Abandoning my attempt at gratitude, I stepped into the walk-in shower. I was meeting a client at nine, and I didn’t want to be late. My interior decorating company was small but thriving, no longer a “hobby business”—unlike my client’s vegan ice cream shop. Her hedge-fund-manager husband was backing the venture. It didn’t matter that she was entering a saturated market, that ice cream was highly seasonal, or that her downtown location was not ideal. This wasn’t about turning a profit. It was about creating something that was viable, that was hers. I understood that, and I was eager to help.
As I shaved under my arms, I reflected on my own business. It had never been funded by Thomas outright, but I still owed its success to him. I’d been working as a graphic designer (packaging mostly) when he asked me to help him stage his listed homes. I’d always had a flair for décor. And I loved sourcing furniture and unique treasures that would turn an empty or dated house into an inviting home. Word spread about my abilities, and other realtors hired me for staging. When buyers started employing me to decorate their recently purchased abodes, I quit the graphic design firm. My business was doing well, but we still relied on Thomas’s income. I made a fraction of what he did.
Stepping out of the shower, I grabbed a towel off the heated rack. As I dried myself, I still felt jittery and my jaw was tense. It was an overreaction. The appropriate response to one’s house being egged was irritation, not this unnerving sense of vulnerability. I was being ridiculous. But I slipped into my robe and hurried to my bedroom.
My recent closet renovation filled me with instant gratitude. We’d knocked out the wall between the master suite and the small nursery next door. I’d had wardrobes installed allowing me to color-code my outfits. Angled racks held my shoes, cubbies displayed my purses, and shelves showed off my sweaters. In the center sat a small island with several drawers for lingerie, nightgowns, and jewelry. The project had gone way over budget—we were still paying it off—but the results were worth it.
Slipping inside, I shut the door on the sound of the hose running in the driveway. Thomas was still washing away the mess; I didn’t need to worry about him interrupting me. I opened the third drawer of the center island and removed the mishmash of hosiery I kept in it. Then I lifted out the false bottom and set it aside. The secret compartment wasn’t necessary in our safe Portland suburb, but it was the perfect place to keep my treasures: a bottle of deep-plum nail polish; one delicate hoop earring; a metal lighter; a corkscrew; and a small plastic bag filled with tiny blue pills.
I picked up the bag and looked at the pale-blue dots. I wasn’t going to take any; I didn’t even know what they were. But as I fingered my bounty, I felt myself relax.
The feeling of vulnerability slipped away. I was in control.
Thomas Adler (Not Tom. Never Tommy.)
THE SMELL OF rotten eggs was in my nostrils as I drove to the office. It was all in my head, I knew that. The eggs weren’t rotten. And I’d washed away the slimy residue on my vehicle. Still, the putrid, metallic scent seemed determined to haunt me. Was it in my clothes? My hair? I sniffed my sleeve. It wasn’t. My brain was playing tricks on me. I needed to let go of the stupid incident and its accompanying odor. It was nothing more than a minor nuisance.… But it was the last thing I needed right now.
I hadn’t had time to wash the house properly. Water alone wouldn’t remove the sticky slime solidified on the plate glass window. It needed soap. And a squeegee. But I had to pick up marketing materials at the office and then get to a showing across town. The listing in Grant Park had been sitting for way too long. It needed a price adjustment, but the sellers were difficult. The potential buyers I was meeting were from out of town, starting new jobs; they were desperate to find a home. I couldn’t afford to be late.
“Hey, Siri. Text Eli.”
She obediently responded: “What do you want to say?”
I wanted to say: Get your lazy ass out of bed, you entitled millennial. Go get a job flipping burgers, then tell me why you want to throw away your parent-funded, top-tier education.
But Viv would have killed me if I spoke to our son that way. When I’d lost my shit on him, he’d gone quiet, turned inward. He’d always been a gentle, anxious boy—even now that he was six foot three, athletic, and handsome. Life was hard enough for sensitive souls like Eli, Viv said. College was intense. He was playing high-level soccer. Goalies always felt the most pressure. It was a lot for anyone, but particularly for Eli. Viv said our best strategy was to act like nothing was wrong. Eventually, our son would open up to us about his issues. We’d arrange support—counseling, maybe some medication. An institution like Worbey would be well-equipped to handle Eli’s problems. He’d go back in the fall. It would be fine.
And I wouldn’t take out my anger at the little shits who’d egged my house on my own son. I might not understand my eldest child, but I loved him. Cleaning the egg off the house was not punitive. It just had to be done.
“Hey, buddy,” I said into the silent car. “Some little brats egged the house. Can you clean the front window with soap and a squeegee? There’s a ladder in the garage. Thanks, pal.”
After reading my genial message back to me, Siri sent the text to my sleeping offspring.
I was approaching the office now, and my pulse began to escalate. Fifteen minutes, in and out, I told myself. No big deal. But sweat was soaking through the armpits of my crisp white shirt, and my hands felt clammy on the wheel. Head office, once a place of support and camaraderie, now felt daunting and hostile. My colleagues, many of whom I had considered my friends, were not. Friends didn’t stand by and watch while you fucked up your entire life.
The gate to the underground parking lot opened automatically, and I drove into its gaping maw. My reserved spot was next to the elevator; I was one of the top agents, after all. The prime parking spots were based on last year’s sales figures; if things didn’t pick up, I’d be parking on the street next year. But I deposited the BMW and then strode to the adjacent elevator. Stabbing the button, I waited. In and out. I could probably do it in ten.
As I rode up, my mind drifted to that golf weekend on the coast. Roger, a forty-six-year-old colleague, was getting married (for the third time), and had felt the need to celebrate the end of his sporadic singledom. It was ridiculous for a bunch of middle-aged guys to party and carouse like we were in our twenties, I could see that now. I thought we’d golf, rent dune buggies, have a few beers. Never, in a million years, could I have predicted what would happen on that trip. I should have stayed home. I should have said I was too busy at work, that my family needed me.
But I’d gone.
The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened with a ding. Taking a deep breath through my nostrils, I strode into the office. It was early, quiet, just a few harmless junior staff milling about. Most of the agents trickled in around ten, and then only to pick up paperwork, access online realtor tools, or catch up with colleagues. We were self-employed, and we lived in our cars. Lucky for me. The tension in my shoulders was beginning to ease as I headed toward my assistant’s desk. I shared Emma’s services with three other brokers, but she managed to stay on top of everything. I’d told her to have my feature sheets and paperwork for the house on Hancock Street waiting in a manila envelope. Emma was usually a very conscientious assistant, but she’d been slipping lately. She was distracted by her upcoming wedding to her college sweetheart, a video game designer. Or was he an animator? Something like that.
“Morning,” I said as I approached.
“Oh, hey, Thomas.” She clicked the mouse, shutting down her screen. No doubt she’d been looking at bridesmaids’ dresses or bouquets. It wasn’t the first time. “What are you doing in so early?”
“Picking up the new brochures for Hancock Street. I asked you to prepare them yesterday, remember?”
“Oh, right.” She swiveled in her chair and began to dig through a stack of papers.
Oh, right? I’d specifically told her to have the u
pdated marketing materials ready, that I was in a hurry this morning. I understood that she’d rather google cakes and flowers and wedding rings than handle my paperwork, but I was going to have to have a word with her about her distraction. Just not right now.
Down the hall, I heard the elevator doors open and I caught a glimpse of Leo Grass. Leo had been Roger’s best man at his last two weddings. He’d organized the bachelor weekend at the resort and casino on the Oregon coast, was responsible for the debauchery that had occurred. I wasn’t completely blameless—I was a grown man with free will—but Leo had provided the alcohol and the drugs. He had invited the women. He had created the perfect storm.
“Here they are,” Emma said finally.
“Thanks.” I grabbed the envelope and hustled toward the elevator. I should have checked through the pages. Last month I’d found her gift registry in with the feature sheets. She and the video game guy wanted a full set of Le Creuset cookware. They certainly had expensive taste. I’d tell the office manager to get her a dutch oven from all of us.
As I was punching the elevator call button, Leo strolled up with a cup of coffee.
“Hey, mate,” he said in his British accent, which some considered charming but I’d recently decided I hated. “Haven’t see you around much. Still recovering?”
He winked at me then, and I had the distinct urge to punch him in his smug face. The bachelor party was over a month ago. Yeah, I’d been fucked up, a mess, disgusting even. But it didn’t take a month to recover from one night of depravity.
“Been busy,” I said, with a forced smile that felt like a grimace.
“You shifted the house on Hancock?” he asked, and I caught something taunting in his tone.
“I’m headed to a showing right now.”
“Why isn’t it selling?” He took a sip of his coffee. “Was someone murdered in there?”
I’d like to murder you in there. But I forced a chuckle. He was joking, but it was still a dig. To my relief, the elevator doors opened, and I stepped inside. They closed on his haughty British face.
Alone in the small box, I closed my eyes, let the tension, anger, and shame seep out of me. This wasn’t Leo Grass’s fault. Leo, Roger, and the other guys were just bystanders, just witnesses. This was all on me, and the thought made my throat close with emotion. How could I have done something so heinous? So vile and abhorrent? Never in a million years had I thought I had it in me. I still didn’t believe it. But the photographs…
The doors opened and I hurried to my car. I was not going to fall apart. I was going to sell this house, make some money, and deal with this fucking mess. Viv knew something was up. Her eyes darted to my phone whenever it made a sound, so I kept it on night mode when I was at home. If she got into my e-mails, if she saw what was on there, it would be the end. And not just of my marriage.
Hopping into the car, I reversed out of the space and drove out of the dank garage. The spring sunshine hit me, and I reached for my Tom Ford sunglasses in the console. It had been raining for the past four days and the balmy weather should have been a welcome reprieve. But it barely registered with me as I gunned the car toward Grant Park, lost in my thoughts.
My wife thought I was having an affair, but I wasn’t—never had, never would. I wanted to tell Viv that I still loved her, that she was beautiful, that I was loyal. But how could I?
The truth was so much worse.
Eli Adler (Just Eli.)
I WAS AWAKE when my dad’s text came in. How could I not be? He’d started swearing at the top of his lungs at seven thirty. I knew the house had been egged. I knew he had to get into the office early and that this was the last fucking thing he needed. But I didn’t get out of bed and offer to help him. As usual, I stayed in my room until the house was quiet. And, with luck, empty.
The prospect of scrubbing dried egg off the front window didn’t make it any easier to get up. I lay there, scrolling through my phone. I had two texts: the one from my dad and another from my mom, wishing me luck on my job hunt today. My parents were getting frustrated with me. I’d been home for almost three weeks and I still hadn’t found work. And then, a few nights ago, I’d told them that I was dropping out of college. They’d totally freaked. It had been messy, ugly, but it was what I’d expected from them. How could they brag about a son who had dropped out? What would they tell people who asked about me? Their plan to turn me into the perfect reflection of themselves had gone awry. Now they were employing a new strategy: denial. They were pretending that nothing had happened, that I was going back, that everything was normal. I wasn’t sure which was worse.
If they knew how little I had looked for a job, they really would have been pissed. But they had no way of knowing that when I left the house in my khakis and button-down shirt, I usually bought a coffee and sat on a bench by the river. If it was raining, I went to a movie, sometimes sneaking into another one right after. I’d dropped off a few résumés, but I still had some money left over from last summer’s fast-food job. And I had all the time in the world to work. Because I wasn’t going back to college, no matter how much my parents wanted me to.
Propping myself up on my pillows, I checked the news apps, glanced at social media, and studiously ignored all the notifications on Messenger. Six of my soccer teammates had created a group chat for us to keep in touch over the summer. We’d chosen the Facebook platform ironically; none of us were active on Facebook because we weren’t fifty. The content of their messages was predictable: internships, girls, parties. I had nothing to contribute. When I wasn’t pretending to look for a job, I was home, in my room, gaming. And the guys didn’t know I was dropping out of school. If they found out, there would be questions. Questions that I didn’t want to answer.
Finally, I slipped on a T-shirt and stumbled to the bathroom in my flannel pajama pants and bare feet. My muscles felt stiff and sore in the mornings, reminders of the rigorous training I’d put them through at Worbey. I peed, washed my hands, then shuffled out to the kitchen. My sister, Tarryn, was sitting at the breakfast bar eating toast and staring at her phone.
“Morning,” I mumbled, heading straight for the coffee machine. She didn’t respond, just kept eating her breakfast, staring at Tumblr or some other forum for angsty teens or angry feminists. Unlike most of the girls I knew, Tarryn didn’t wear makeup, didn’t straighten her hair, didn’t dress to show off her figure. She was in sweats and an extra-large concert T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. As I poured a cup, I glanced at the clock on the coffee machine: 9:37 A.M. “What are you doing here?”
She double-tapped her AirPods to mute them; I hadn’t noticed that she was wearing them. “I live here,” she snapped. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you have a job by now?”
My parents might be walking on eggshells around me (pun intended) but my sister was not. “I thought you had school,” I retorted.
“I have a free period. What are you—the attendance police?”
Jesus. Tarryn and I used to get along okay, but since I’d been home, she’d turned into a total bitch. It was bad enough that she’d taken over my basement bedroom the minute I left, hauling her furniture downstairs and mine up. I thought she should have at least asked, but my parents said she lived here full-time and I was only home for a few months in the summer. But now I was here for good, and I longed for the privacy and separation of the basement lair.
I dumped some cereal into a bowl, adding milk to it and to my coffee. As soon as I sat at the breakfast bar, Tarryn got up. “Dad wants you to clean the egg off the front window.”
“Yeah, he texted me.” I took a mouthful of cereal. “Any idea who did it?”
My sister dropped her plate and knife into the sink with a clatter. “Why does everyone think this has something to do with me? I’m a junior in high school, for fuck’s sake. I’m not in sixth grade.” She stomped out of the kitchen, down to my basement bedroom.
I finished my cereal and cleaned up the kitchen. As I was dumpi
ng out the dregs of the coffee, I heard the front door slam. Tarryn was going to school, finally. I breathed a sigh of relief. My bitchy sister didn’t cause me anxiety, not like my parents did. Tarryn didn’t give a shit about why I’d dropped out of Worbey. As long as I stayed out of her way, she didn’t give a shit about me at all. But I liked being alone in the house. When no one was around, I could almost pretend I was a kid again, before college, before that horrible fucking night that ruined my life.
Eventually, I dressed in an old pair of jeans and a flannel shirt and got the ladder from the garage. The egg was dried on the glass like glue. I probably should have tackled the mess earlier, but with a little elbow grease, and my fingernails, I was able to scrape the gunk off. I scrubbed the whole window with a soapy sponge, rinsed it with the hose, and squeegeed away the excess water to avoid streaks. If my parents got on my case about job hunting, I’d point out their gleaming front window.
I was climbing down off the ladder when I heard my name.
“Eli! Hey, man!”
It was Sam, one of my best friends from high school. He’d gone to college locally, but we’d kept in touch. As I stepped onto the ground, he pulled up on his bike. Sam was small and wiry, with a mop of curly hair in a distinctly triangular shape. He usually wore shorts (in all sorts of weather) and ironic T-shirts, but today he had on a white button-down and black slacks, with a messenger bag slung across his body. He looked happy to see me.
Shit.
Sam rolled to a stop and straddled the crossbar. “Hey, buddy. When did you get home?”
I lied. “Just last week.”
“Why didn’t you text me? Tyrone and Derek are back from U Dub. We should hang out.”
“For sure,” I said, as earnestly as I could. “But I just got home so my parents want me to stick around here.” I rolled my eyes. “Family time.”
“Sarah Ephremova’s having a party on Saturday. It starts at eleven. Your parents will be asleep by then. They won’t care.”
The Perfect Family Page 2