“I never say that.”
He laughed. “Of course you don’t.”
“Did you really move to the States because of your family?”
“Well, when my father died, the ground shifted. Everyone thought I was the one that was going to be in charge of the family company. But I don’t want that pressure. I am working to raise money for solar energy, and I’m investing in start-ups. I work when I want.”
“Sounds ideal,” I said. “But do you miss them, your family?”
“My mother, yes. She owns a lot of art. Unusual things. She always consulted me, you see, even when I was a little boy. In some ways, I’ve been curating her house for my whole life.”
“How fascinating.”
“My brother I don’t miss, because we are always sparring.”
“Ah.”
“I miss my friends, but I have made a lot here. It has become my home. At first accidentally, now permanently.”
The large highway turned into a smaller one with a few strip malls, then we wound up into the hills. I couldn’t believe we were suddenly in such a bucolic setting while just having left DC.
The massive white gates of the country estate opened slowly, and we drove the half mile down the long, curvy driveway that led to the main house, which was regal and square—not a palace, more like a fortress. There was, however, a tennis court, stables, and a glistening amoeba-shaped pool. He didn’t give me a tour as one would expect, but instead rushed me down a walkway toward the stables.
“You will ride Lila,” he said, pointing to a perfectly white mare, saddled and ready, looking calm and super tame. “And I, of course, will ride Sterling.”
Sterling was jet-black and shiny, with a soft, sweet look in his eyes. I put my hand on his neck and felt his warmth.
“Wow. They’re incredible,” I told him.
“Yes, and now we ride!”
Ten minutes later, with the help of his two stable workers, we were mounted and off, trotting along a stream, the angled sun shooting laser-thin lines of light through the trees. I felt like it could have been a commercial for something random, like when you’re watching amazing footage of people in nature, and then it turns out to be about toothpaste or laxatives.
We came to a stop to let the horses nibble on the tall grass, and Michael pulled out what looked like a joint, but could have been a rolled cigarette. He was European, after all.
As we started walking the horses farther down the path, I asked him how long he’d known Barkley.
“Two, maybe three years. Barkley is so much about appearances it can be exhausting. And half the time he and Preston aren’t talking about what they are talking about, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes. I feel that way about everyone.”
He laughed, then coughed a little, offering me the joint. I hadn’t been on a horse in years, and I was really hungover, so I thought it might not be a good idea. But even so, I may have been getting a contact high, because I started to feel lightheaded and calm, as if there were nowhere else I’d rather be.
“Thank you, for last night,” he said, his eyes glossing over a little. I wasn’t sure if it was from pure emotion or if he was just high. Was it one and the same?
“No prob,” I said, like it was nothing.
His face turned peaceful and content, and it felt like a door opening.
“Can I tell you a theory I have?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. I believe there are five types of people in the world,” I began. “One type is what I call ‘Airport Bar People.’ You know, someone you would meet in an airport bar. An insurance agent, or a midlevel executive. People that are easy, nice, good for a couple one-liners, but basically like extras in the movie of your life.”
We crossed the stream and headed up the path on the other side. He seemed intrigued, so I went on.
“Another type is what I call the ‘Bright Lights.’ People who challenge you, and shift the natural order of things. The curious and super talented. People whose faces you could stare at for hours on end. The ones that are always there for you.”
He nodded, showing me that broad smile again.
“Then there’s the ‘Hangers On,’ which Barkley probably has a lot of. These people are parasitic, like they can’t exist without having a grip on someone else.
“Then of course there’s ‘Family,’ which in most cases requires a double shot of Patrón and some mild prescription drugs to manage.”
“Ha!” he said, and even Sterling gave a little neigh.
We paused to let the horses start in again on some more grass by the edge of the stream.
“What is the last one?”
“Huh?”
“You said there were five.”
“Oh, yes, well the last one isn’t a type of person really, it’s someone that sometimes comes along or doesn’t. It’s your ‘True Love.’ Unfortunately, I don’t really know about that from experience.”
“You are a romantic?”
“Not really. Maybe that’s the problem.”
“So which type are you?”
“Airport Bar, definitely. I’m in the background. But I feel like that could change, is changing. It’s ideally not a static environment.”
“And me?”
I ran my hand through Lila’s mane.
“Well, I guess I’ve never met anyone like you. I’d have to create a whole new category.”
“Good answer,” he said, gently kicking Sterling with his heel, initiating a trot. Lila followed, and both horses locked into a rhythm, then grew into a canter, and for the first time since leaving New York, I felt the weight of Jack lift from me. I didn’t need him anymore, because I had what was in front of me—a big scary unknown, but it was mine.
CHAPTER 11
KARMA’S AN UBER-BITCH
Brady was standing in his entryway when I walked in, and it gave me a start. He was never home, and I felt strangely invaded, even though it was his apartment and I was the interloper.
“Hey, Page, what’s up?” He looked tired and stressed, which I assumed was related to his job.
“Well, I’ve just been for a horseback ride in the Shenandoah mountains with the King of Austria.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, you look good. Windblown.”
“You too,” I lied. But the truth was, even tired, Brady was good looking. And like our father, he knew how to charm a woman.
I watched him straightening the cuffs on his shirt and sighed.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. You just remind me of Dad all the time now.”
“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
His phone dinged, a reminder for an event tomorrow. I was close enough to see the screen. It said, 2pm, Dr. Langley.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just routine stuff.”
“Hmm, okay. Well, it better be.”
Every time I saw the name of a doctor or drove by a hospital, I always got a sinking feeling. Even though he left us behind to pay for some of his bad financial choices, my father could do no wrong in our book. He was the glue of our family, and while my mother and I fell apart when he died, Brady ended up turning his life around and taking control. Although, watching him right now, fixing his hair in the hall mirror but getting frustrated, I sensed a tinge of panic behind his cool facade. I made a mental note of the doctor’s name so I could google him later.