When We Were Bright and Beautiful(41)

So.

The press exploded. As soon as Raffi Alexander uploaded the clip, Lawrence’s quote was shared, reposted, and retweeted 1.1 million times. “Dad went viral,” Nate says. “The guy’s a fucking meme. He may have screwed Billy beyond repair.”

After hanging up with Nate, I call Lawrence, who feels awful, of course. He’s desperate to make another statement, but DeFiore forbade it.

“Henceforth,” Lawrence says, quoting DeFiore, “all communication from the Lawrence Quinns to the outside world is shut down. Peter also ordered us to stay out of sight. Well, not you, Cassie, since you’re never here anyway.”

“I’ll come home,” I offer, ignoring his dig. “Nate and Billy’s birthdays are next week. I want to celebrate with everyone. Triple-cakes. Triple-parties. Three Musketeers.”

“It’s okay. No one is feeling celebratory these days.”

“Tell her she doesn’t need to come home,” I hear Nate say. “But she should send gifts.”

“Speak soon,” Lawrence tells me. “Love you, kiddo.”

*

Marcus’s calls have become more frequent. Always in the dead of night. Always when I’m sleeping. “I can’t stand this. I can’t stand that you left.” He’s crying, which thrills and disgusts me. To give in and go back is slow suicide. He has a wife, three kids, two houses, a job, all of which he’s devoted to. “Please, Cassie, come back.”

I hang up. Trailing my fingers along my arm, I imagine they’re Marcus’s, and relive the first time he touched me. Alone in bed, I feel sad and sorry. I want to cry but refuse.





24


ON SUNDAY MORNING, WHEN THE DOORMAN CALLS TO ANNOUNCE a guest, I freak out. It’s Marcus. He drove all the way from New York! Should I let him in? Pretend I’m not home? If I open that door, there’s no telling what might—

“It’s okay,” I say. My heart is pounding. “Send him up.”

“It’s a woman.” He pauses to get her name. “Eleanor Quinn?”

Eleanor? Eleanor has never visited New Haven, not since I moved. “You sure?”

There’s a pause. “She said, ‘Yes, Cassandra, he’s sure.’”

“I need another minute.” I’m a whirling dervish, grabbing towels off chairs, scooping clothes from the floor. Although I never told Eleanor about Marcus, I feel sure she’s here to talk about him. I don’t know why I think this, but I do. A married man, Cassandra? A man who offers nothing but lies? Who betrays his family? I raised you better than this.

She knocks as I pull on shorts. Opening the door, I give her a smile. “Eleanor, this is a surprise.” Today, she’s channeling Jackie Onassis fleeing the paparazzi. She’s wearing oversized black sunglasses, rich red lipstick, and a scarf wrapped around her head. She looks ludicrous.

“A fun surprise, I hope.” She holds up a brown bag. “Double espresso. Your favorite.”

“Fun!” I’m giddy with worry.

She leans forward but not to hug me. Instead, she pats my back three times. That’s as far as she’ll go. When I was a child, she zipped up my coat, smoothed down my hair, and patted me three times—one, two, three. Firm yet kind, just enough to make me ache for more.

“It’s nice to see you,” I say.

“And you, my dear. It’s been far too long.”

“Eleanor, I was home a month ago.”

When she takes off her glasses, I note her eyes, red-rimmed and cloudy. Otherwise, she’s styled to perfection—perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect makeup, perfect everything.

She gives me a onceover, and I feel the ground shift under my feet. I love Eleanor, so in my descriptions to Haggerty, I softened her. She’s never been cruel or intentionally hurtful to me, but she’s exacting, brittle. From the day I moved in, Eleanor has curated my appearance with high-minded precision. Hair, skin, nails, clothes, weight, the way I walk, the way I talk, the list goes on. For most of my childhood, I was so skinny, I looked like one of my brothers. But when I was twelve, my body erupted, like a dirty bomb defiling everything within a fifty-mile radius. Eleanor doubled down in response. Modesty was paramount, desire distasteful, and basic human urges—eating, drinking, fucking—suppressed. Cover yourself, Cassie. Keep yourself in check, Cassie. Be pretty, be smart; be good. For Christ’s sake, Cassie, be anything but what you are. I rebelled, parading through the house in a skimpy tank top and tiny boxers. Hey, Eleanor, check me out.

“Well, don’t you look casual?” she says.

I’m wearing ripped denim shorts and a T-shirt. I’m barefaced, barefoot, and my hair is a tangled, knotty mess. Her point, though, is I’m not wearing a bra. “It’s summer, Eleanor.”

“Mind if I take a tour?” Without waiting for my response, she sweeps through the nearly empty rooms. “You’ve done wonders with the place, Cassandra. Who knew you had such style?”

“Who knew you had a sense of humor?”

She smiles. “There’s my girl. Snappy as ever.”

Eleanor won’t sit without a proper invitation, so I wave at a bench. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“I will do my very best.” She slides over as if it’s the backseat of a town car: knees together, spine straight, hands folded neatly like white dinner napkins. After a brief pause, she explains her impromptu visit. “We received a report from the lawyer’s office.”