“Thanks for the advice, you walking, fucking turtleneck. And thanks for sitting at dinner like you owned the joint without once saying, ‘hey sorry about fucking off,’ or like, ‘I wrote you a note but forgot the explanation part.’ I really felt like I was going nuts, so good job on really committing to the gaslighting.”
“I wanted to talk to you before I left.”
“And?” I can’t let him finish telling me what he wanted, because I don’t care. “You didn’t.”
“There were reasons.”
“Cowardice?”
He lets out a short laugh.
“You gave up everything you said was important to you and ran back home like a child.”
Talking to him is like throwing a rock against a brick wall. The rock bounces, which is against its nature, and the wall is still a wall.
Yet, the rock persists.
“Apparently, I was the worst. Glad you bailed on me?”
“Is everything okay over here?” Jake asks again. This time, his fists are balled up and ready as he looks at Anton’s face as if he’s trying to figure out if his arms will reach it.
“Yeah,” I say, a little deflated. “It’s fine. Stand the fuck down.”
The valet pulls up in a white Range Rover. Butterbomb, my pastel yellow Mini Cooper, stops right behind.
“This is me,” Anton says, giving Jake a short wave before turning back to me. “It was good to see you again.”
“Sure.”
He walks to his car. Even from behind, he has the swagger of a man who bought the world on the cheap, fixed it, and has the upsides humming along nicely, which is intimidating enough to be sexy. If he hadn’t already abandoned me years ago, I’d enjoy peeling off his turtleneck.
Jake rushes to the Mini Cooper and opens the driver-side door as if he’s wearing a shining suit of armor instead of pressed jeans.
“Your car’s coming. You don’t have to open my door.”
“I like to.”
“Okay. Bye.” I catch Anton before he disappears into the Range Rover. “Where have you been?” I call to him.
“Maybe I’ll tell you next time.” He gets in his car while my body floods with anticipation and my mind says, fat chance, fucker.
When I put the car into drive, my hand is shaking.
Fat chance.
CHAPTER 3
LYRIC
When I was in the fifth grade, I started socking away half of my allowance. When I graduated high school, I didn’t take it to my father’s finance guy like four previous Crowne kids. That guy eats turkey sandwiches on Wonder bread and smells like a humidor. No. I went to the lackey junior analyst, Reggie. The guy in the striped tie with his hair parted on the side who—every time I saw him—was grating his teeth as though his jawbone was at war with whatever the top part of your skull is called.
I said, “You’re gonna wear your molars down.”
He said, “You try spending eighty hours a week buying at a five percent dip and selling at the five-year mean. Your dentist’s gonna love you too.”
“Anyone can buy on the cheap,” I said. “Maybe you don’t know when to sell.”
His reply was a soup of shit I didn’t understand—percentage positions and target ranges and short hedges. What he said wasn’t as important as what I heard—confirmation of my assessment. Reggie wouldn’t ever be a slick player, but he was a predator, and he was always hungry.
“Keep your fangs sharp.” I gave his grindy ass a check with very clear instructions. “You make the calls. Double it in four years and you double your percentage.”
If he did what I asked, he could buy a house in the Valley. I was going to use that money to make a feature film right out of NYU. Back then, I didn’t know what the movie would be, but it was going to be raw, edgy, shocking. A monumental debut from a visionary young director.
I wrote Standard Deviation during my fourth year, finishing the ninth draft the night before commencement.
Anton was on campus for his half-brother Mike’s graduation. Apparently, a degree in cyber security is a real thing. He told me they were eventually going to start a business together. He told me he was originally from Los Angeles and came to New York to work on a startup.
Anton didn’t tell me he was personally funding the startup or that his father was a literal Russian oligarch. I found that out myself. But by then, he’d charmed me. Or broken me. Trying to figure out which is too painful.
I made my movie, and Anton and I were inseparable until the day he left me that note.
I like to think that poem on a scrap of paper he left on the kitchen table was a complete shock, but the first thing I thought was, you should have seen this coming.
My five brothers never ask me for anything if they can avoid it. I’m the baby in the family, and a girl, and not a controlling ass like most of them, so what could I possibly help with?
Colton’s the only one who’s not a domineering capitalist, so he had no problem asking me to boost his girlfriend Skye’s performance on my Insta. Cool backstage video intercut with the stage act. Twenty-nine seconds. Post at seven forty-five a.m. for max engagement.
The video is what I should be thinking about as I drive up the 15, into the Mojave Desert, where the Shooting Star Music Showcase is happening.
But it’s not. I’m looking forward to helping Skye, but seeing Anton over dinner three days ago was like getting knocked into while walking a narrow ledge on the side of a really tall building. I thought there was more room, and now I’m teetering between being normal-whatever and falling into I-can’t-think-about-this-right-now. So I’ve gone out more, talked more, posted more, hung out with friends more.
And now, here I am, alone with my thoughts because Liang needed to be early to do Skye’s makeup—which is on me because I set that up—running the My Life with Anton slideshow.
I sing with the radio so loud I can’t hear my own neurons firing.
It doesn’t drown out the visuals.
Winter. Location scouting on an empty New Jersey beach. Anton’s top two shirt buttons are undone. The collar flips over in the wind, laying itself against his jaw as he estimates the distance between the abandoned lifeguard stand and the boardwalk.
My forehead on my desk. He puts my hair in a ponytail. Smell of camphor as he rubs my neck.
Midnight on my birthday. In bed. Eyes closed. Anton slides my phone into my hands. Says, “open it.” There’s a new square on the home page. Gold with a black L in the center. I tap it as if I’m opening a box in bright paper. He’d created a production scheduling app, just for me, with just the things I needed. It must have taken a hundred hours to make and was utterly perfect.
Two in the morning. Running lines with Liang. Anton gets home from work and brings us warmed bagels and cream cheese.
Anton telling me not to feel bad about promising Liang a career and not delivering. It’s life.
Anton fucking me until I cry.
Carrying me to bed when I’m too tired to fuck.
And then.
Poof.
No. Not poof.
There were things—events and choices—but in the end?
Poof.