I thank him but don’t touch it. This man is a stranger, I tell myself. I’ve never met him before. I focus on the age spots near his nose. They make him look old.
The next fifteen minutes are awkward, with frequent pauses and small talk that trails off. He doesn’t appear nervous, but I can feel his strain. As for me, my body continues to shake.
At one point, he asks if I plan to go back to school.
“I’m not sure. But I’m moving back to New Haven.”
“For good?”
“For the foreseeable future, yeah.”
Before long, I’m depleted. Standing up, I clutch my bag. “I have to go.”
Lawrence watches me. “I keep telling myself that’s where I am.”
“Where?”
“Home. At the Valmont. Instead of a hotel. That what’s happening isn’t happening.” He offers a sad smile. “You know me, Cass. I’ve always been good at fantasy.”
“Does it work?”
“Not really. Not the way it used to, at any rate. I’m in a hotel downtown. I am going to prison eventually. My life, the life I had, is over.” But even as he speaks, his eyes flicker in and out of focus, as if he doesn’t quite believe this. “The life we had,” he adds.
Lawrence is baiting me, I can see him doing it, and yet I feel the old familiar pull, the flutter and flush, the need to make things right. I begin to waver, weaker still.
He tracks my face. “Do you ever think about us?” His voice is coy. “About me? About what we have?”
I take my time replying. The clock ticks. Nate waits. But I have to be accurate. I shift my bag to my other arm. I want and don’t want to go. I could lean over and kiss him. I remember the wetness of his mouth, the weight of his body. His fingers trailing down my thigh.
“Cassandra.” Lawrence is urgent; he has to hear yes.
“I don’t think about it or not think about it, Lawrence.” My voice is grave. “It’s what I am.”
He doesn’t disagree. And in the long silence that follows, we both acknowledge one truth. If, in fact, a crime was committed, then this is by far my worst injury. I do not belong to myself. I belong to Lawrence Quinn.
For him, though, maybe this isn’t a crime. Maybe it’s his due. Still, he asks, “Can you forgive me?”
For a second time stops. We breathe together. I give us this moment, a gift. He was my whole world, once.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says. “Whatever you want.”
I won’t lie. I love hearing this. Deep in my bones, I need it. And in two hours or two months or two years or two decades, when the cravings for Lawrence hit and I’m undone by my feelings, I’ll need to hear it again and again and again.
“We’ll see,” I tell him because I can’t yet say no.
There’s a glint in his eyes, that same cocky smile. “I’ll wait,” he promises then pushes his gift across the table. “This is for you, Cassie. Please take it.”
What should I do? Time’s up. Nate’s alone. I have to go. So I grab the package and leave Lawrence behind. I want to turn back, promise yes, of course, I forgive you. I can visit. I’ll call. I’ll write. Instead, I head out to the street and into the bar next door, where I find my brother. I tap his broad shoulder and say, “I’m done,” and he gets up, buttons his coat, and we leave, together.
Epilogue
I ONCE READ ABOUT A FANTASTICALLY RICH MAN WHO owned several homes, many cars, and rooms of priceless art. But he felt possessed by his belongings, burdened by their weight. To lighten himself, he distributed his houses, cars, and art among strangers. This, he believed, was the key to contentment. Giving away his personal effects, though, wasn’t enough. So he donated all his money, shocking his family. Still, he felt unsatisfied. With no assets left, he decided to offer up his organs, starting with a kidney, which he gave to a woman he met on the internet. And yet he still had more to give. So, he found someone to take his second kidney. I’ll go on dialysis, he said. By this point, his siblings stepped in, and the man was institutionalized. They tried to recoup his money, but to no avail. He gave it all away willingly, they were told. It was his choice.
My brothers tease me about carrying the sorrows of the world, but I don’t think you can quantify empathy. These days, I’m clear about the facts I know to be true. My brother Billy is a criminal. He raped Diana Holly in a fit of rage while she was unconscious. Then he lied about what he did, and my family covered it up. I am sickened by this; I feel terrible for Diana; and I will live with this knowledge for the rest of my life. At the same time, I’m preoccupied with my own behavior, and making amends to my family, to Nate, Billy, and Eleanor.
But what is my burden and what is theirs? How much is required to balance the scales? What words can convey how deeply sorry I am? You can be both a victim and an offender, but in this case, they don’t cancel each other out. You can’t shroud yourself in self-pity to avoid accountability. I will apologize to my brothers, whose lives were derailed by my behavior, the younger of whom went on to destroy someone else as a result.
“You guys are really taking off?” Billy is at my bedroom door. Nate and I are packing boxes.
“Yeah,” I tell him, closing my suitcase. “The Bowtie is selling the SoHo loft. We’ll stay at my place in New Haven.”
“And then what?” He looks at Nate.
Nate responds by ripping off a long strip of tape.
Maybe I’m wrong. But I want to believe we are more than the worst things we’ve ever done. If we are, I may have a shot at a real life. Not normal, just real. I also may have a shot at becoming a better person. Not good, just better. Someone, for example, who uses her money to benefit others.
As for Billy, it’s hard to say. Last week he spoke to Princeton about returning. If he takes classes this summer and doubles up in the fall, he’ll graduate with his class. Med school is once again a possibility. Turns out some guys can in fact move forward after being accused of assault.
Now, wearing sweatpants and expensive sneakers, my brother looks like himself again. His phone rings constantly; girls are swarming more than ever. His hair is still long, though he keeps threatening to buzz it off, change his name, move west and start over. Doesn’t matter. Billy will be fine. Better than fine. If only he wasn’t so handsome, if only he wasn’t so rich. If only.
I hear Eleanor calling for him. “Coming!” he shouts. “I’ll see you guys soon,” he says before heading out. “Maybe I’ll drive up to New Haven for a weekend.”
“Maybe,” I say, noncommittally.
Nate still hasn’t uttered a word.
Billy pulls us both into a hug. “Take care, Cassidy Cakes. Call me.” But he won’t meet our eyes, and as I watch him go, I feel a sharp pain in my chest.
This morning, I opened Lawrence’s present. It’s a knickknack, a hand-carved duck. Around its neck it has a tag with a label written in Sharpie: I am a drake. I should’ve thrown it out. For the moment, it’s packed in a box and moving to New Haven. I need to know it’s there, just in case.
There are places inside me that will always be broken. I’ll always feel unlovable and worthless, dirty and damaged. Maybe, too, I’ll never be able to sustain an intimate relationship. I’ll sabotage myself or run away or pretend it doesn’t matter.