How did he do that?
How did he see her so thoroughly?
Margo’s image seems to glare at me in warning. Like there’s something bound to happen, and I haven’t yet realized it.
My chest tightens, and I have to turn away.
At one point, I thought Eli looked at me the way Caleb saw Margo.
We had an all-consuming relationship—and it did consume everything.
My morals included.
Now… now, I just need to find a way to get them back.
4
Eli
Confession: I didn’t do college right.
I didn’t live up to the immediate expectation of success. College classes are hard. There’s more reading, more studying, more independent learning. My professors were assholes.
Instead of buckling down and accepting the sucker punch, I did what no respectable Black has done in the history of our family. Probably.
I dropped out.
Dad was pissed, but the deed was done. I told the university in Maine to fuck off as I was on my way out, effectively burning any bridge for readmittance.
“A gap year,” Dad says, rubbing his temples. “That’s what you call it when you apply to new colleges. And so help me God, Eli, you need a job.”
“A job?” I go to the window.
Manhattan is encased in a layer of fog this morning. It’s been hovering for a while, but the sun hasn’t been up long enough to burn it off. Dad’s office is just high enough to see over the top of it, so it looks like skyscrapers are jutting out of the clouds.
Like we’re in some sort of mystical world.
I try not to snort. A mystical world of overpriced corporate attorneys and stockbrokers.
Right.
“You can’t just sit home and do nothing,” Dad says.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“I’ll call Barb, see if you can do something here—”
“Absolutely not.” I face him. “You don’t want me in the same building. We talked with all your fancy friends about Maine. There’s too much potential embarrassment.”
Dad frowns. “You don’t embarrass me. I’m worried about you and how you’re going to explain—”
“Maybe I won’t go to college.”
It’s just to get a reaction, I think. But he gapes at me, eyes bugging out. His clients rarely see him this expressive.
“Eli,” he warns.
A job.
In a way, it’s exciting. Dad’s been going on and on about me being an attorney for who knows how long, and suddenly the shackles have released from my wrists. I’m free, if only temporarily.
Mom will take the news better than he did. That’s why I chose to confront Dad in his office, with the glass walls and zero privacy.
“Relax, Dad. I’ll find something and reapply for next year. Deadline is months away, and I can reuse bits of my essay.”
He groans. “Sit down.”
For once, I don’t mind listening to him. I sit in one of the metal chairs in front of his desk and eye him.
No one is more surprised than me when he pulls out the chair next to me, angling it closer.
Nice personal touch there, Dad.
“Tell me why you really came back.”
I force myself to stay still. Part of me recognizes that we’re negotiating.
“Why?”
He raises an eyebrow. “If you don’t, I will call Barb and stick you in the mailroom until you turn twenty-seven.”
Barb is a scary lady on a good day, but she makes an excellent head of Human Resources. I have no doubt she’d put me on the bottom level of the company with glee, then pretend to leave me there to rot.
It definitely wasn’t the Halloween prank my friends and I played on her at a party a few years ago that put a sour taste in her mouth for me.
“I tell you, and you give me a month to find my own job,” I argue.
He grimaces. “A week—if the excuse is good.”
I lean back in my chair. “Three weeks for a good excuse. I’d accept a week for a bad one.”
“Fine. Spill.”
“I hated it.”
He waits for more.
There’s always more.
I scowl. “I wasn’t as good at it as I thought.”
He sighs and stands. His movements are methodical, tucking in the chair, running a hand down his tie. “We’ll talk about this at home.”
I glance behind me. His paralegal stands at the door with a client. The man appraises me through the glass.
There are some things you can’t hide—the dead look in his gaze is one of them.
Tattoos crawl up his neck, out from under his white collared shirt. There’s a pair of tattooed eyes on his neck that catch my attention.
You can dress a man up, but…
“Eli,” Dad says. “Time to go.”
I jerk. “Right. Sorry.”
It feels like I’ve walked through a spiderweb. I shiver. The strangest urge to duck for cover washes through me, but I ignore it.
The elevator doesn’t come fast enough. Once it arrives, I stand in the back corner and discreetly pat myself down.
I don’t know who that man was, but I don’t think I want to know. At all.
I shoot a quick text to the driver I hired, then slip into the café on the corner. It buzzes with chatter from patrons, and the smell of toasted sugar and fresh ground coffee lingers on the air.
I order a latte—hey, a guy can get a fancy drink every now and then—and my phone buzzes. My driver has arrived, speedier than usual. Especially in Manhattan.
Then again, I was only in Dad’s office for twenty minutes. There isn’t much to say when my presence speaks volumes.
The decision to come home wasn’t done lightly, no matter how few words I used to explain it to Dad. I don’t understand half of it myself.
I slide into the waiting car, and it pulls away from the curb.
Still, I’m convinced there’s a method to my madness—and at times, I’m positive it is madness that racks through me. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I lived in a state of near-starvation for the better part of a year.
When I close my eyes, I see her and her irrational anger.
It’s a mirror for mine.
We’re almost home, the trip from the city passing deceptively smooth. Unbeknownst to my parents, I’ve been home for three days. It’s them who have only just arrived back home.
Where they were, I couldn’t say. But this morning, the housekeeper’s surprised yelp startled me awake. She didn’t have it in her to scold me. She wasn’t like the last one, who knew me from when I was in diapers. This woman was older, kept her head down, did what my parents asked.
She told me they had been staying in the city but were expected back tonight.
The best defense is a good offense. Thanks for that one, Dad. So what else was I to do? I didn’t sit around waiting for them to get home. I went to him.
My mood darkens when we pass the Entering Rose Hill sign.
I lean forward and tap the driver’s shoulder. “Turn here.”
“My instructions were to take you—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you fifty bucks to turn right now.”
He sighs and flicks on the blinker.