Friends Like These(24)

I took the almost-finished joint back from Keith and inhaled again, feeling the disappointing heat already at my fingertips. I turned the question around again and again in my head— probably because I was so high. But the answer was the same, no matter which way I looked at it.

“Yeah,” I said finally. “I do feel that.”

“See, there you go,” he replied with a grin. “Because I don’t feel that.”

I’d laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Keith had just won Vassar’s Annual Art Prize as a junior, no small thing, for his Family of Origin series. And he’d deserved it. The paintings were amazing. He’d shown me as a little boy, sitting behind the wheel of a huge Cadillac, door open, legs too short to reach the pedals. The hair on the back of my neck stood up when I first saw it. I couldn’t have imagined a picture of something that never happened so perfectly capturing all that had.

Keith had shaken his head. “That series was all I had. And I’m okay with that, I think. I love art, but I don’t think I am an artist. Not the way you are a writer. It’s knit into your soul. Guard that with your life, man. The world is gonna work hard to steal it from you.”

Within three years of graduation, I’d sold two books. The first nearly made me a star. And in the meantime, Keith had made a happy career out of building people like Finch. It would devastate Keith if Finch— his biggest success— turned on him. He was already hanging by a thread.

“Yeah, Keith made me, and I made him a shitload of money,” Finch went on. “It’s not like he didn’t get something out it.”

I never should have introduced them. That had been obvious to me years before.

“Don’t fire Keith, Finch,” I said again. “He really cares about you. Look, he brought you up here, even though he knew we’d all be pissed at him.”

“And that’s a perfect example of why I’ve got to fire him. Why the fuck am I here right now?”

I glared at him. “Because you invited yourself. Like you do all the time. I was there, remember?”

“Keith should have drawn a line, though, with this weekend. It’s Jonathan’s bachelor party, right?” Finch shook his head, disgusted. “He can’t be straight with me about anything. You know, he’s been pretending that I have a show going up in London at the Serpentine Gallery. But it was canceled weeks ago because of money Keith hasn’t paid. Money that doesn’t have anything to do with me. Somebody at the gallery called me. After I found out, I told Keith I was going to make something new, too, just for that show. Wanted to see if that would make him come clean. Nope. Not a fucking word. He’d let me work my balls off, for nothing. And you’re claiming he cares about me?”

Unfortunately, that did sound like something Keith might do, especially these days. “Fine, then fire him. Just not this weekend, okay?”

It was actually in my interest if Finch fired Keith eventually, but right now we needed to focus on getting Keith into rehab. It was the same reason we weren’t talking about the latest email from Alice’s mom. Who could deal with that on top of the intervention? If Finch fired Keith, the whole weekend would definitely turn into a shit show. And, yes, I was also thinking about Maeve. Whatever chance I had to finally talk to her like I planned to that weekend would also go out the window.

Finch stared at me for a long time, that glint in his eyes. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

There was a loud burst of laughter, then in the distance, across the hall— Stephanie and Maeve. I looked toward the closed door.

“Does the wife know?” Finch asked.

“Know what?” I asked, turning back to him.

“That you’re in love with Maeve.”

He was looking at me like he was actually expecting an answer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Finch started to laugh, throwing his head back dramatically. “Come on, man. I know you in a way these people don’t, remember?”

That was true. It was how we’d gotten into this complicated situation to begin with.

Finch had shown up out of nowhere at the launch of my first book. It was a perfect night at the Strand, filled with adoration and beautiful girls and me at the center— the bright and shining literary star. Finch lingered afterward, looking unwashed and desperate. I hadn’t seen him in a decade, but that didn’t stop him from diving right in.

“I need some cash, man, just to get me on my feet,” Finch said, approaching me outside the store. His tone was sheepish, but his directness was alarming. “Just like a couple thousand. I’ll pay you back.”

What Finch didn’t understand— what he refused to believe, even after I explained— was that I didn’t have any money. He’d taken one look at the well-heeled crowd and the free wine in the fancy upstairs Reading Room, and he’d determined, incorrectly, that it meant I was wealthy. In reality, I’d signed a $40,000 contract for two books, much of which would be paid out over years to come.

“I don’t have that kind of money, Finch.”

“Well, I’m a starving artist, man, like literally.” He held up a fistful of launch party crackers he’d stolen for emphasis. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. There’s got to be something you can do, or . . .” Finch’s expression turned cold as he squared his shoulders and stood a bit taller. “If you can’t help me, I’ll be sure these people know who you really are.”