When We Were Bright and Beautiful(48)

And yet, despite our closeness, my dissatisfaction deepens and spreads. Marcus will kiss me and touch my breasts. That’s it. Full stop. I’m a virgin, which he knows, but I like to pretend otherwise. I flirt with older men when my parents entertain, especially when Marcus is there and can see me doing it. Older men, I quickly learn, are as hungry for my attention as I am for theirs. “Boys must fall all over you. They must follow you around like puppies.” Once, a very drunk man told me that at his age, seventy-two, an erection was a sacred event. “I view each one with awe.” I pretended to laugh. The man was repulsive. But Marcus is different. He keeps me at arm’s length. When he watches me, I feel indestructible, invincible. Then he turns the tables, which used to delight me. Now it frustrates me. He insists we can’t sleep together until I’m of age, which is seventeen in New York, even if the sex is consensual.

“What if I get parental approval? What if we go before a judge?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cassie.”

I counter with sixteen and two months.

“Seventeen,” he tells me.

Sixteen and a half.

“Seventeen.”

I let Marcus say what he wants; we both know it’s just a matter of time. Like me, he’s a tease. “You picked me, Cassandra,” he whispers. “You picked me, groomed me, and broke me down. If we do have sex, it’s only because I have no choice.”

The tension is unbearable.

“No,” I whisper back. “You won’t have a choice.”

I want to feel his body against mine. Nothing can deter a willful teenage girl who burns with want. Luckily, Marcus is a mass of contradictions. An honorable man, engaged father, and devoted husband, but he also likes to court danger. One night, after weeks of cajoling, I convince him to take me out for drinks. We end up at a tiny bar in the Bronx, a sketchy hole in the wall, where we’re anonymous. When we walk in, not one person glances our way.

“See, Marcus?” I say. “Told you.”

I’m wearing a full face of makeup, red red lipstick. High heels. Fishnet stockings. A tight leather skirt. I dress slutty for Marcus, the way he likes women. In this way, he’s like a man from the nineteen fifties, which I find bewildering and sad. He talks a lot about fucking, he flirts like a dog. He sneaks porn on the sly. He’s hired hookers in the past. What about his wife? Does she like sex too? She does not, he says. New subject.

Marcus orders a beer. The bartender looks at me. “Dirty martini,” I say boldly, as if this is my usual. My stomach flips over, afraid he’ll refuse or demand my ID. “Sure,” he says.

I’m not sixteen yet, I want to shout, giddy from the deception.

Marcus thinks it’s funny too. “Guess there are no rules anymore.”

When my drink comes, I swallow it in one go.

“Hey, hey, kiddo,” he says. “Slow it down.”

I order another, then a third. Marcus switches to whiskey. Soon, we’re drunk. Well, I am. We laugh uproariously at everything, funny or not. He touches my thighs, my face. I lean in too far and almost fall off my stool. When I catch myself, I look up.

I gasp. Anton is sitting across the bar. His son, Joey, is to his right.

Quickly, I grab Marcus. “We have to go.” My heart clangs in my chest. I look again. Anton is still there. But is it Anton? I can’t tell, it’s so dark.

In the cab, speeding downtown, Marcus soothes me. “Don’t think twice about it.” He’s not worried; or if he is, doesn’t show it. “You’re not sure it was him. Or if he saw us.” The other point he didn’t make, though I know he thought it: Anton Rivera is a doorman. Joey Rivera is his son. Neither of them is a person worth considering, if a person at all.





28


WOOZY, I STEP OUT OF THE ELEVATOR. THE HOUSE IS DARK except for a dim light in the celebration room. I head down the hall, and find Lawrence slumped in his chair, watching CNN with the sound off.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I switch on the lamp.

“Wow, that’s bright.” He shields his eyes.

Lawrence is holding a wineglass; an empty bottle sits on the floor. Clearly, the stress is crushing him. His hair is matted, his cheeks are sunken. There’s a dusting of white stubble on his chin. He looks beaten down.

I shut off the light and sit down on the couch.

“Have a glass of wine,” he says.

“Nothing for me, thanks.” I don’t like to drink with Lawrence, but I’ll keep him company. I glance at the TV. “Any news about Billy?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet, but it’s coming. Just watch. By mid-September—boom. The whole thing will explode again.”

“You still think he should take a plea?” I look at the screen instead of at him.

“Well, Cass, here’s what will happen if he doesn’t. The press will ramp up their efforts. They will enter this house, take out their knives, and carve up the walls. They will expose every intimate detail they find, meaningful or not, and trump up a story to get readers. Clicks and eyeballs—that’s the news model. The public will hang Billy weeks before his trial even starts.”

“And Billy will go to prison forever.”

“And yes, your brother will go to prison. You know what else? The Stockton-Quinn foundation will lose any hope of funding. No one will offer Nate a job. My clients will dry up. Eleanor will be ostracized. God knows what will happen to you—or where any of us will live once we’re forced out of here.”