The Devil Wears Black(28)

And sarcastic.

And a handful, in a bizarrely attractive way.

But most of all, it pissed me off that she’d lied to me about who she was.

“I wanted to make an impression on you back then. That ship has sailed.”

“More like sank in the middle of the fucking ocean.”

“Well.” She shrugged, clutching a red-and-purple dress to her chest, choosing her outfit for the day. “You were the one to direct it into a six-ton iceberg in the middle of the ocean. Don’t you ever forget that, Chase.”

I smiled tightly and went downstairs to break something valuable in the kitchen. Breaking her, I realized, was not on the menu anymore. She was different. Stronger.

A few more hours, and I wouldn’t have to see her again.



We were in the foyer, the staff ushering our suitcases to my Tesla, when Julian made his first chess move. I’d been anticipating it all weekend, trying to figure out his game, why he was here. Not that I was complaining: Julian and Amber were train wrecks, but I was always game for spending more time with Booger Face.

I called bullshit about Julian’s six remark. Madison was a solid twelve, on her worst days. She wasn’t just wholesomely beautiful but also sexy in a way women who weren’t worried about being sexy were. What nagged him about her was that she was indifferent to the numbers in his bank account and his Armani suits. She was what he called a postfeminist. A girl with a we-can-do-it mentality who made her own path in the world. He, in contrast, had a let-the-butler-do-it mentality. Of course they were like oil and water. But if he thought I was going to flip my shit when he called her a six, he was in for a surprise. Letting him rattle me was not an option.

When I was a kid and Julian had come back from boarding school or college, we’d always played chess. Neither of us were big fans of the game, but we had this underlying competition between us. We competed over everything. From our sports accomplishments—we were both rowers for our high school and college teams—to who could stuff himself with more turkey at Thanksgiving. Despite that, Julian and I were close. Close enough that we talked on the phone regularly when he was away and hung out more than two brothers with a decade between them should when he was home. We’d play chess in the weirdest way. We’d leave the board in the drawing room and move our pieces throughout the day. It had the shine of an extra challenge, because we always had to remember what the board had looked like before we’d left it. No king, queen, bishop, or pawn went astray. We both watched our game with hawklike eyes.

It was a lesson in resilience, planning ahead, and patience. To this day, whenever Julian and I were at my parents’ house together, we’d play.

Most of the time, I’d win.

Eighty-nine percent, to be exact (and yes, I was counting).

Still, Julian always gave a good fight.

But now we weren’t close anymore, and I suspected neither he nor I was going to abide by the unwritten rules of our new game.

“Maddie, Chase, wait.” Julian clapped twice behind us like we were his servants. Madison stopped first, and I had to follow through with her foolish decision.

My parents and Katie gathered around us. Dad was holding Clementine. He adored her more than anything else in the world. At nine, Clementine was almost a preteen, and yet he still held her like she was a toddler.

That was the thing about my father, though. He had the eerie capability to be the best dad and grandfather in the world—the best husband, at least from where I was standing—and still be a mean son of a bitch when it came down to business. We had weekly hangouts consisting of drinking beer and watching football and talking smack about our competitors. Then he’d take Mom on a date night and read to her when they came back home. He’d take Booger Face to the zoo in the morning and buy-to-destroy a competitor in the evening. He really was the entire package. For a while, I’d thought I’d follow in his footsteps.

Perfect businessman.

Perfect husband.

Perfect everything.

But then something had happened to change everything I’d believed about my family. About women.

I realized I was going to bizarre, unlikely lengths to pacify my father. I wasn’t an idiot. People didn’t fake engagements outside of Ryan Reynolds’s movies. To understand my sacrifice, you had to remember—those dents you saw in families, the wear and tear of being holed up together during summer vacations and Christmas holidays and winter breaks? The tension, the underlying bitterness, the rile-you-up buttons your loved ones pressed when they wanted to make you snap? The Blacks didn’t have them. My immediate family, for the most part, remained a shiny, untouchable thing without any real indentations. No nasty arguments. No hostile baggage between siblings. No infidelities, money problems, dark pasts. I’d come to realize that almost every family in the world suffered through a lot of their relatives’ unbearable traits. Not so with mine. I didn’t tolerate my family. I worshipped them.

Well, three out of the four, anyway.

Mad turned around, looking at Julian with a patient, saintly smile. She didn’t trust him, but she didn’t want to come off as rude either. “Yes, Julian?”

“I was thinking.” He stepped toward us, swirling the thick liquid of his whiskey in his tumbler.

“An unpromising start,” I deadpanned. People snickered uncomfortably around us. I wasn’t joking, but whatever.