He puts the cologne back and returns to the makeshift living room without saying a word. But he doesn’t have to. I know he did this for me.
I just don't know why.
We pull past the iron gates and into the circle drive at a quarter past seven. We’re the tiniest bit late, but my parents are so preoccupied I doubt they’ll notice, and if they do, they’re not going to make a fuss in front of company.
“Head to the circle drive,” I tell him, pointing toward the fountain and the fully-lit front facade of the house where a team of young men in red sports coats operate tonight’s valet stand.
With a Mercedes in front of us and a Bentley behind us, his vintage GTO with its purring engine and growling muffler is completely out of place—and I love it.
We climb out when it’s our turn, and he hands over his keys with reluctance, telling the young man who’s about to climb in something about the clutch being sticky.
“Come on.” I loop my hand into his arm and drag him toward the front entrance, where Eloise is stationed to greet guests.
“Miss Brighton, good to see you tonight.” She speaks to me but she looks at Madden. Her eyes light up. She didn’t get to meet him last month when we had him over for dinner. She’d already gone home by then. And I haven’t brought him back since. “And who’s this handsome gentleman on your arm?”
“Eloise, this is Madden,” I say. “Madden, this is Eloise. She’s worked for our family for almost twenty years now.”
“I’ve known this one since she was in diapers,” Eloise says, swatting her hand. “Cutest little thing you’ve ever seen. Used to run up and down these halls, little blonde pigtails bouncing, singing at the top of her lungs. Free as a bird.”
Funny. I don’t remember that. Though I suppose no one remembers anything from that young of an age. Still, it’s good to hear that I was “free as a bird” at some point in my life, that I wasn’t always locked in a gilded cage by my own parents.
“Go on inside,” Eloise says when she spots the next guests behind us. “You two have yourself a wonderful time, okay?”
I take him through the foyer, past the curved staircase, down the hall and out the back door to the patio by the pool.
White tents cover our backyard and a local band is playing cover songs, mostly upbeat seventies rock, the kind of music that makes my parents and their friends want to get up and dance.
A buffet table covered in enough food to feed a small country is set up on the patio just off the north side of the house, and a long line has already formed.
My parents go all out any time they have something catered, only booking the best local hot spots with mile-long wait lists.
Inside the pool house, my parents have set up a bar, and from here, I see it’s their usual line-up of nothing but top-shelf liquors, vintage wines, and imported beers.
Scanning the yard, I spot my mother and father chatting up a state senator, one my father had a hand in getting elected this last time. Working in the pharmaceutical industry, my father has made no bones about the benefits of having politicians in your back pocket at all times. In a lot of ways, he’s almost made it a side gig of his—collecting as many influential Washington types as possible. He always says you never know when you’re going to need to phone in a favor …
“You doing okay?” Madden asks me.
I must look ridiculous, standing here frozen in my own backyard, but I can’t deny my sweaty palms, racing heart, or the fact that I practiced what I was going to say at least a half dozen times on the drive over here.
He eyes the bar in the pool house. “You look like you could use a drink. Stay here.”
If my parents didn’t think I was becoming a lush, they're sure as heck going to think that tonight. But whatever. I need something to take the edge off my nerves so I can get this over with.
Madden returns a few minutes later, handing me a glass of white wine. I take a sip, letting the crisp sweetness linger on my tongue.
“Didn’t know what kind of wine you liked, so I got you a dessert wine,” he tells me.
“Thank you.” I take another sip, deciding here and now that this is the most amazing drink I’ve ever had in my life.
He sips from a bottle of Stella Artois. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
In that moment, my mother spots me from across the yard, pointing and waving and tapping on my father’s arm. They’re halfway here when Madden places his arm around the small of my back.
Leaning in, he whispers. “You’ve got this.”
“Brighton,” my mother says when she approaches. She kisses the side of my cheek. “We were wondering when you were going to arrive.” Mom turns to Madden. “And you brought Madden. How lovely to see you again.”
My father gives Madden a nod. “Glad you could make it.”
He lifts his beer. “Thanks for having me.”
“Did you see the spread? The brisket is to die for.” Mom points toward the catering station. “I’m sure you two are starving.”
What she’s really trying to say is, “Don’t drink on an empty stomach.”
“Mom. Dad. Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask.
“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks.
“I need to tell you something,” I say.
“Tonight?” My father scoffs. “Here? Now?”
“Yes,” I say. Madden’s hand squeezes the side of my hip, a silent reassurance of sorts. “It’ll only take a minute.”
Both of my parents look to me, then to him. The two of them stand so still I can’t be sure they’re even breathing. I can only imagine what’s going through their mind. They probably think we’re going to announce a pregnancy or a wedding or something equally unexpected.
“Well, what is it?” Mom’s thin brows lift.
“I’ve accepted a position at Hershman Medical Research,” I say. “I start in two weeks.”
“Oh.” There’s a lilt in my mother’s voice. Relief, perhaps. “So is this a summer job? A temporary sort of thing?”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t temporary. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about … I’m not going to med school this fall.”
The beer bottle in my father’s hand begins to shake, and I realize it’s because of how hard he’s gripping it.
My mother stands, mouth agape.
“Brighton, you couldn’t have chosen a worse time to share this news with us,” my father says.
Mom still hasn't said a word, but her eyes are glassy, reflecting off the party lights hanging around the pool. Her lower lip trembles.
“I … I … excuse me, I’m sorry.” She runs off, head ducked so no one sees her in her less-than-perfect state.
“I hope you’re satisfied.” Dad’s nostrils flare. “You’ve just ruined your mother’s party.”
“The party isn’t ruined—” I begin to protest.
“—it will be,” he says. “If you don’t find your mother and apologize to her immediately. You’re going to tell her you’re sorry for being selfish and ungrateful and for choosing this moment to share such upsetting news. And then you’re going to tell her that you are going to medical school this fall and—”
“—no,” I interrupt him this time. “I've already called Rothschild and withdrew my enrollment for the fall semester. There’s a wait list. I’m sure my spot has already been filled.”
My father cocks his head, his mouth forming an incredulous smirk, the kind that always precedes his most terrifying of moods. But then it’s gone, just like that. And he waves to someone on the other side of the pool.
“I don’t know why you chose tonight of all nights, Brighton,” he says, “but you’ve humiliated your mother in front of all of her friends and I don’t care what you say at this point, but you need to make it right. We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow.” He looks to Madden before adding, “Privately.”
This isn’t exactly the way I thought this would go, but it’s in the same vein.
I knew my father
would be less than pleased.
I knew my mother would incorporate tears into her reaction in some capacity.
But I didn’t expect her to go running to the house or for my father to be so angry he literally shakes.
Dad walks away, plastering a friendly smile on his face as he greets the newest arrivals, and I turn to Madden.
“It’s over,” he says. “You did it. Feel better?”
“Not yet.”’
“You will.” He clinks his beer bottle against my wine glass. “Want to go?”
He read my mind. “Yes.”
We make a beeline for the valet stand and wait on the front porch for his car. A half hour later, we cross the Olwine city limits and I realize we haven’t said a single word the entire time.
Maybe he’s giving me space and distance, letting me think and process what just happened.
Or maybe there’s nothing to say.
I did what I went there to do.
It’s over and done.
I suppose sometimes the best way to be there for someone is to simply be there.
By the time we get up to his place, I use the bathroom and wash the makeup off my face. When I come out, I find Madden relaxing on the couch in gray sweats and a white cotton tank, a Netflix comedy cued on the TV screen.
I’m sure it’s another way to distract me, to keep my mind off what happened tonight. I take the spot beside him, spreading a nearby throw over our laps. He starts the movie, and the opening credits are ridiculously funny.
I should be laughing.
But all I can do is fight the sting that threatens my eyes and try to ignore the sinking heaviness in my chest.
A single tear falls and I quickly swipe it away, praying he doesn’t notice.
Only he does notice.
“Hey,” he says, slipping his arm around my shoulders. I bet he thinks I’m upset about tonight, about the things my father said, the way my mother reacted. But he couldn’t be more wrong. “Everything’s going to be okay, all right?”
But it isn’t.
Because I realized something tonight. Or maybe I realized it weeks ago and I just didn’t want to admit it to myself because admitting it would make it real. I realized tonight that there’s one thing I want more than I’ve ever wanted in my entire life—and it has nothing to do with med school or disappointing my parents or my impending financial independence.
No.
The one thing I want right now is the one thing I can’t have.
Him.
28
Madden
Brighton left shortly after eight this morning. She normally leaves earlier than that, but today she took her time. I’m sure she was dreading going home. Her parents are dicks, plain and simple.
Who the fuck calls their grown adult child selfish for wanting to follow their heart? If anything, they should be thanking her for not wasting their precious dollars on some fancy medical degree she doesn’t even want.
But I digress.
She slipped out of my apartment quiet as a mouse while I pretended to sleep.
The truth is, today’s my birthday, and I wasn’t sure if she’d make a big deal of it or if she’d even remember, so I kept my eyes shut and waited for the click of the door.
I drag my ass out of bed after a bit and start the shower, waiting for the water to heat.
The only good thing about today is that it's a Sunday. The shop is closed. I can wall myself off and not have to deal with a single soul today.
Shutting off my phone, I strip down and step beneath the sputtering stream of water and get ready for the day. When I’m finished, I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and hop into my car, heading across town to Crest Haven Cemetery.
I park under a towering oak, kill the engine, and take a deep breath.
And then I climb out of my car and make my way to the little granite rectangle in the third row on the left and take a seat in the grass.
There’s only one person I can imagine spending this day with each year … Dallas.
29
Brighton
It occurs to me as I pass the little pottery shop on my way home from Madden’s Sunday morning that Devanie and I never picked up the piece she glazed last month for Madden’s birthday … which I believe is today.
Pulling into the parking lot, I head inside.
“Can I help you?” The woman behind the counter greets me with a warm smile.
“Just picking up a piece my friend painted last month,” I say. “Should be under Devanie Ransom.”
The woman peruses the shelf of finished projects behind her before pointing to the back room. “We might have moved it to the back. Let me check.”
She disappears for a few minutes, returning later with the familiar peacock blue vase Devanie painted.
“That’s the one,” I say, pulling out my wallet.
“You said Devanie Ransom, though,” she says, brows furrowed.
“Right.”
“The tag says Devanie Kramer.”
That’s weird. I guess I always assumed she and Madden had the same last name. The Boys and Girls Club has a strict no-last-name policy for the children for safety and security reasons, so I never thought twice about asking what her last name was.
“Well, that’s the one,” I say, hoping she’ll find it in her heart to let me complete the transaction anyway.
The woman hesitates at first before clearing her throat. “Twenty-three dollars and eighteen cents.”
I hand her my debit card, and she wraps the piece in thick paper before placing it in a nice bag.
I return to my car a minute later and place the bag on the passenger seat floor mat, and then I shoot Madden a quick “happy birthday” text before getting back on the road.
I’m not looking forward to going home, but I am looking forward to getting this over with.
I make one last stop before reaching Park Terrace, opting to grab a coffee and scone from my favorite café. Nothing like a sugar and caffeine pick-me-up before walking into what I’m positive is about to become WWIII.
The backyard is filled with various people tearing down tents and packing up stemware, everything being loaded meticulously into the back of the vans and trucks that take up the entirety of our rear driveway.
I enter the house through the back door, trekking through the kitchen where the weekend chef is cleaning up the breakfast spread.
I keep my eyes down and head to the hall, hoping I can make it to my room without being spotted by my parents first.
I’d like a shower and a fresh change of clothes before they rip off my head and spit down my neck, but all my hope is dashed the instant I glance up to the top of the landing and find my mother standing there, arms folded and stare piercing.
“Charles,” she calls over her shoulder. “She’s home.” She looks back at me, down her elegant aquiline nose. “Brighton, why don’t you have a seat in your father’s study. We’ll be down shortly.”
With my head held high, I make my way to the study and take a seat in one of the tufted velvet club chairs on the guest side of his mahogany desk. A small clock on one of his bookshelves ticks to fill the silence, and my gaze lands on the collection of family photos that line a narrow table next to the door. He always said he wanted his children to be the last thing he saw when leaving this room, a reminder of why it was he worked so hard.
“Good morning, Brighton.” My father’s bellow startles me and his commanding presence fills the double doorway. My mother stands to his left. He takes his oversized chair and she takes the club chair next to mine. “I thought now would be a good time for us to have a talk about last night.”
I sit straight, legs folded. “All right.”
“First and foremost, your mother and I are curious … what brought on this sudden change of heart?” he asks. And I know what he’s getting at. Madden was right. Their first instinct is to blame the boyfriend.
“I’ve been feeling this way for quite some time,” I say. “Since
my sophomore year, actually.”
My parents exchange looks.
“Then why wait until now to make such a life-changing decision?” my mother asks. “Something had to have happened to change your mind. Something very recent.”
“This has nothing to do with Madden, if that’s what you’re implying,” I say.
“You say that, Brighton, but all you did the first several weeks you were home this summer was lie to us,” my mother says. “You can’t possibly expect us to believe you when you say this has nothing to do with that boy.”
“That boy has a name, and it’s Madden,” I remind her. “And he’s a man. Not a boy.”
“Brighton,” my father barks my name. “Let’s stay on track here.”
He runs this like a staff meeting at Monarch Pharmaceuticals, trying to cut down on meandering and tangents.
“Your mother and I discussed it this morning, and we feel that if you think you’re grown, if this is really what you want, then it's time for you to move out.” His hands fold on his desk.
Mom glances down into her lap.
While my mother has always been the head of the Karrington family, my father is the neck that moves the head. She doesn’t want this. But she doesn’t have a choice.
My father has already made the decision.
“Charles,” she says, voice quavering.
“Temple, this is what she wants. She made herself perfectly clear last night,” he says. “We’ve done our best to guide her, to help her make the right choices and begin her life on the right foot, but she’s choosing a different path. As an adult, we have to allow her to make her own choices. We can’t force her to go to medical school if she doesn’t want to.”
For a second, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
Is he … is he agreeing with me?
Did he finally decide to see things my way?
Returning his pointed gaze to me, he forces a hard breath through flared nostrils. “You’re to hand over your car keys and bank card immediately.”
My mother flees the room in tears.
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