by Penny Reid
“You’ve never been a liar, Henry. Don’t start now.”
I turn to him. It’s been a while since Renaldo lowered the boom. “What?”
“Please.” He mimics my shrug. “Like you don’t care. You loved her and she broke your heart. These last few years, I know the Christmas gifts you’d send her would come back unopened. The cards returned, the calls unanswered. You never stopped trying to be a good son to her. You didn’t want to be made strong. You wanted a relationship.”
I frown.
He gives me a long look. “I watched you build this company, even with Kaleb blocking your best ideas. You sweat blood for this company. These people. Then your mother comes along and gives a strange woman absolute power over it. A woman who has zero reasons to care about it.”
Who seems to actively hate rich guys, I think, but I don’t say it. “Vicky’s starting to care about it. She’s starting to get what we’re doing.”
“Not the point.” Renaldo crosses his legs, face grim. “She makes a joke about repainting the cranes in some ridiculous image? That’s what your mother would do. Except she’d actually do it. You believed the worst because how else could it be?”
“I acted like she was my mother.”
“Your button,” he says.
“I need to apologize. I need to tell her…” Something. Everything.
“Do it, then.”
“She won’t see me. She won’t answer my calls and texts.”
“Think of something. You’re Henry fucking Locke, for crissake.”
That’s how I end up in the waterfront workshop at three in the morning. I'm up in the third-floor model room. My tuxedo jacket is slung over a drafting table. I have an extra-large coffee at hand, but I barely need it.
I’m awake. Sobered up. Somebody was messing with my world, but it wasn’t Vicky.
She won’t answer my calls, but I can still talk to her—in a language she understands better than English. I work into the night and all through the morning.
Chapter 22
Vicky
I sip coffee at our little table, trying to be quiet and not wake Carly, who’s sleeping in her little curtained-off area with Smuckers.
“It never would’ve lasted anyway,” I whisper.
Across the room, Buddy the parrot jerks his head, watches me with a shiny black eye.
I drop my head into my hands. Henry wanted to talk. What would he have said? But it doesn’t matter.
Henry builds bridges from metal and stone, but trust is harder to build. Trust means crossing an invisible bridge made out of something you believe in. He wasn’t ready to do that. Not for me. And why should he?
Why should he believe me when I said I’d make things right? But god, it felt good when he seemed to.
It felt like the world was new.
Nice fairy tale while it lasted. But he’s just like everyone else. And maybe it was too much to ask.
Not like we could ever have a real relationship. He’d find out I’m Vonda and hate me. And if he let it slip, that would endanger Carly. Mom would find her.
I’ll give him back his stupid company and that’s it. That’s all it ever could have been.
Carly comes out with her iPad, Smuckers at her heels.
“I thought you were sleeping,” I chide.
“I sort of was.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says.
“What?” I press.
Her gaze goes to the black screen.
I grab it and tap it to wake it up and there’s Henry, looking dazzling in a tuxedo. A beautiful woman on his arm. In another shot he’s got her down in a dip, and they’re both laughing.
I swallow. “What is this? Is this last night?” I look at the date. Yes. Last night.
Carly’s behind me. “It means nothing. Rich guys have to go to a lot of those things,” she says. “It’s part of being rich.”
I scrub my face, telling myself it’s good. I told him to screw off in every way possible.
“I don’t know how to feel about you knowing so much about the lifestyle of the rich and famous. It’s a useless thing to study.” I shut the thing off, but the image of Henry dancing with a gorgeous redhead is burned into my mind.
“That girl got a dance,” Carly points out unhelpfully. “You got a company.”
“Is it stupid-amount-of-candy-in-ice-cream time yet?” I ask.
She grins. “For breakfast? Don’t bluff, I might take you up on it.”
I get up and start her eggs. “Tonight.”
On the way out, we discover the box in the lobby, addressed to me. It’s the size of a coffee mug, but perfectly square, wrapped in Locke-blue paper.
“Uh,” I say, shoving my key into the lock.
“Aren’t you going to open it? Don’t you want to see?”
“I already know what’s in it. It’s whatever rich guys think they can use to buy anything and anyone. I don’t want it.”
“Maybe it’s something nice.”
“I don’t want it.”
She grabs it. “Can I open it?” She shakes it. “Light as air.”
“You need to toss that package.”
“Without even looking inside?”
“Without even looking inside,” I say, heading out.
Rich jackass, rich jackass, rich jackass, I tell myself, all the way to Carly’s school. But it doesn’t sink in. I need to get deprogrammed off Henry. There needs to be a service like that. I need to be strapped to a chair, and every time I see a picture of Henry I get shocked or doused with cold water.
But that just makes me think of that thing Henry said—If I wanted to wear my hair in a marshmallow Afro and live in a woman’s purse, I think I could find a dominatrix to make it happen.
I smile.
I go to the makers space and of course everyone is asking where Henry is. Apparently he showed up looking for me. A few people have questions on the commission work. I give them April’s number. April has instructions that I’m on vacation. She’ll alert me to anything important.
It’s on the third day that I turn officially pathetic. We were together for more than two weeks straight and I miss seeing his face. I miss the careful way he explained every last thing about his company. His dorky mnemonic devices for memorizing everyone’s names. I miss the way we got to be finishing each other’s sentences.
I won’t see him. Can’t.
Then comes the phase of jonesing so much for him that I start making jonesing bargains. I tell myself if I don’t open the package, I might go online and look for new pictures of him, and that would be even worse. Right?
So it’s entirely preventative.
Must. Open. Package!
I go find Carly. “You can open it.”
She frowns. “You asked me to throw it away.”
“Go get it.”
She furrows her brows. “I’m sure the trash man’s hauled it off by now.”
“Yeah. Go get it.”
Carly springs up and goes behind her little curtain. She comes back and sets it on the kitchenette table between us, practically rubbing her hands.
I slide it over to her. “You do it.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” She starts opening it, carefully. She was never a rip-open-the-present type. “A box,” she teases, turning the box that was inside. “A really, really nice box of tag board. I wonder why he got you a box.”
“Stop it! Stop screwing around.”
She pulls up the lid, peers in. Her grin dissolves. She looks…stunned. Or is it a look of horror? For once I can’t read my little sister’s expression.
“What?” I ask.
“Oh my god.” And then, as if that wasn’t clear enough, “Oh. My. God!”
“What?”
“Wait. Close your eyes,” she commands.
I sigh and comply.
“Now open them.” I open my eyes.
My heart skips a beat.
There on the table between
us stands a tiny, beautifully carved balsawood griffin. It’s a perfect replica Brave Protector Friend, the griffin that guards our favorite building. Our adopted friend and champion.
“He’s beautiful,” Carly says.
I pick it up and inspect it, turning it around and around, admiring how he captured the bold and grippy claws. The ornate detail of the wings.
“He got somebody to make our griffin friend.”
“He made it himself,” I say. “He got up there somehow and got some photos, and he carved it. This is all Henry—this vision. The passion of it. The way he knew.”
“You’re quite the expert.”
Yeah, I think sadly.
“There’s a card.” She slides a tiny blue envelope across the table.
I take it and open it.
I should’ve trusted you. Let me fight for us.
Chapter 23
Vicky
I put on my favorite sweater—dark purple, so dark it’s almost black, with black obsidian buttons down the front, and a black pencil skirt and a few white Smuckers hairs, unfortunately. I pick them off one by one in the back of the cab to Locke Worldwide HQ with Smuckers in his pleather purse. I need to see Henry. Partly it’s to thank him for Brave Protector Friend. The note.
Mostly it’s to see him. I’ve listened to his voice mails. Read his texts. In different ways they echo the small note in the griffin box.
The cabbie pulls up. I make my way through the grand lobby and up to the executive floor. It’s unusually quiet. Henry isn’t in his office. I head over to the admin area and find April.
She stands. “Hey!” She comes over and scratches Smuckers’s little head. “We didn’t expect you guys.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Queens,” she says in a tone, like, where else would they be? “The Ten?”
“Is something going on?”
“The emergency meeting?” Her face goes pale. “You don’t know?”
“No.”
“They carried on as if you knew. I assumed you didn’t want to come—it’s more detail than you usually get into. It’s an emergency meeting.”
I straighten up, unsure what to think. “Well, let’s get a car.”
Five minutes later, April and Smuckers and I are riding in the back of a speeding limo.
April has Smuckers in her lap. “It came up fast,” April says. “The project is in jeopardy. It’s bad.”
“What happened?”
“Dartford & Sons. They’re blowhards. Total asshole developers.”
“So I’ve heard. What’d they do?”
She’s absentmindedly playing tug with Smuckers. “Here’s the thing with a development like the Ten—if Locke tells the neighbors about their plans before they’ve bought up all the properties, word will leak and a competitor will buy one key lot and hold it hostage. Dartford & Sons is notorious for that.”
“So Dartford bought a lot in the middle of the Ten?”
“No—we just closed on the last property, so the Dartford brothers can’t wreck it that way. Instead, they poisoned the neighbors against it. Acted like Locke has been doing things in secret. They’ll get the councilperson to veto the project, make the land worthless, then try and get a racetrack through.”
“Who wants a racetrack in their neighborhood?” I ask.
“Nobody, but the Dartford brothers’ll bribe and lie their way into projects. They cross lines most people won’t.”
Sure enough, when we arrive at the community center, there’s a red truck with the words Dartford & Sons on the side of it.
I pull open the door and we enter a cool lobby with a lot of bulletin boards and stacked chairs all around. A hallway leads left and another leads right. Down to the right is where we hear the yelling.
We enter the meeting room, which turns out to be a small gymnasium packed with so many people that they can’t all fit on the chairs, so they crowd around the corners. We stand by the door, in the back of it all. I nestle Smuckers in my coat.
The people seem angry.
At Henry.
He’s in front of them, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. There’s a PowerPoint image—an architectural drawing, all sketchy and with watercolor touches—on the screen behind him.
I recognize it as the artist’s version of the Ten.
He’s talking about it. How they’re going to decontaminate the site. His vision for the walking bridge. Residences along the water. It’s kind of amazing to see him in “on” mode—passionate about what he loves. Full of fire, even in the storm.
He spots me through the crowd, settles his gaze on me, and I feel warm all the way through.
He starts strolling with the mic, being the master orator that he is, a super hot Julius Caesar. He moves around the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on me, like we’re the only two people in the room.
Dizziness washes over me.
One of the angry neighbors gets up and starts criticizing how the walls go right to the sidewalk with no room for greenery.
Henry answers him, still coming at me. I straighten up, feeling like a virgin, bound and ready to be a sacrifice for the billionaire architect who can carve a griffin out of balsawood. Ready for him to ravage and tear me apart.
All in all, not a bad feeling.
He stops in front of me. My heart pounds. He lowers the microphone. Under his breath, he says, “Hi.”
I swallow, overwhelmed by the effect he has on me, by how much I missed him. “Hi,” I say.
He turns back to the room, addressing another objection, moving on like he’s all about their conversation, but he’s all about me. I know it when he stops, when he turns, eyes finding mine.
He defends the way the walls are, even though it’s not what he ever wanted. It’s Kaleb’s stupid design, but Henry will defend it.
More angry people raise their voices.
“Those guys are Dartford plants,” April whispers. “Planted in the audience to sink this project. They’ll complain about the amount of greenery, which always rallies people. And they’ll complain about the lack of public input—which they would actually get more of with Locke.”
People are talking angrily over each other, rousing each other into a frenzy.
I’m starting to feel lightheaded; this is exactly how it was when everyone hated me. So much anger. “This is bad,” I whisper.
“It is. Once those assholes have their no vote, they’ll bribe some council people and put their racetrack in. But we can’t say that, because it hasn’t happened yet. Once it’s done it’s too late. They have people, let’s just say.”
The two Dartford brothers start criticizing Locke for bulldozing their vision in, as if they’re the white knights, riding in to save the neighborhood. It’s all so wrong.
“Lies,” April whispers. “Their motto should be Where doing the wrong thing is the right thing.”
Everyone wants a turn to yell, just like the days when my name was a trending topic on Twitter. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, feeling the urge to bolt.
I’m not back in Deerville.
Smuckers gets antsy. I pull him out of the purse and hold him as Brett gets up onto the stage and confronts the man. “One question—are you being paid by Dartford & Sons?”
The man deflects. Brett pushes. Brett doesn’t have Henry’s charisma. More people are yelling. There are accusations now. April looks devastated.
“Why are they listening to those jerks?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer for a while. I suspect she’s actually on the verge of tears.
“There’s no more yes in the room,” she finally says. “Dartford & Sons are officially sinking the Ten.” She shuts her eyes. “These neighbors are going to get screwed. And it’s Henry’s birthday next week, and all he’ll get is the final dissolution…”
I’m not listening. Henry is looking over at me and Smuckers. I tilt my head, projecting sympathy, empathy. I see it right when it happens, when the Dartford guy traces the direction of his gaze
.
“Oh, this is perfect,” the blowhardiest of them all says. “Is this the dog? The new owner of Locke Worldwide?”
“No, no, no, no,” April says under her breath. “Shit.”
The blowhard Dartford guy is pushing through the crowd toward me, brashly and angrily, bearing a microphone.
I clutch Smuckers tight, pulse roaring in my ears. What do you have to say for yourself, Vonda? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Vonda?
Everybody is looking at me now. My skin goes clammy. The hate is a hand, squeezing my lungs.
The Dartford guy stops in front of me with a smug expression. “Tell me,” he says, addressing the crowd, “can you trust a company led by a dog?” He turns to me. “You’re the dog’s keeper? Don’t you think this is a little reckless for a publicity stunt? To literally hand control of a company to a dog and his keeper? This dog legally controls the entire firm, does he not? This dog could sell the company for a dollar to a kid on the street. Is that a trustworthy move?”
He points the microphone at me, more formidable than a loaded gun.
I catch sight of Henry across the room, pushing through the people, trying to get to me. Rage in his eyes. He calls out, “Leave her alone.”
“You have anything to say for yourself?” Dartford asks.
I stare at the mic. So familiar. This is a place I never wanted to be. Never again.
Never again.
Henry comes across, pushing through, shaking his head. Keep quiet. Don’t say anything.
“Come on,” Dartford chides. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at everyone else. Because I’m not human. I don’t have feelings. I’m Vonda.
I’m Vonda.
“The leader of the company has nothing to say?”
And right there, something kicks in. Something perverse.
Because I’m Vonda.
Without even thinking, I take the mic, hold it with a grip of steel. “Does the leader of the company have anything to say? You want to know? Well, how about it, Smuckers?”
I frown at Smuckers. Nod my head. “Oh, dear,” I say. I turn to Dartford. “Smuckers says he is so sick of your shit. He can’t even.”