Durga: A month later, Naserian dated another man who broke her heart. When he was banished, he took with him his father, mother, sister, uncles, aunts, and cousins. The Maasai numbers began to dwindle, which left them vulnerable.
Durga: See where I’m going here?
Benkinersophobia: The Maasai have a shit ton of family members?
Durga: Ben.
Benkinersophobia: Naserian needs to chill with the assholes?
Durga: Ben.
Benkinersophobia: The Maasai need separation of state and daughter like ninety-year-olds in Congress need retirement?
Durga: BEN.
Durga: Stop.
Durga: OMG. You’re impossible.
Durga: Moral of the story—when you act in vengeance, everyone around you suffers.
Benkinersophobia: I’m not talking about revenge. I’m talking about regret.
Durga: Revenge and regret are cut from the same cloth. Both are infectious. Both are cured by forgiveness and forgetting. The last thing I want is for you to suffer.
Benkinersophobia: You worry too much about me.
Durga: Because I care.
My grin splintered as I waited for a response. Not because I didn’t think Ben loved me. I knew he did—just like I knew I made him smile and the real reason we refused to break the barrier and meet each other had nothing to do with the rules.
We were geode crystals.
Beautiful.
Tough.
Shiny.
Resilient.
Destined for a life sheltered inside an ugly rock.
My worry for Ben egged at me to press harder, to beg him to see himself the way I saw him, but I wouldn’t, because even geodes shattered. If we shattered to pieces, I would lose my compass, my refuge, my sanctuary.
Selfish, selfish, Emery. Tell me all about how you’re a good person.
I whispered magic words into the empty office air, even though I knew magic words wouldn’t save me from this.
Benkinersophobia: How do the Maasai still exist if they banished everyone?
Durga: Well, the story ain’t true, but it proves my point.
Benkinersophobia: You made up a story about the Maasai for me?
Durga: I know you're laughing. Stop judging.
Benkinersophobia: Durga?
Durga: Ben?
Benkinersophobia: I love you, too.
My cheeks still stung red when Nash walked into the office ten minutes later. He held out a to-go bag of overpriced food from a local steakhouse. Everyone else had gone out for Taco Tuesday lunch, so nothing but silence filled the room.
He gave me a solid thirty seconds to grab it before he plopped it on the coffee table in front of me and studied my flushed cheeks. “It’s lemon herb salmon with the little green things Ma makes that you’re obsessed with.”
“They’re capers, Nash, and people don’t make them. They cook them.” I tapped my naked nails on my phone screen, breathing from my mouth so I couldn’t smell the food. My stomach continued its relentless growls. “How do you know I like capers?”
“Is that a serious question? You and Dad would fight over them whenever Ma made Chicken Piccata.” Nash sat next to me on the couch, making it feel a hundred times smaller. He dragged the bag closer to the edge of the table and pulled out a black plastic container with a transparent lid. “You spilled the entire serving plate one year while trying to steal the capers from Dad and Reed’s plates.” It looked like the memory made him happy, which did uncomfortable things to my chest, even as I did my best to ignore him and the food. “Ma ended up doubling the capers in the recipe. Every time she makes Chicken Piccata, it’s like eating green shit with a side of chicken and pasta.”
My eyes dipped to the dish as he pulled off the lid.
Fuck.
Was I drooling?
“Betty still makes Chicken Piccata?”
“Yeah. Once a month.”
His words pulled me out of his orbit.
Out of the tussled hair that made me think words like cafune.
Out of the full lips that parted every time he spoke.
Out of the scent of him I loved to steal.
“You see her once a month?” I stumbled over the words, not quite believing them. It fought the villainous archetype of Nash I’d built in my head.
The one that kept me safe from pesky attachments and reminded me this was not the same guy that packed me lunches and steadied me after the Able incident.
Nash pierced the salmon with a fork at the same time my stomach let loose an obnoxious growl. “I see her nearly every weekend.” He waved the salmon in my face, showing off its flawless medium cook. “I’m eating this if you don’t, and your stomach sounds fucking pissed at you.”
I ignored the food, latching onto a piece of my past that didn’t feel tainted. “How does Betty look?”
He shoveled the fork into his mouth. “Strong.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s keeping herself fed and smiles when I’m looking.”
“And when you’re not looking?”
“She stares wherever Dad should be, eyes leaking like a broken faucet. If we’re at the dinner table, she eyes the empty chair. If we’re in the living room, she eyes the La-Z-Boy. If we’re in the car, she stares down the steering wheel at every stoplight like it should be him driving instead of me.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you asked, and maybe you care.”
“Maybe? Of course, I care about Betty. I love her.”
“Are you eating or what?”
Why do you keep trying to feed me, you confusing, fucked-up villain?
The words sat at the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed. I had no energy for a fight, so I swallowed them. They tasted like poor decisions and a forlorn appetite.
My eyes tracked each bite of his. I allowed myself two and half seconds of misery before I turned away from the food and clutched my phone like it was my only connection to Ben. (It was.)
“No,” I forced myself to answer. “I’m not your charity case.”
Ben loved me.
Nash confused me.
And at the end of the day, lust was just a consolation prize for love.
For someone who thrived on confrontation, I could list avoidance under the “skills” column of my resume.
The construction worker glared at me beneath the sun’s harsh rays. “Again?”
I swiped the hair out my face, wishing I could flick some guilt off with it. “Last time. I swear.”
I’d said that the last four times I asked him to move it.
“A little to the left.”
“Maybe slightly lower.”
“Ohh… that’s too low. Higher?”
“To the right.”
Ninety percent sure the Prescott Hotels sign currently sat where it had started.
“Like this?” He shifted the hunk of metal higher above the entrance.
“Yes. We’re good.”
His relief slithered across his body. He took the opportunity to dismiss me with his back. Loitering by the double doors, I wished for a cigarette habit or something to keep me outside and away from the office, where the feeding saga continued in full force.
Nash brought me decadent dishes every day, and I declined every day.
My willpower resembled a starving puppy’s, jaw snapping open at the slightest whiff of food.
The sun brought spots to my eyes. Two delivery men jostled me out of their way. A giant chrome refrigerator sat on a trolley between them, Nash’s persistency written all over it.
What. The. Fuck.
My eyes fluttered with rapid blinks. I pinched my forearm—twice—to assure myself that I hadn’t hallucinated a damn fridge. Not just any fridge. One of those smart ones with a tablet built into the door.
Turning to the construction worker, I rubbed at my eyes and squinted at him. “Did you see that?”
He dipped his head down as if t
hat would spare him my attention. “See what?”
“Never mind.”
Palming my phone, I pulled up the Eastridge United app.
Durga: What’s the number for a good shrink? I think my boss needs psychiatric help.
Benkinersophobia: Funny. I feel the same way about one of my employees.
Durga: Fire them. Let me work for you instead.
Benkinersophobia: Consider this your job offer—forty hours a week, easy access clothing only. I’ll allow kneepads given the labor requirements.
His next text came right after.
Benkinersophobia: Really, though, you good?
Durga: I will be.
Durga: I missed you this weekend.
Benkinersophobia: I spent the weekend with family. Usually, I can message you fine, but my mom’s hiding something from me. I spent the past few days trying to figure it out.
Durga: Did you?
Benkinersophobia: No, but I will. I always get what I want. You should know this by now.
Durga: You sound like my boss.
Benkinersophobia: Fuck your boss.
I already did.
Benkinersophobia: (The curse not the verb. Don’t actually fuck your boss.)
Too late.
My fingers flew across the keyboard until a shadow darkened the screen. Two shiny chestnut loafers entered my vision. I trailed them to their owner.
Not again.
That same déjà vu tickled my head, begging me to listen to it.
You know Brandon from somewhere. Figure it out. This is important, Emery.
Still nothing.
“I’m not interested.” Rough heartbeats ate their way up my throat. Pocketing my phone, I quirked a brow and played it cool. “Can’t take a hint, Mr. Vu?”
“Mr. Vu is my father.”
“Mr. Vu is also you. Great conversation. Let’s never do it again.” I feigned left and swerved right, feeling like the next Odell Beckham when Brandon fell for the juke.
“Miss Winthrop, we have to talk.” His fingers curled around my wrist, releasing when I jerked it away. “This is important. You’re not in trouble.”
“No shit.” I swiveled and snapped my glare to him. “I’m well aware I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t break any laws. I don’t care about whatever three-lettered government agency you came from. It means nothing to me. You mean nothing to me.” A bruise would form around my wrist, but I refused to cradle it. “You’re looking at the wrong Winthrop, and newsflash, I haven’t seen my dad in years. I have work to do. Have a shitty day. I know I will.”
The metal door handle cooled my palm, but I still ran thirty degrees hotter inside. I pivoted and staggered back when my eyes caught and held Nash’s through the door’s reflection. His narrowed eyes flicked from me to Brandon and back to me.
Two fingers toyed with the cuff on one hand, like he was gearing for a fight. Being his victim appealed less to me than a conversation with the S.E.C.’s lapdog, so I swung the glass door open and shouldered past him.
“Tiger.”
I didn’t stop.
“Emery.”
Still didn’t stop.
The daytime security guard nodded at me as I strolled past him, his opinion of me suddenly more favorable now that I kept him fed. Pride made accepting food from Nash impossible, even if it meant hurting myself in the process.
My vision blurred from the hunger, colorful spots dancing at the corners. I could put myself out of my misery by taking the meals. Instead, I let Nash eat them or gave them to the security guards.
I thought I had hallucinated the fridge, but when I entered the office, an Insta Cart deliverer stood in front of it, cramming a spread of frozen meals, expensive protein, and yogurt inside.
Falling to the couch, I considered my options with Brandon. Really, I had none. He could keep showing up, but I didn’t have answers for him, except my dad’s location, which wouldn’t help. The S.E.C. and F.B.I. hadn’t found anything on Dad the first time around.
The Insta Cart guy turned to me every ten seconds like he thought I would attack him. I spared him my resting bitch face and sloped my head to face the ceiling, toying with a pen as I considered ideas to make the hotel design less of a bore.
The one true save would be to scrap it entirely, but we didn’t have the time or budget for a drastic change, and Chantilly would find another way to run a second budget to the ground. She came from a poor family. While poverty sometimes bred thrifty spenders, it had turned Chantilly into a fiscal nightmare.
She thrived on spending every dollar she owned and then some. Appointing her as the temporary department head was like taking a five-year-old to Toys ‘R Us and telling him to have at it. The Haling Cove budget would make a hedge fund manager weep, yet she’d managed to exhaust it.
We needed a conversational focus piece, but we couldn’t afford one. The snobby hotel crowd would treat D.I.Y. projects as trash, and high-end artists never worked for free. I’d toyed with this puzzle all week. A knot I couldn’t untangle, and I felt like the only one trying.
“You look like you’re deep in thought.” Ida Marie plopped her bag at the foot of the couch and sat next to me. She smelled like Shakshuka from the Tunisian place nearby.
What did it mean that I didn’t get jealous of how pretty or smart or well-dressed people were but rather of the food they ate? I wanted Shakshuka—and Brik a L’oef, Fricassé, and Bambalouni for dessert.
Now, what did it mean if I could have all of that just by asking Nash, yet I refused?
“I’m trying to figure out what to do with the design.” I tossed the pen up and caught it.
“There’s nothing to figure out. We don’t make the decisions.”
No, but Nash did, and he cared. He wouldn’t show it. Probably wouldn’t even admit it to himself.
How would you know that, Emery?
Ugh.
Good question.
I knew Nash cared like I knew Reed muttered under his breath when something irritated him, Betty had a favorite prayer, Hank wiggled his toes each time he laughed, and Nash ran a palm twice through his hair when he thought someone was an idiot and three times when he was somewhere he didn’t want to be.
“I’m not gonna have my first project for Prescott Hotels be one I hate.” I watched the Insta Cart shopper unload the rest of the groceries, wanting to help him but knowing I’d be too tempted to eat something from the fridge if I did. “At this rate, none of us will be invited to work on the Singapore location.”
Everything about the Singapore location rubbed me wrong. Maybe the way Nash seemed too invested in it. Office rumors placed the likelihood of Prescott Hotels winning a bidding war against Asher Black pretty low.
If Nash did win, it would be at a steep cost that wouldn’t be worth the location.
Why go through that?
Why not find another location in Singapore?
Why that property?
My pride crippled me; Nash’s didn’t. If logic dictated he find another location, he would have. Something kept him there, and my thirst to understand him didn’t allow me to ignore it. As with everything involving Nash, my curiosity would remain unanswered like a light switch that refused to flick on.
Ida Marie waved at the Insta Cart shopper when he left, escorted back to the lobby by a security guard I didn’t recognize.
“Singapore is probably going to the design team that did Dubai and Hollywood.” She chewed on her gum and popped a bubble. “I don’t think we had a chance from the start. You ever notice how stunning all the Prescott Hotel locations are compared to the North Carolina ones?”
Her arms swung as she spoke, “It’s like these are the throwaways. They’re still better than everyone’s except maybe Black Enterprise’s, but they’re just… less. You’d think, being from North Carolina, our boss would spend extra attention on these.”
Nash hated North Carolina because he hated Eastridge. I read between the lines in his notes. It seemed like he warred with h
imself, and the only way he could get his thoughts settled was to put them down on pen and paper.
When he graduated high school and Betty took an extra job doing morning house chores at my neighbor’s, she asked Nash to make Reed’s lunches. He continued to make mine, too. Notes and all.
Some of them spoke of leaving, especially once Nash got accepted as a transfer to a few Ivy League schools and never told anyone except, I now realized, me.
Do you think you’re in anyone’s favorite memory? I think I’m maybe in Ma’s or Dad’s. It’s one of the reasons why I stay in North Carolina. You can’t leave someone who has a favorite memory featuring you, ya know?
Nash
Dad lost the T.V. remote last night, and Ma yelled, “Ain’t nothing lost until I can’t find it.” I asked her if she could find my fucking hope. I was kidding. She didn’t find it funny. She begged me not to say anything like that again.
I was gonna ask her what she thought of me leavin’ for Harvard or Wilton, but I didn’t after that.
I got into Harvard, Yale, and Wilton.
Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel Page 27