Reputation(27)

I tell her my usual lies: that I’m from outside Philly, dad’s a professor at Penn, mom’s an artist, we grew up in an old farmhouse, and I went to a private alternative school. I tell the old chestnut about studying at the Columbia Writing Program last summer. Wanting to be a novelist isn’t a lie—I see myself writing someday. I’m already such a fabulist, it shouldn’t be that hard.

After a while, I do feel better. Not because of the scone, but because of Alexis’s adorable pink cheeks and her enormous eyes. She has hitched forward on the couch so that our knees almost touch. Another thing I’m highly attuned to: when someone is into me. But I’ve never been with a girl before. The possibility is intriguing. Maybe a distraction is exactly what I need. And as she recrosses her legs, I get a look at the bloodred underside of her high-heeled bootie: Louboutins.

Perhaps the answer to my problems has dropped right into my lap, blueberry lemon scone and all.

Alexis checks her watch and declares she needs to get to a class. As she’s sliding on her coat, she glances at me like she wants to say something. “Listen, if you’re crying about a guy, he doesn’t deserve you.”

I almost laugh out loud. Like I’d ever cry over a breakup. But her concern is touching. “Thanks. But it wasn’t a guy.” I almost want to tell her I’m not into guys. I want to know what she’d say to that.

“There’s a party tomorrow off-campus,” Alexis adds. “It’s like a burn-the-candle-at-both-ends, let’s-go-down-with-the-ship because-we’ve-all-been-hacked sort of thing. Wanna come?”

“Sure,” I say.

We exchange information. Alexis touches my hand in goodbye, her fingers lingering on my skin. I watch her saunter out of the coffee shop. As soon as she’s gone, I look her up on Facebook. Her account isn’t private—it’s almost like she wants me to find it. There are pictures of a summer spent in southern France. Glamour shots of her standing on a yacht. And—Jesus Christ—one from Christmas where she’s hugging a freaking Mercedes with a giant bow around it. Caption: Santa was good to me!

I’m back in the game. I wonder what Greg would think if he saw me now.

That day at Manning’s office, Alfred Manning and I parted on a lingering handshake and a plan for my first day to be next Monday morning. As he walked me out—Marilyn What’s-Her-Face, blessedly, was nowhere to be seen—a devastatingly handsome man with dark wavy hair and wearing a blue blazer that matched his eyes burst into the lobby. And there he was. Greg Strasser, Alfred’s son-in-law. I’d done my research. I knew everything about him. I knew everything about the whole Manning clan.

“Alfred.” Dr. Strasser waved a cell phone. The irritation was plain in his voice. “Kit and I have been waiting for you downstairs for a half hour.”

Manning blinked in surprise. “You have? Why?”

An annoyed sigh. “Lunch at the Duquesne Club? Remember? We’re late.”

“Oh.” Manning held up his hands in frustration. “Well, no need to be impatient. I’ve been a member there for forty years. I’m sure they’ll hold our table.”

“It’s not about them holding the table,” Strasser growled under his breath. “It’s that some of us have other things to do today.”

Either Manning didn’t hear or he was feigning obliviousness. He gave me a bright, enthusiastic smile. “Anyway! See you Monday!”

“Right,” I said, scurrying out of there.

I reached for the door to the hall, glancing back one more time. Manning’s back was turned in his office, but that doctor? He was still looking at me. As our eyes met, he gave me a half-exasperated, half-conspiratorial smile.

It was like he knew what I was up to without me having to say a word. Like he knew my kind. Greg knew my endgame with that old guy. And in that look, I could tell he thought it was delightfully naughty indeed.





11





LAURA


SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 2017


The morning of Greg Strasser’s funeral, I stand in my bedroom in my underwear. I feel like someone has glue-trapped me to the floor. My baby is screaming on the bed, but I can’t go to him. I am fastened here, staring into the black depths of my closet, my body on pause.

There’s a knock. “Everything okay in there, babe?”

Ollie pushes the door open and sees the flailing baby and me. His brow knits. He storms over to Freddie and scoops him up. “What the hell, Laura?”

His flash of moodiness snaps me out of my state. “I’m fine.” I’m suddenly contrite. “Sorry. Freddie’s just fussy. But it’s not a big deal.”

“He’s been carrying on for five minutes at least.” Ollie gives me a strange look while rubbing figure eights on our baby’s back. “You’re not even dressed?”

I turn back to my closet. My whole body feels like it’s stuffed with tiny pins. Just pick something, I tell myself, but my mind is moving so slow. Is this really happening? Am I really going to Greg Strasser’s funeral? It’s inconceivable to think that Greg didn’t wake this morning to go on his predawn bike ride. That he hadn’t gotten his regular hard-boiled eggs at the hospital cafeteria, thanking Gladys, who ran the cash registers, on his way out. That he was no longer breathing. No longer thinking. No longer hating me.