Today, I read Middlemarch while I sit. After September, it will be academic journals, so I’m gorging on dense novels, ones I’ve loved since high school.
But mostly, I’m enjoying dining out in public, something I can’t do in New York anymore. The press became relentless, so my family stopped leaving the building. Meals, stylists, and masseuses come to us. One night, we risked dinner in a restaurant tucked on a side street. All five of us went, even Billy. It was fine until Nate drank too much and Lawrence berated him for acting sloppy.
“There is a lot riding on this, Nathaniel.”
Lawrence was so furious I could feel heat rise off his skin. People were staring, and his mouth was twisted into a rictus smile.
But it was Billy who pushed back, not Nate. “Fuck you, Dad,” he said before stomping off. “Fuck you, too, Cassie.”
“What was that about?” Lawrence asked.
“Brother-sister shit.” I stared into my plate. “I ask too many questions about Diana Holly, I have no boundaries, and I should mind my own business. Or something like that.”
I was shaken by Billy’s vicious tone; he never would’ve lashed out when we were younger. Now he’s easily angered, and quick to turn on me. I understand how scared he is—I’m scared too—but I thought this horrible experience would bring us closer again. Instead, it’s pulling us further apart. Why can’t it be the same as it was when we were kids?
“More coffee, Cassie?” Eddie asks, holding a pot.
“Oh my gosh.” I giggle like a silly girl. “I’m already buzzing! Just water, thank you.”
“Your food will be ready in a minute. I’m sure you’re starving.”
Oh, Eddie, I think. You have no idea.
My conversations with Eddie are pleasant, non-threatening. I don’t worry about subtext or hidden meanings. Lawrence has warned me about men. “Not every boy has honorable intentions,” he told me, in the awkward, stilted way that fathers have when discussing sex with their daughters. “You need to be smarter. Stay two steps ahead.” As I got older, our talks got easier, mostly because they were science-based and cerebral. My takeaway was that men, boys, are always on the hunt; whether conscious of it （feral） or not （submissive）。 Their brains are more developed than other warm-blooded vertebrates, but they’re mammals fueled by testosterone, which primes instincts like dominance and self-affirmation. Sexual satisfaction is hardwired, and they’ll achieve it by aggression, deception, or both. Women who don’t see the world through the lens of men’s needs are na?ve or willfully blind.
Eddie is getting a master’s in comparative literature. The first time he brought out my food, I was reading The Shining. The next time, Song of Solomon. The next time, The Secret History. It became a joke between us: What is Cassie reading this morning?
“I should introduce you to my wife.” He glances at the cover of Middlemarch.
I feel a shiver, like the wind has shifted. “Your wife?”
“Sure,” Eddie says, affably. “She’s a big reader, too; I bet you’d get along great.”
“Where did you meet?”
“A study group, believe it or not.”
Far off, I hear humming. Maybe I’ll meet my husband in a study group too. He’ll smile at me across the table. He’ll walk me home. We’ll go on a date and eat Thai food. He’ll kiss me at the door. I’ll have the charming, wholesome relationship I’ve always longed for.
When my Little Italy is ready, Eddie sets it down in front of me. “I will have more coffee,” I tell him. “Cream, please.”
Talking to Eddie makes me feel sneaky. Like I’m getting away with something by presenting myself as a wholesome girl capable of wholesome love when I’m a dirty degenerate, a con artist who used to fuck a married man—a man with children, no less. That I’ll end up with a Midwestern Eddie and become a book-loving wife is a laughable idea. And yet, in New Haven, never say never. Maybe here I can start over as an entirely new person, relive my life, remap my choices.
I pick up my fork and dig in. In New Haven, I eat with gusto. Here, I eat tortillas. I eat eggs. I eat sausage. I eat provolone cheese, hash browns, and hot cherry peppers. I can feel my scrawny body filling out, growing healthy and strong. I feel alive. I eat, I eat, I eat.
*
Hours later, reading by the pool, I have a chance to practice my social skills. When I look up, a dark-skinned guy is pointing to the lounge chair two inches from mine. This is only significant because there are thirty other chairs around the pool, all empty.
“Taken?” His hair, also dark, is curly. His eyes are black as tar. He’s my age, maybe a few years older.
I consider flirting. Did you mean the chair, or me? Instead, I wave cheerfully. “All yours.”
He tosses down his pool bag, and I study his body. Awesome shoulders. Impeccable arms. Flat stomach. But what I like most is his towel. It’s a Mighty Morphin Power Rangers beach towel, circa 1993.
Settling in, he sighs. Above our heads, the sun is a fireball, beating down mercilessly. “Where is everyone?” he asks. “It’s a perfect pool day.”
“Too humid,” I reply. “But I like it this way, white-hot and wet.” As soon as the words are out, I cringe. White-hot and wet? Gross.
We sit side by side under the scorching sun. Soon, we’re both drenched in sweat. I’m desperate to jump into the pool but feel exposed in my skimpy bathing suit. Since when? I ask myself. I’m tongue-tied, not sure what to say, the right way to engage. All I know is how to invite him upstairs, slide off my bikini bottoms, let the afternoon unfold.
“My brother had those sheets,” I choke out. “Power Rangers.” For a second, I seize up. What if he asks me about Billy?
“The towel was a gift,” the guy says. “It’s vintage. Ebay, I think.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t ask about Billy. In fact, he doesn’t ask about anything.
For the next thirty minutes, I’m a wreck. How do wholesome people date? Finally, I decide to make a joke. We’ll laugh about our awkwardness, the horror of striking up conversation. But when I turn to speak to him, I realize that the whole time I’ve been spinning, he’s been asleep behind his stupid sunglasses.
23
I CHECK THE NEWS EVERY DAY FOR UPDATES ON BILLY’S case. My system is elaborate. I start with a Google search on my phone for any mention of my family. Then I read a hard copy of the New York Times I have delivered to my door. Back on my phone, I skim an app that aggregates stories from sources across the web. Finally, I scour every digital New Jersey paper, bulletin, and leaflet from Princeton down to Cape May.
The news is quiet so far. But on the last Friday of July, Lawrence makes a colossal blunder and the hits come so fast and furious the next morning that I have to call Nate.
My brother picks up immediately. We don’t bother with preliminaries. “You saw the news,” he says.
“I did, unfortunately,” I reply. “What happened?”
Nate tells me that Lawrence and Eleanor spent most of yesterday arguing. By late afternoon, Lawrence was fuming. The day had cooled down and the reporters were sparse, so he went for a walk. （“He just left the house?” I ask, stunned. Nate snorts. “He loves to bait the gods.”）