The Cousins(66)

“Stairs,” I grit out. Because the only thing worse than getting sent to my room in front of Anders and JT would be waiting for an elevator while they watch.

Suit No. 2 and I climb the stairs silently, pushing through the door on the second floor into an empty hallway. Room 215 is easy to find—it’s right next to the stairwell and across from a vending machine. Probably the noisiest and therefore cheapest room in the place. A light on the door panel flashes green when I insert my key, and I pause after turning the handle.

“Please tell me we part ways here,” I say.

“We do.” Suit No. 2 allows an amused glint to enter his eyes. If nothing else, tonight must’ve been a break from routine. “Good luck, kid.”

I heave a sigh of relief when the door shuts behind me. Alone at last. I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping for a text from Milly or Aubrey, but there’s nothing. I think about sending one last message to Milly, but I can’t bring myself to keep bugging her. If she wanted to talk to me, she’d have answered by now.

This room isn’t as luxurious as the ones at Gull Cove Resort, but it’s better than the dorms. There are two twin beds with nautical-striped bedding, a small desk in front of the window, and a large-screen television that takes up most of one wall. The air-conditioning is noisy and set so high that goose bumps rise on my arms. The bathroom is clean and bright, and the muscles in my shoulders ache at the thought of a hot shower. I should call my father, but that can wait another five minutes.

It ends up being more like twenty. A shower was a brilliant idea because it lets me shift into autopilot, going through motions I’ve done thousands of times before. I can pretend for a little while that everything is fine. Normal, even. But eventually, when I’ve used up every tiny bottle available and the entire bathroom is enveloped in a cloud of steam, it’s time to leave the cocoon of the shower stall. I step out and towel off. Carson Fine had our clothes washed and pressed yesterday, so I actually have something clean to wear. My sweatpants are weirdly stiff with starch, but whatever.



Once I’m dressed, I can’t put it off any longer. I sit at the foot of one of the beds, phone in hand, and debate how to start the conversation. So, Dad. About that sweet summer job…

Maybe I should start with a text. I open my messages, and blink when I realize that I missed one from him earlier today. The preview reads Hey, Jonah, bankruptcy court went, and I groan. I was so worried about the Summer Gala that I forgot my parents’ hearing had been rescheduled for today. “When it rains, it pours,” I mutter, opening the message. It’s classic Dad: one giant paragraph instead of a bunch of individual texts.

Hey, Jonah, bankruptcy court went better than expected today. Looks like your mom and I will be able to keep Empire open after all. More to come, but we’re feeling optimistic for the first time in a while. Enzo’s working at Home Depot. We talk to him every day and we’re hopeful that we’ll be able to bring him back before the year is out. Try not to worry, ok? Enjoy your weekend and we’ll talk soon.

I drop the phone onto the bed, put my head in my hands, and let out a deep, shuddering breath. My eyes sting as I press my palms against them. I hadn’t been letting myself hope, but…they did it. My parents have been working nonstop trying to show the bankruptcy trustee that they can pay back their creditors and still run a business, and I guess he listened.

Stop shifting blame. Anders Story might be an asshole with no conscience, but maybe he’s not wrong. “You can’t prove fraud. And you can’t get your money back,” the lawyer my parents consulted said. “All you can do is dig yourself out and move on.” My parents didn’t want to hear that for a long time, and neither did I. It felt good to be angry. But it didn’t help, and it didn’t change anything. I feel another sick stab of regret when I think about Milly, and how differently tonight might’ve gone if I’d let go of all that useless rage sooner.



A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts. “Oh, come on,” I grumble, my head still in my hands. “Now what?” The knock sounds again, louder this time. “Hold your horses,” I call, managing a slight grin at the homage to Enzo. When I open the door I expect to see Suit No. 2, making sure I haven’t crawled out the window or something, but that’s not who’s standing in front of me.

I almost don’t recognize him. He’s clean-shaven, dressed neatly in a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, with clear eyes and a tired smile.

“Hey, Jonah,” Archer Story says. “Can I come in?”



* * *



—

Archer raided the minibar before we started talking, and now he has four small bottles lined up on the desk in front of him. Only one of them is open, the vodka, and he’s taken two small sips. “I apologize for drinking in front of you,” he says. “I’m trying to get back on track, but I can’t go cold turkey, especially for difficult conversations. I’ll just backslide if I do.” His eyes stray to the row of bottles. “I’m not intending to have all of these. Or even most of them. There’s just something comforting about knowing that I could.”



“It’s fine,” I tell him. “How’d you know where I was?” There’s limited seating in the room, so I’m sprawled across one of the twin beds, while Archer sits in the desk chair.