The Edge of Us

by Veronica Larsen

I blink several times, breaking out of the memory. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was long enough for Tobias to misinterpret my pause as hesitation.

  "You can just say it, Mila," Tobias blurts out.

  Taking a deep breath, I look down and consider my response to his question.

  What do you make of Grant?

  "He…has a lot of growing up to do," I say, "but he's not a bad person."

  "No one ever means to be a bad person, Mila, but that's beside the point. This type of fortune, this level of influence, it can…"

  He trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence. But I already know what he's thinking. Money is often villainized for the way some people seem to change under its influence. But all money does is give a person the freedom to reveal their true colors.

  Grant's always had all the money he could want, but his father has held the purse strings, leveraging the unspoken threat of cutting him off. Tobias is afraid Grant is who he unwittingly raised him to be.

  I press my lips together, allowing the silence to nudge Tobias to continue.

  "Grant is detached from reality and that's largely my fault. I've been too preoccupied to worry about the person he's becoming. And now I'm afraid he's too self-serving to carry on the Kreisler legacy I've worked so hard to build."

  I set my elbows on the desk and cross my arms. Tobias is a smart man. He knows there are a number of ways he could ensure his son doesn't spiral out of control. But he's here because he's not interested in adding conditions to the inheritance. This isn't an issue of tying up loose ends after he's gone. It's an issue of finding the trust in his son so he can…

  I push back the thought, and listen as Tobias admits his aversion to adding conditions to the inheritance and the lasting message it would send to Grant about his lack of confidence in him.

  I watch a man I've known for much of my life fighting against his love for his only son just to find an objective stance.

  The people we love are our blind spots. Our biggest problems often orbit them, just outside of our realm of acknowledgment. Sometimes all we need is perspective.

  What my clients want, most of all, is to have the burden of their toughest decisions lifted.

  No one's immune to this desperate wish. Because from the time we are kids, we're guided by rules and constant feedback. Then we enter adulthood and there are no marks, no averages, no real way to gauge whether we are moving in the right direction. In the end, all Tobias wants is to be relieved from the crippling fear of making the wrong choice. He wants reassurance of the plot he's already devised in his head. Tobias Kreisler has always seen life as a chessboard and situations like this as an opportunity for a moral test.

  "If your concern is the money's impact on your son, then there's only one way for you to know its true effect while you're still with us. Because if this situation were an experiment, money's the one factor you're entirely in control of."

  Tobias raises his gaze from the ground while lowering his hand from his face. I can see the way my words fit into the plan brewing behind his eyes.

  "Absolutely," he says. "You only know a man's true character when you give him all the money in the world, or take it all away."

  It's a myth money and power change people. They can only highlight traits a person already has. The same goes for misfortune. It shows you who you really are.

  Tobias rises to his feet, a sudden lightness to his movements. I get up from my own chair and reach over the desk to shake his hand.

  "Thank you, Mila. This is exactly what I needed."

  "Does your son know? About your health?"

  "No, of course not."

  I nod, my lips tilting down. I don't say what we both know. He needs to tell Grant.

  Tobias turns away and heads toward the door.

  "If you need anything," I say, and he pauses, but doesn't look back. "Please, let me know."

  Tobias raises a hand in thanks and disappears through the door.

  Alone in my office, I sink back into my chair and take a moment to let the dread spread through me. I don't expect it to lift anytime soon.

  FIVE

  MILA

  THE MORNING BRINGS ANOTHER, less eventful meeting, but the entire time the news Tobias delivered to me hangs overhead. Sometime around noon, I take advantage of a lull and try to clear my head.

  The view from my office offers little trace of the sky. Instead, asymmetrical blocks of glass and steel appear stacked on top of each other. The skyscrapers surrounding this building cradle it, and from this angle they look close enough to touch.

  It's a view I prefer to a higher vantage point where the city becomes a vague sea of lights. Being boxed in by the city breathes energy and life into me. I suspect I'd be claustrophobic in a field of grass.

  A knock on my door claims my attention.

  "Hey, did you get the…?" Andrew's question falls away. "What's wrong with you?"

  I shake my head then sit back in my chair, not knowing where to start.

  "Tobias Kreisler came in this morning to talk about settling his affairs. He's dying."

  "Damn."

  Andrew reaches my desk and stands there, watching me.

  "Tobias is a good man. He bailed my mother out of some tough times."

  "I'm sorry."

  "His son doesn't know yet. Is it weird I've got this…I don't know, this guilt that I know before him?"

  "Nothing you can do about that."

  "I know. I think it would be easier if Grant was a stranger."

  Andrew frowns. "Did something happen between you two?"

  "No, of course not. Grant was Cole's best man. And for a while, he was the only one who knew where Cole was. Not that he had the decency to tell me."

  I let out a tired breath. The memory is as exhausting to think about as it was to live.

  "That's it." Andrew slices his hand through the air, a serious expression on his face. "New rule. We don't talk about your ex at work. It drains the life force out of you."

  "Alright. I mean, you don't make the rules around here. But, sure."

  His eyes lower to the envelope. It's in my hands and I don't remember pulling it out of the drawer. How long have I been holding it?

  "What's that?"

  "This? Uh, it's an invite to an event. But, there's only…one." I look up at Andrew. "There's only one," I say again, finally narrowing in on the nagging feeling when I first opened it. "That's weird, right?"

  "People mail in event tickets all the time."

  "Yeah, but half a dozen. Two at a minimum. Never one."

  "Maybe someone's cheap. Or they want you to go alone."

  "Well, it's the weekend of the awards gala, so I don't think I'll make it. Besides, I don't even know who sent it."

  "I'll take it," Andrew says with a shrug. He picks up the invitation, but when his eyes narrow in on the words printed on the card, he adds, "An art gallery opening? Yeah, no. You can have this back."

  He sets it on my desk with careful deliberation.

  "What am I supposed to do with this?"

  "Throw it out."

  "But it's so pretty." I lift the card between my fingers, the color so vibrant it hums in the air. "You know how I feel about cardstock."

  "I forgot who I was talking to. You hoard greeting cards out of guilt."

  He comes around to sit on the inside edge of my desk as he speaks.

  "Get off my desk and get back to work," I say, tucking the invitation back into the envelope.

  "I'm just saying, boss, I wouldn't catch feelings over that. Looks like a mass mail-out to me."

  He reaches over me to open one of my drawers and grabs a Starburst from my secret stash. I catch traces of an unfamiliar, alluring scent.

  "That's a new cologne," I say.

  "Is that your way of telling me I smell nice?" He throws the piece of candy in his mouth, seeming pleased that I noticed.

  His warm and delicious scent settles in, and as he chews, the movement of his jaw brings my attentio
n to how much sharper his features seem today. It's like suddenly, all his most attractive qualities, his jawline, his eyes, his lips, are fighting for my attention.

  It takes me a few seconds to realize what's different about him.

  "And you got a different haircut?" I tilt my head. "What's going on, Drew? Is there a new woman I don't know about? Who are you trying to impress?"

  "Maybe I'm trying to impress you."

  I'm not prepared for the way warmth swirls in the pit of my stomach at this. I've trained myself not to look at Andrew that way, simply because I've been emotionally unavailable most of the time I've known him. The rest of the time, one or both of us have been tied up in short-lived relationships. But it's been three months since the last time I heard him mentioning seeing anyone and that was around the time a disastrous blind date stole my appetite for dating around. We've been spending a lot more time together since we've both been single.

  I blink at my own reaction, the way I stall. My senses have become bewitched by a scent I've had no time to grow immune toward.

  "You can impress me by going back to work," I say, waving him away.

  "Alright, alright." Andrew gets to his feet and straightens his suit jacket, a small grin curling his lips. "I'll leave you, then. Ms. Female Entrepreneur of the Year."

  Inwardly, I cringe. It's such a bizarre proclamation to hear.

  "I was hoping you hadn't gotten the memo."

  "The whole city got the memo. It was in the paper."

  "Ah," I say. "I guess I'm a big deal, then."

  He half-turns to leave but hesitates.

  I wait, staring up at him as a suggestion forms in his eyes before leaving his lips.

  "How about I take you out for drinks tonight," he says, "to celebrate?"

  I'm caught up in the quick flash of excitement in his expression, as though the invitation carries an implication of things it never has before. Am I imagining this? Am I seeing what I want to see? Am I hoping for things I shouldn't?

  I'm being ridiculous.

  I look down at my desk and snap myself into focus.

  "I'll pass. I've got other plans for the night. Plans that involve me, myself, and I."

  "You're so boring, Mila."

  "Yeah, I'll go sob about it over a pile of money."

  "Alright, then…"

  He gives me a lingering look before walking out of the door and into the hall. I watch after him for a few seconds, tapping a finger on the envelope now sitting on my desk. Taking a long breath, I snatch up the invitation up and toss it into the trash bin. It lands on top of a hill of crumpled up memos. Such a waste of gorgeous cardstock.

  As if on cue, Janet comes over the phone speaker again to tell me Camille Roberts is on the line. I freeze when I hear the name. It can't be a coincidence, can it?

  I tell Janet to put her through and sit back in my chair.

  Camille's raspy voice comes over the speaker and fills my office.

  "Hey, stranger."

  Nostalgia washes over me yet again today. I think back to Camille helping me into my wedding gown. And the pep talk she gave me afterward.

  She'd gone looking for me when I disappeared to check my makeup in the bathroom for what must've been a suspiciously long time. No one else had noticed. They were too busy whispering amongst themselves.

  Camille knocked on the bathroom door and I straightened where I stood in front of the sink, my gown spread out around me. The door was unlocked and she pushed it open slowly until I was in full view of her.

  "Don't say it," I pleaded, taking a deep breath to calm myself. "God, if one more person says it."

  She hesitated before entering, careful not to step on my dress.

  "No one's said a thing, Mila."

  "Yeah, but they're all thinking it. I'm about to walk out to a sea of people who think I'm an idiot for marrying Cole."

  Camille moved closer and set her hand over mine.

  "Fuck them." Her fingers squeezed mine until I met her eyes. "Seriously, Mila. Fuck them. It's not their decision. It's yours. Let people think whatever they want. Their perceptions can't touch your reality unless you let them. You know Cole. You know he's crazy about you. I've never seen him like this, he's finally ready to settle down. And I know for a fact he wants a life with you more than he's wanted anything."

  I swallowed hard, emotional from the disappointments and excitements of the day.

  "Also," Camille added, "you wouldn't be such a ball of stress if you'd just smoked that blunt with me earlier."

  I snorted, then full on laughed. She smiled wide, satisfied at my reaction.

  Of all my interactions on that day, hers was the only one not weighed down by silent disapproval. Camille was the only person who thought Cole and I were good together.

  But of course she did. Back then, she and I believed a lot of things that weren't true.

  I sit at my desk, clutching the phone tighter and waiting for my old friend to speak.

  "I'm betting you can guess why I'm calling," she says.

  I swivel my chair side to side, resisting the urge to jump to conclusions as I try to remember what I could've forgotten. Last time we talked, she'd invited me to the opening of her bakery in Brooklyn. But that was last summer.

  "The invitation, Mila. I'm pretty sure you got it."

  First, tightness forms in my chest, followed by an instant wash of relief.

  "Oh," I sigh, "it was you. I couldn't figure out why someone would send just one and not even bother to add a return address."

  "It's obvious, isn't it? He wants you to go alone, but he knows you won't, so he made sure I got one, too."

  The tightness rears back, closing around my throat.

  "What do you mean he? Who are you talking about?"

  "Mila, the invitation is from Cole. This is the opening of his exhibit."

  SIX

  MILA

  SIRENS WAIL SOMEWHERE IN the distance and the sound joins in with the honks from the cars crawling through mid-town. Even at noon, the plaza in front of my building is cast in shadow. Two large fountains frame the walkway down to where Camille waits for me.

  She stands on the last step before the sidewalk, her golden hair drawing my attention because it somehow picks up sunlight lost to the rest of her surroundings. Behind her the sidewalk is packed with pedestrians, many dressed in business attire.

  Even from a distance, I can tell she's much thinner than the last time I saw her, but when her features pull into sharper focus, I blanch at how much she's changed. Not noticing my reaction, Camille opens her arms to greet me and I move between them to give her a hug. She's wearing flats to my five-inch heels and yet still manages to be slightly taller than me.

  "It's been forever," she says.

  "I know," I say. "It's so good to see you."

  I return her smile but continue to scan her face in disbelief. I can't get used to how different she is from the image I hold of her in my brain. I always remember her as the Camille I met almost a decade ago, the girl who welcomed me into her family from the moment I started dating her brother. Her hair was lighter then, her eyeliner darker, but her skin bright and glowing. But today she seems exhausted. Her shoulders have lost their squared confidence, her eyes have grown more intense, yet less sharp.

  "Thanks for meeting me," I say, so distracted I forget for a moment just why I asked her here.

  "Well, this is the first lunch break I've taken all month. I'll let that speak to how much I missed you."

  I smile, then say, "Come on, I know you don't have long."

  I set a hand on her forearm to lead her forward, and we walk down the rest of the steps of the plaza, and onto the sidewalk to fall in step with the foot traffic. We pass street vendors and a couple of food trucks with their colorful signs. Cars honk along the street at our side, a man argues into his cellphone, and a construction site jackhammer rattles the pavement somewhere behind us.

  We make small talk along the way, catching up in the awkward way fri
ends who haven't talked in a long while do. Without time to offer context for what's happened over the past few months, we stick to vague impressions of events. She tells me her bakery is doing well and I apologize for not coming by again after the grand opening. Camille dominates the conversation for several minutes, seeming to ignore the elephant in the room. There's more than one elephant. There's the reason we've come out in the first place, and then there's the way her energetic mood is at odds with her tired appearance. Unable to pin down the mixed signals, I ask her if she's doing all right, if she's feeling well. She assures me she's doing great, just running a million miles an hour for work.

  About a block from where we agreed to have lunch, Camille falls silent. We reach the crosswalk and come to a stop in front of a flurry of cars passing along the road. I press the button for the walk signal and turn to face her. The question burning my throat comes out.

  "Why didn't you tell me he was back in the city?"

  Camille looks over my shoulder and the corner of her mouth tilts down for the first time. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't say anything because he asked me not to."

  The words slice through to the reality of our friendship. She might have been my closest friend, she might've been my maid of honor, but the wedding never happened and she and I grew apart. In the end, what she and I had built could fade with time, but she would always be Cole's half-sister. Meeting with her was my idea, but I realize now it's exactly what Cole wanted to happen. If Cole is suddenly interested in reaching out to me, it makes sense he'd use the only person he could to get to me. Camille is the last real thread connecting us.

  The light changes and Camille takes off. Halfway across the road, she stops and notices I'm not beside her. By then, I've managed to pull myself together and take the last few steps over to meet her. We reach the other sidewalk and stroll by a few storefronts in silence, coming to a stop in front of the restaurant. She pulls the door open, but I catch it before she can open it all the way.

  "I don't want anything we talk about to get back to Cole," I say.

  Her brows pull in. "Of course."

  "I want your word, Camille."

  "You have it. You have my word."