one of those girls from that night at the club. The accident. Right?”
This guy doesn’t mess around. “Yes. I don’t know if you’ve been following the situation but Gigi—Giselle Stewart—the girl who was hit, she’s doing much better. She’s one of my friends.” I slip in the tiny lie.
“Oh, that’s good. She was beautiful—you all were. I was worried about her.”
“We’re trying to figure out who pushed her. Did you have the rest of the footage?”
“I saw it all go down.” There’s a gross smirk in his voice.
“So who did you see? Can you clarify for me?” I use words like the lawyers did. I squeeze my phone so tightly I can feel it start to bend under the weight of my grip. All the bits of my life lay shattered, a mess that I’m painstakingly trying to put together, on the top of my desk.
“I have the rest of the footage, but it got flagged on YouTube for being too violent.”
“Can I share it with her?” This could be it. This could be exactly what I need to clear my name. I work hard not to sound overeager, not to scare this guy off. “It could be super helpful in resolving this matter.”
“Yeah, I don’t need it. I’m emailing it to you right now. Same address as the one in the message, right?”
“Yes.” I try not to sound breathless and desperate. I flip open my laptop and click on my email. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.” I try to stay calm. I wait for him to ask for money or something in return. I don’t believe in Good Samaritans.
But a few seconds later, the email pops up from Jeff Waters.
“Enjoy.” He hangs up.
I click on the attachment. I watch us stumble out of the club. My heart thuds as I fast-forward to the place where it cut off online. I hear Gigi’s laugh. I see Alec, Will, and Eleanor and me, not far behind them. June holds hands and steals kisses with Jayhe.
The camera wobbles. My cheeks flush and I grind my teeth. The taxi lurches down the street. Gigi flies forward. In the next moment, she’s sprawled out in the street, in front of the taxi. It was that fast. I rewind it and try to catch who did it. But I can’t quite make it out. I rewind it again. It’s still too quick. I open a new tab and search for a slow-motion app. I download it and open the video file through that. Then I watch it all happen again, slowly unfolding on my screen. I see the hands on her back.
I fight the upward pull of a smile across my mouth.