“What a surprise!” Liquored up and woozy, Lawrence kisses my cheek. “A wonderful surprise.” But he’s selling too hard. His voice has no connection to his words. “How long you here for?”
I end up staying three days, one more unbearable than the next. Everyone is busy, busy, busy. The celebration room has been transformed into a war room where Nate and Lawrence strategize like the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They’re on the phone with DeFiore’s team every day. Eleanor is in her office or huddled with the Bowtie. Billy barricades himself in his bedroom, sleeping for twelve hours at a clip. Occasionally, I catch sight of him from behind, hunched over his computer. No one has time for me; and if they do, it’s a cursory hello while they tackle more important business. Feeling left out one evening, I accuse Lawrence of avoiding me.
He sighs. “No one is avoiding you.” I exasperate him. I exasperate everyone with my neediness, my solipsism, my unwillingness to see that our family is under siege and my brother’s future hangs in the balance. I’m a selfish and spoiled girl; I need to back off. “We’re focused on the trial, Cassie. You said you wanted your own life. You can’t have it both ways, Princess.” The way he says Princess sounds snarky.
“Would love to, Cassidy Cakes,” Nate says when I ask if he wants to see a movie, smoke a joint, play Scrabble. “But Dad and I are lawyering it up.” Together, this implies. Without you.
Here’s something I didn’t tell Haggerty. Until he was six, maybe seven, Nate and Lawrence were best buddies. They spent weekends together, skiing, mountain biking, and tooling around town. But then I moved in, orphaned and traumatized, and seized Lawrence for myself. It never occurred to me that Nate might be resentful, or if the thought did occur, I ignored it. But when I left, and they reconnected, I realized that Nate must’ve felt an awful lot of hurt and anger as a child. The same hurt and anger I feel now. Which is the funny thing about families, no matter how much cake you have, someone will always feel starved.
*
After that, I stay put in New Haven, even though I’m not taking any summer classes. By mid-July, I feel less rattled. It’s blisteringly hot, but I cool off in the pool. When people pass by, I wave and say hi. Music plays in the streets. It’s like a soundtrack to the movie of my life, a movie I’m watching and living at the same time. Everything here is easy, or easier, at least. For one thing, I’m able to sleep.
When I first moved in, I had big plans to strip down my life and rebuild. I wanted to transform myself into a whole new person, a wholesome person. Someone with a sense of adventure, a can-do spirit. The kind of girl who could gut renovate a historic townhouse by herself. I’d wear tall green wellies, cover my hair with a red bandanna, and plant cucumbers in the soil. I’d get a rescue puppy named Bo and tie a matching bandanna around his neck. Neighbors would stop by for vodka tonics and salted nuts on the deck. We’d grill steaks and watch the sun set while the kids lit sparklers. Later, after the house emptied out, and the children were home safe in their beds, I’d walk Bo around the block, taking in the quiet neighborhood.
Reality set in. Needing a place fast, I settled for the familiar, a luxury rental in East Rock with a pool, gym, and yoga studio. A few grad students live here, but I haven’t met any of them. I’m rusty at small talk and faking good cheer. This is when I most miss Marcus, a man who could capture a room simply by stepping in it. He was funny, sarcastic, and terrifically entertaining, always coming up with new activities to do on the sly. We’d pretend to bump into each other at MoMA and study the art, sneaking sweet kisses around corners when no one was looking. In movie theaters, we luxuriated in each other under cover of darkness. Once we went to a hotel in Greenwich, where he kicked my ass in Scrabble. We swam in the overly chlorinated pool and drank red wine in bed. It was the first time I’d ever woken up next to a man besides my brothers, and despite a bit of awkwardness （bathroom smells, body fluids）， it was glorious. When I was with Marcus, my world grew bigger, the sky was infinite.
My life in New Haven, by contrast, is empty of people and things. I’ve gotten used to it; I even enjoy it at moments, despite my family’s skepticism. “You’ll be back in two weeks,” Lawrence had said when he helped move me in last year. He wasn’t being mean, merely shocked I had left, and so quickly. “You’re our Forever Girl.”
“This is my life now. I’m not coming back.”
“If and when you do, you’ll always have a place with us, Cass.” Again, this wasn’t discouragement; it was concern. What I told Haggerty is true: Lawrence is an overprotective father, like many parents of his generation. Of course, how much care is too much care remains up for debate.
My apartment’s two bedrooms are similarly sized. One is mine, and I’ve designated the other as a guestroom by tossing a mattress on the floor. A sliding glass door leads to a tiny terrace. To fill the rest of the space, I bought furniture from Pottery Barn: a platform bed, a wooden farm table that seats eight, two picnic-style benches and several lamps. The bed is king-sized so it’s where I eat, sleep, study, and watch TV. That I choose this existence may have surprised my parents, but minimalism suits the new me. I’ve never lived outside New York or away from my family. I’ve never held down a job or had to fend for myself. （Of course, I’m neither holding down a job nor paying for this place, but one step at a time.） And yet, once I got over the initial terror, I felt lighter, like I was unshackled from chains I had no idea I was wearing. The downside of my newfound agency is loneliness, but it won’t kill me.
You know what would kill me? Going back to New York and returning to Marcus. One way or another, I would cease to exist.
*
A text appears; it’s from Haggerty.
You want to talk
No, I don’t
Yes, you do
I’d never talk to you
If not me who?
22
I LOVE BREAKFAST, WHICH I EAT EVERY DAY AT THE NEIGHBORHOOD Café. For the past two weeks, I’ve been ordering the same thing: black coffee and the Little Italy burrito. The Little Italy comes with two eggs, sausage, peppers, onions, and provolone cheese. Inside, there’s a hash brown patty. Sometimes I add hot cherry peppers. After I order, I find a table inside. When my food is ready, Eddie will bring it to me, and we’ll talk for a few minutes. He’s very friendly. While our roles are circumscribed—he’s a server, I’m a customer—we share a connection, like me and Anton.
“Little Italy and coffee,” Eddie says today. “Right?” He’s twenty-seven and from the Midwest. He’s got cowlicks in his hair, expressive brown eyes, and a lisp I find endearing. “I’ll bring it right out.”
I met Eddie last fall when I was working on my grad school application. I was very serious about the process, which I treated like a job. Along with studying for the GREs, I wrote letters to my former professors requesting recommendations, drafted and redrafted my personal statement, and then hired a doctoral student to proofread it. I showed up at the café every morning, after the rush, like it was my office. Soon, I was a familiar face and talking to Eddie became part of my routine.