And I couldn’t do it to my family. We were already being harassed, sued, blackmailed.… My mom didn’t look well. She was pale and jittery. Her eyes were often red, like she’d just stopped crying moments before. She couldn’t take much more.
Lucius interrupted my reverie. “Table four has been waiting for their bill for twelve minutes.”
“Thanks for timing me,” I snapped. God, what an asshole. I strode toward the kitchen to grab the bill.
It was the end of the night, the last few patrons trickling out. I went through the closing procedures on autopilot, still thinking about Drew, about my dad, about the kid who had set fire to our front porch.… Everything was such a fucking mess. As I was depositing the cash from my apron into the till, the front door opened.
“We’re closing,” Lucius barked.
“I’m waiting for Eli,” a female voice replied.
I looked up to see Arianna Tilbury.
* * *
SHE WAS ON the sidewalk, standing next to a solid but battered 1997 Volvo that I recognized as her mom’s car. Arianna wore a tiny white tank top and high-waisted jeans. She looked sexy, perfect, but it was too cold for the outfit, and she was rubbing her bare arms in the late-night chill. I’d rushed through my duties, eager and anxious to hear what she had to say. Maybe she had broken up with Derek. Maybe she wanted to try again. If we got back together, I could tell her everything. She had always listened, always supported me. The thought made me feel a bit emotional.
“Hey,” I said. “Good to see you.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Do you want my jacket?”
She shook her head. “This won’t take long.”
My stomach dropped. “Okay.…”
“I wanted to explain. About Derek and me.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Arianna. I’m the one who ended it.”
“I know, but he’s your friend. He was your friend.”
“I deserve this,” I said in a husky voice. “I fucked up. And I hurt you.”
Arianna toed the sidewalk. “Derek is a good guy. And I like him.” She looked up then. “But… it’s not like it was with us.”
A glimmer of hope stirred in my belly. Or maybe it was just validation, that we had had something special, something real.
“I miss you,” I said. “I miss us. What we had.”
“I’m not interested in getting back together, Eli. Your parents made it pretty clear they don’t think I’m good enough for you.”
“They’re assholes,” I said. “If anything, you’re too good for me.”
She allowed a hint of a smile. “You’ll be back at college soon. You’ll find a girl more suited to you. A girl who’s going to go to law school or business school. Someone that your parents will like.”
“I’m not going back to college,” I blurted. “I can’t. It’s fucking… awful.”
Emotion stopped the words in my throat, and, to my horror, tears began to stream down my face. I was mortified to break down like this in front of my ex-girlfriend, but it all felt so fucking sad and overwhelming.
“Eli, what happened?”
But I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head while the tears poured from my eyes. Arianna stepped forward and took me in her arms. She was so small, but she held me as I cried. I stooped over to bury my face in her neck, wetting her skin and her hair with my tears.
And then, her familiar warmth, the scent of her shampoo, the softness of her skin… I’d missed her so much. I kissed away the salt of my own tears on her neck. My hands roamed over her back and her hips, pulling her close to me, pressing her into me. My body was responding to her closeness, I couldn’t help it. And then she pulled away.
“No, Eli.”
That’s all she said. Then she walked over to the Volvo and got in.
I stood alone on the sidewalk, my heart still thudding in my chest, watching her taillights disappear.
Viv
ON FRIDAY MORNING, I stared at my reflection in the magnifying mirror. The circles under my eyes were visible through the expensive concealer, and foundation couldn’t hide the sallowness of my complexion. With a fluffy brush, I applied a bright-pink blush, then dusted on some highlighter. I’d hoped it would make me appear healthy, perky, well-rested, but the woman staring back at me looked haggard and worn down. She looked like a woman whose life was falling apart. And that couldn’t be covered up with even the best cosmetics.
There was no more time to fuss with my appearance. I was meeting Dolly Barber, a former client—a friend, I guess—at her new home for a consult. Dolly and I didn’t see each other often anymore—our boys had grown up, gone in different directions—but we shared a history. During those long hours on the edge of the soccer field, in all sorts of weather, Dolly had been so open, so intimate. She’d told me about her bouts with depression and anxiety, about her son’s learning disability, and her daughter’s issues with food. A few months ago, when I’d decorated her kids’ bedrooms, she’d told me, in unflinching detail, about her perimenopausal symptoms (night sweats! vaginal dryness!). I’d wondered if she shared so openly with all her friends, or did she consider me a special confidante?
But, clearly, she didn’t. Unbeknownst to me, Dolly had moved into a new home in the Willamette Valley, Oregon’s wine country. It was about a fifty-minute drive from my house in Arlington Heights. The move surprised me. It was a beautiful area, but the Barbers had been entrenched in our community. They’d had a lovely home at the south end of our neighborhood. Their kids had attended a well-respected private school nearby. Her son was Eli’s age, so he’d graduated, but their daughter was still in high school. It wasn’t that long ago that I’d redecorated their bedrooms. Why would Dolly go to the time and expense if they were just going to leave?
When I pulled into her curved driveway, I suddenly understood the appeal of country living. The home was new and sprawling, situated on several acres of bucolic splendor. When I got out of the car, I breathed deeply of the cool, fresh air, and felt a flicker of longing. It was serene, idyllic. And there would be no packs of bored troublemakers roaming the streets armed with eggs and tomatoes. But I knew my family would revolt if I suggested a similar relocation. The thought made me feel strangely lonely.
Dolly was dressed in designer jeans and a silky blouse, jewelry dripping from her neck, ears, and wrists. Despite her obvious wealth, there was always something slightly unkempt about her—her hair a little wild, her eyeliner slightly uneven—that made her approachable. She met me with her usual warm hug. “It’s so good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too. And what a beautiful area.”
“It is.” She looked around at her surroundings. “It’s taken a little while to get used to the quiet. And the critters. But we really love it.”
I moved into the open entryway, took in the massive staircase leading to the second floor. “It’s stunning.”
“Well, it needs some updating. That’s why you’re here.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“Let’s sit in the living room. I made tea.”
The living room was a vast space, filled with dark wood built-ins that gave it a distinctly masculine feel. We perched on Dolly’s teal, midcentury-modern sofa: gorgeous, but entirely out of place in its new home. Before getting down to business, we caught up on old friends and neighborhood gossip.
“When did you move?” I asked. “I had no idea you were planning to leave the neighborhood.”
“It was a sudden decision.” Dolly set her teacup down. “We had to get our son out of the city.”
“Oh.” I didn’t want to pry. And I didn’t need to.
“He was dealing drugs,” Dolly stated. “Mark and I had no idea.”
I thought about the freckle-faced boy I’d watched on the soccer field. He’d been a dreamer, more engaged by the clouds or a beetle on a blade of grass than the game at hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“We might never have known, but he
crossed his supplier. The guy beat Nate up so badly that he ended up in the hospital.”
“God. That’s terrible.”
“It was.” Her eyes were shiny with emotion. “They broke his jaw. And cracked two ribs.”
“Oh, Dolly.” I reached for her hand and held it as she continued.
“Nate’s always felt… alone. He struggled in school. He chose the wrong friends.” She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue in her free hand. “We thought he needed a fresh start. A new environment and a new beginning. He’s taking college classes online, and he says he’s cleaned up his act. But…” She blew her nose into the tissue. “He’s so angry. And so unkind.”
I thought about my own children. “That’s normal for his age.”
“We saved his life! Mark had to pay the supplier for the missing drugs. Almost ten grand! He had to take a backpack full of money into a dark alley. It was terrifying.”
“That sounds awful.”
“We left our home, and our friends.… Is Nate grateful? No, he’s not. It’s almost like he blames us for everything that’s gone wrong.”
“He’s not mature enough to see all that you’ve done for him. But he will. One day.”
She gave me a misty smile and squeezed my hand before letting it go. “I’ve always felt like I can open up to you. You always know the right thing to say.” Then she stood up. “Let me freshen up, and then we can get down to business.”
I sipped my tea, my heart tight with pity for my friend. Setting the cup down, I admired the delicate china. Vintage, clearly. There was a silver teaspoon next to it, an ornate design with inlaid enamel. I picked it up and examined it. Weeks ago, I might have dropped it into my purse in some sort of self-destructive trance. But I wouldn’t now. Dolly was hurting. I was here to support her, to be her friend, and to help her redecorate her living space. I would paint everything white, bring in a soothing, neutral palette to create a calm and healthy environment. I would do what I could to ease her stress and suffering.
Suddenly, I felt a warmth welling up in my chest and my throat. It was gratitude, I realized. Because my children were not selling drugs. They had not been beaten up. Thomas had never had to venture into a dark alley with sack full of cash to get Eli or Tarryn out of trouble. For the first time in a long time I realized… my life could be worse.
Dolly returned then, her makeup refreshed but still a little messy. I set the teaspoon down next to the veiny cup and smiled at her.
“I’ve got some great ideas for this room,” I said. “Let’s get started.”
Tarryn
ON FRIDAY NIGHT, I sat alone in my bedroom with a pickle jar half full of smuggled vodka and a Mountain Dew. It was a celebration. School was over. I’d written my last exam—English—at two that afternoon. When it was over, I’d met my two best friends at my locker.
“What should we do tonight?” I’d asked. “Should we go to a movie or something? Or bowling?”
They didn’t answer right away, but their guilt was obvious in the way they fidgeted, how their eyes darted to meet each other’s but avoided mine. Georgia cleared her throat.
“Bryce invited us to his party.”
“He said you can come, too,” Luke added quickly.
“No, thanks,” I snapped.
“Why not?” Georgia said. “Literally everyone’s going.”
“I hate Bryce Ralston,” I said. “You know how he treated me. You know the shit he said to me.”
“Isn’t it time to let that all go?” Luke suggested.
“No,” I retorted. “I’m not going to forgive him for slut-shaming me, just so I can hang out with the popular crowd.”
“Don’t be mad at us,” Georgia whined. “We just want to have some fun. For once.”
Her words stung. “Go right ahead.” I slammed my locker door and stormed off.
As I’d pushed my way through the crowded halls, I’d felt the weight of eyes on me. I’d turned, expecting Bryce or some other popular douche bag to be watching me, laughing at me, but my gaze locked with Mr. McLaughlin’s. I’d scowled at him, and he’d quickly turned away, caught.
I took a drink from the pickle jar and chased it down with the sickly sweet soda. The noxious combination made me shudder, but I needed its numbing effects. My friends were traitors. My family was a disaster. And my dad was, quite possibly, a misogynist.
He’d never seemed violent or aggressive, but I knew, better than most, that men could have a secret life they kept from their families. I knew all about the private online personas they adopted, where they lived out their dirty sexual fantasies. Maybe under his slightly grumpy family-man surface, my dad had issues with women. Maybe he’d gotten fucked up enough to let them out on this Chanel person. The thought made me sick. And sad. And angry.
The alcohol was beginning to work its magic, loosening my tension, releasing my inhibitions. Since our porch had been set on fire, I’d been too nervous to go online, scared that the creep who’d been watching me would be there. But tonight, I was ready for him. I was full of rage, resentment, and smuggled liquor. If he showed up, I would take him on.
Crawling onto the floor, I reached under my bed to retrieve the hatbox and the shoe box. My hand was a little shaky when I applied my makeup, but I didn’t care. I didn’t have to look good; I just had to look different. With the dark rings around my eyes and the slightly smudged pink lipstick, I looked older. And a little crazy. When I plopped the wig onto my head, the needle moved to full-blown lunatic.
Removing my clothes, I flicked on the directional lamps and turned on the webcam. I was wearing a sports bra and cotton underpants; I couldn’t be bothered to dig out the lacy lingerie. It had been too long since my last live. Would my regulars come back to me? Would my stalker be there?
“Hey, guys,” I slurred. “Did you miss me?”
I read the messages as they came in. Most of them expressed concern about my disheveled appearance.
DeeDee2: Natalia… are you okay?
Bender50: You look different.
Pardyguy: Did something terrible happen?
I ignored them, leaning close to the camera. “So… it seems that someone in this chat room knows who I am in real life.” More messages scrolled by—outrage and worry—but I ignored them and kept going. “And that person is trying to scare me away. But I’m not afraid of you, you gutless piece of shit. Stop hiding and tell me who you are.”
I waited, watching the message box, but nothing came. Even my regulars were silent, watching me unravel.
“Come at me, you fucking pussy!” I hissed, my spit flecking the screen. “You can’t hide forever.” I took a drink from the pickle jar, straightened the wig that was dipping into my eyes. “Is it you, McLaughlin? I will get you fired, you sick perv.”
No response. Clearly, he wasn’t about to confess online.
Maybe Bryce was behind this after all. Maybe the entire end-of-year party was watching me right now, laughing at me. “Bryce,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “If it’s you, I will kill you. I will come into your house at night and I will murder you in your sleep.”
They were just words, just drunken threats, but, apparently, they were super unsexy. One by one, the viewers began to drop away. DeeDee1 and 2 were the first to vanish, followed by Bender50 and Pardyguy. Soon, my entire community was gone, turned off by my drunken outburst, my messy appearance. They were fickle, just like my friends. They were creeps, just like my father. They didn’t care about me at all.
Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I slammed my laptop closed and yanked the wig from my head. The vodka might be messing with my judgment, but it was also giving me courage. I had to find out, once and for all, who was stalking me online.
Slipping out of the house was not as easy as it had once been. I had to tiptoe upstairs to turn off the alarm system, then make my way back downstairs to sneak out. All the doors had cameras on sentry, but there was a window in the laundry room that I was able to squeeze through. I left it aja
r so I could sneak back in. The motion sensor lights flicked on as I skittered across the back lawn, but my parents slept at the front of the house. They didn’t notice. Luckily, my bike was locked up behind the garage near the trash and recycling cans. I walked it out the back gate, and I was free. Undetected.
My headlight created a pool of light as I rode toward the school. I was drunk, and it was dark, but the streets were quiet, and I managed to get there with only a few wobbles. Centennial High was quiet and still; it seemed almost lonely without its usual buzz of energy and activity. But I rode past it with barely a glance. I had to stay focused on the path ahead. My destination was not far away.
The small house where Mr. McLaughlin lived was dark. It was Friday night, I realized, and it was late. He might be out at a club, drinking, dancing, luring young women back to his place. More likely, he was inside with the lights off, on his computer. He’d be on a camming site or on OnlyFans, chatting anonymously to pretty girls. He’d offer them tips to do perverted things for his viewing pleasure. He would look and he would lurk, hoping to find a current or former student. I dropped my bike on the lawn and made my way to the door. As I reached for the bell, my fingers trembled. But I had to do this.
My teacher opened the door wearing plaid pajama pants and a concert T-shirt, his hair a little messy. “Tarryn?” He looked befuddled. “What are you doing here?”
My heart was hammering in my chest and sweat dripped down my back—from exertion and anxiety—but my voice came out strong. “I need to know if it’s you.”
The Perfect Family Page 17