Wildalone

by Krassi Zourkova

I did, of course. Yet seeing the nonhuman side of him still startled me every time.

  “Some of it was a guess, by the way.” He ran his fingers over the empty pieces of a crystal bath set (toothbrush holder, soap dish, tissue box), next to an identical set that held his own things.

  “Rhys, that’s sweet of you. But I don’t mind us sharing a sink when I sleep over.”

  “We’re done with the sleepovers. I want you to live here from now on.”

  The effect was probably exactly what he expected: I stared at him in shock, couldn’t react.

  “Come on, say it! Say you’ll move in with me.”

  “Move in . . . how? I have to stay in the dorm, like everybody else.”

  “Don’t worry about the dorm.” He took out his cell phone.

  “Wait . . . What are you doing?”

  “Calling housing before they close for winter break. Since you won’t be needing a room next spring, they’ll appreciate the heads-up.”

  “Keeping my room doesn’t mean I won’t live here.”

  The phone froze, halfway through the air. “You aren’t sure about this?”

  “That’s not what I meant. The room can be a backup, in case you . . .” I didn’t want to say the rest.

  “In case I what?”

  “Change your mind.”

  “I’ll never change my mind.”

  He kept looking at me, until I said that I wasn’t going to change my mind either. Then he dialed. Asked for a woman by name, thanked her for arranging a dorm room for Jake back in September, inquired about her holiday plans, made small talk about boutique hotels in Rio, before finally informing her that his girlfriend was now moving in with him, so the room in Forbes would no longer be needed. And, yes, Thea would be happy to sign the paperwork, but could they please mail it directly to his address?

  “Done!” He hung up and kissed me. “Welcome to your new home, babe.”

  “That was . . . quick.”

  “Why waste time? We can also go get your things now, although it’s probably better to deal with all of this tomorrow. Or any other day, really. We have the whole break to ourselves.”

  All we had was a week, but he didn’t know it yet. My flight home was the following Thursday, and since he had never asked what I was doing for the holidays, I hadn’t brought it up either.

  “Rhys, there’s something . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “. . . something I have to tell you.”

  “Sure, I just need to turn this darn thing off—” A text message distracted him. “Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  He rushed out as if the house was on fire. When I followed him downstairs, I saw immediately why.

  Across the lawn, still visible despite the quickly falling darkness, walked six tall figures—lined up like a firing squad, almost identical in their jeans and black bomber jackets. He intercepted them before they could reach the house. The tallest one said something to him (I recognized the face only now: Evan), although Rhys didn’t seem to care. The others started saying things too. Then Evan raised his voice. No one moved. Rhys took a step forward, but Evan pushed him back. Another step. Evan pushed him again. A second later, the guy was on the ground, Rhys on top of him, holding him by the collar and bending in for some kind of a warning that probably no one else could hear.

  When he came back into the living room, his face was calm and he turned around only once, to make sure the unwanted visitors were leaving.

  “Sorry you had to see this. It’s not how I meant our evening to start.”

  “What did they want?”

  “The others were brought in for dramatic effect. While Evan, apparently, wanted trouble.” His eyes checked the empty lawn one last time. “He thinks the world should revolve around his party hormones. But I am not the world.”

  The thought of how that guy had looked at me and called me a “snack” gave me shivers. “What did he really want?”

  “To convince me to go out with them tonight. And next weekend also.”

  “Isn’t everyone gone by then?”

  “Not the swimmers. They practice during winter break and stay at Princeton for most of it. To abandon the team for a woman is the ultimate betrayal.”

  “You aren’t on the team, though.”

  “I used to be. For all practical purposes, I still am. But now I’m also with you and have a promise to keep.”

  “Rhys, this isn’t about promises.” Nor about reluctant sacrifices, which was how he made it sound. “If you want to go out with your friends, you should.”

  “I’m exactly where I want to be right now: at home with my girl. Unfortunately, Evan wouldn’t take my word for it. So I had to give him a friendly reminder that the parties won’t evaporate without me.”

  “Maybe not the parties at Ivy.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Ivy isn’t the whole story, is it?”

  A hint of alarm passed across his face. “Do we have to talk about this? I’ve put my party life behind. You just saw me do it.”

  “I want to put your party life behind too. But the secrecy doesn’t make it easier.”

  “I see . . .” He remained quiet for a while, looking through the French doors, as if trying to make up his mind, then turned back to me: “Of course Ivy isn’t the whole story. When men are growing up, especially certain men, they need more than just beer and college girls.”

  “Which is to say . . . ?”

  “Which is to say that the team gets together in private, once a month, with real liquor and women who are paid a lot to provide elite services and to be absolutely discreet about it.”

  “Elite?”

  “Top-notch, in every respect. Nothing is off-limits.”

  His callous tone made me wish I had never asked. “And you’re the one who subsidizes all this?”

  “You saw Evan’s house; the kid has a trust fund. There are others like him. We split the expense.” He laid out the rest for me as if it were college admissions: “Being on the swim team gets you in automatically; money is never even mentioned. Everyone else comes by invitation only. We screen them first, to make sure they can afford the tab and know how to keep their mouths shut. Which, by the way, is a rule that applies to everyone, including me. So not a word can leave this room. You know this, right?”

  Of course I did. For a bunch of boys trying to grow up, secrecy had to be half of the appeal.

  “Come on, Thea, don’t give me that look. What I’ve done in the past shouldn’t matter from now on.”

  “Except you talk about it as if it’s the most natural thing.”

  “How else should I talk about it? This is my nature, I’m supposed to be a version of Dionysus. Didn’t your art professor mention that about daemons?”

  “Yes . . . sort of.”

  “Well, Dionysus had his retinue and so did I. Imagine me stuck on this campus for fifteen years: raising my brother, fucking your sister, you name it. Pissed off and bored out of my mind. So, because of me, fools like Evan got a taste of the Dionysian, thinking it was just frat parties.”

  “I understand. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to be part of this.”

  “Who says anything about being part?”

  “If this is your true nature, then sooner or later it will become my life.”

  “My nature changes when I’m around you. I become human again, and that’s who I want to be.” He smiled, looking content. Almost at peace. “By the way, you wanted to tell me something when the guys showed up.”

  “Yes, about the holidays.”

  “Of course, I keep forgetting! Ivy’s winter formal is tomorrow. And we also have a dinner here on Christmas Eve—a family staple that ought to take place, or else evil shall descend upon the house of Estlin.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We Irishmen are superstitious folk. An ancestor had too much free time, apparently, and came up with a rule for his progeny: everyone must be present at home on Chr
istmas Eve. It’s literally written in stone.”

  He took me to the fireplace and pointed at a marble tablet inlaid high into the wall. An inscription bent its cursive around a coat of arms:

  Tugann neamhláithreacht amháin solitude síoraí.

  “What does it say?”

  “A single absence brings eternal solitude. Dates back to 1649, when Oliver Cromwell massacred Ireland. The Estlin estate happened to be in Waterford, the first town to withstand a Cromwell siege. Once the troops retreated, the ancestor in question, Thomas Estlin, rushed off to meet with other rebel leaders and didn’t make it back home until Christmas Day—only to find that English soldiers had plundered his castle the night before and killed his entire family. So he commissioned this plaque, as a reminder that the death of everyone he loved was his own doing.”

  “Rhys . . .” I kept looking at the letters, whose crescent rested like a necklace inside the stone. “I don’t think I can be at the dinner.”

  He had been standing behind me but now slowly turned me around. “What exactly are you telling me?”

  “I’m going home for the holidays.”

  “When?”

  “My flight is Thursday night.”

  “We can change it.”

  “It’s too late. Everything to Sofia is probably sold out by now.”

  “We can change it.” His eyes were glued to my face, trying to read it. “Unless that’s not what you want.”

  “I want to stay here, with you. But my parents expect me home for Christmas.”

  “It’s your life. Nobody should tell you how to live it.”

  “I know, except they—”

  “They don’t own you.”

  “They already had one Christmas when their girl didn’t come home from school.”

  He sat down. Rubbed his face for a few seconds, then looked up at me. “Give me your dates. I’ll book the same flights.”

  “Don’t change your plans because of me.”

  “I refuse to be away from you. I’ll stay at a hotel and you can see me whenever you want.”

  “What about the dinner? You said it’s a bad omen to break the family rule.”

  “I don’t care about rules or omens. And there’s no family left anyway, only me and my brother. Plus Ferry. Christmas is the one time when we can convince him to stop being a butler and join us at the table. Luckily, Irish superstitions run in the old man’s blood, so . . .” He took out his cell phone again. “Let’s book those tickets. You said Thursday, right?”

  “Yes. British Air, through Heathrow.”

  “Okay, it’s the twentieth. Which reminds me . . . I have to check my damn schedule first.”

  His voice had turned sour at the last words, but it was nothing compared to the change in him only seconds later. His fingers froze. His face became unrecognizably white, as he stared at something on that screen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He handed me the phone.

  A grid of squares, numbered all the way to 31. Inside, spilling from row to row—starting as a crescent, thinning out to nothing, then filling up again—was the moon. Only one full circle. And over it: the number 24.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, WHILE RHYS slept, I made up my mind: I wasn’t going to Bulgaria for Christmas. He and I would spend New Year’s there with my parents. Until then, we were staying at Princeton. Come Christmas Eve, the creature on the hills could have him for a few hours—but that was it. He would meet her with my kiss still warm on his lips. And as soon as her time was up, he would be back. Home. With me.

  THE WINTER FORMAL AT IVY became an ordeal while we were still getting ready. Rhys looked me up and down.

  “Nice, but this won’t do. Too prim for my taste. And too cliché for the occasion.”

  Earlier, when I had asked him what to wear, he answered vaguely: “Something long and elegant.” This was the only long dress I owned—a black halter I wore onstage—and it clearly wasn’t going to make the Ivy cut.

  “Rhys, maybe inviting me wasn’t such a good idea. I don’t belong in that world.”

  “What world? The Ivy crowd? You just brought Carnegie to its knees and now you worry about a bunch of rich kids? They should be trying to fit in with you, not the other way around.”

  But Carnegie had nothing to do with it. I was never going to walk into a room the way Nora did, and own it.

  “Okay, time to improvise a bit.” He turned me around and when I looked in the mirror, my dress had changed completely. Peach, turquoise, fuchsia, and cream yellow spiraled in drips over a soft silk jersey, in abstract shapes that resembled orchids. “Do you like it? Women will be dying with envy tonight.”

  “I think the cause of death might be the man, not the dress. But yes, it’s spectacular.” While I was saying this, a live orchid on an elastic band slipped around my wrist. “That’s the custom, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, smiling.

  “Speaking of custom, how are you allowed at the Ivy formals?”

  His eyes widened, genuinely puzzled. “Allowed?”

  “The formals are members-only. And you can’t be a member if you aren’t even a student.”

  “Ah, that. It’s a technicality.” As most obstacles probably were, in the Estlin universe. “I’m on the alumni board. Most of the decisions are practically mine.”

  “No one notices that you stay the same age?”

  “Not really, so far at least. All it takes is a little perception management. The members leave once they graduate. And the staff changes every few years. I make sure of it.”

  “With a generous severance package?”

  “More than generous. Complaints aren’t even a theoretical possibility.”

  The nonchalance with which he made such remarks bothered me. Always had. “Does everything really come down to money? One hears things about Ivy, but I thought you of all people would—”

  “Some of what you hear is true and some isn’t. Ivy gets bad-mouthed all the time, especially by those who bickered and didn’t make it. But it’s a private club, Thea. They are very good to their members. And if you happen to be from a solid line of Ivy stock, then they go out of their way to be good to you.”

  They were indeed very good to him. Welcoming him as soon as we arrived, rising from tables to shake his hand. I didn’t want to say or do the wrong thing, so I simply followed him through a dining room of dark wood and candlelight, under a ceiling so low it felt as if we had walked into a deftly shaped, mythical cave. The moment we sat down, dishes were placed in front of us by white-gloved hands—perfectly timed, the food still warm and, of course, delicious. Rhys barely touched his, and didn’t pay much attention to the others except to answer an occasional question.

  Then the postdinner party began, cautiously at first, with two couples braving the dance floor; others gradually followed until the room became packed with people.

  “Wasn’t this the guy dating your friend Rita, the one who told me you were in Boston?”

  I turned and saw Dev drinking by himself, with a melancholic look that didn’t last long. A girl grabbed him by the arm and pulled him on the dance floor with overdone giggles.

  Rhys shrugged. “Well, I guess that answers my question.”

  Even seeing Dev at Ivy had already answered it—he wouldn’t be at the formal unless a member had brought him as a date. So, Rita had been right. He had replaced her just in time for the holidays.

  I tried to forget the encounter, but as soon as Rhys went to refill our drinks, Dev came over and asked if he could talk to me.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “It’s good to see you here. How are things?”

  I wasn’t going to make small talk, least of all with him. “What’s up, Dev?”

  “How . . . how is she?”

  “She’s fine. Leaving for Budapest, to spend New Year’s with her grandparents.” A few seconds of awkward silence. “Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “Doing what?”

&n
bsp; “Giving up on the girl you love, so that some Barbie doll can chase you around Ivy.”

  “I guess the girl I love forgot to mention that she was the one who broke up with me?”

  “Depends on how you look at it, though, right? I’d break up with a guy too, if he didn’t stand up for me.”

  A string of sweat began to gather on his forehead, as I told him how upset I had found Rita that night in Forbes.

  “You don’t understand, Thea. My family is a nightmare, especially if one isn’t Hindu. They would have never let me bring her home.”

  “Did you at least try? I mean, it’s your girlfriend we are talking about, not some random crush. You could have told them that if they shut her out, you might not be going home either.”

  He stared at the floor, then said, quietly: “When is she leaving?”

  “Next week. You still have time. And not to give you any ideas, but I hear New Year’s on the Danube is amazing.”

  He thanked me—twice—and went back to his date, who had been sulking at the bar. Rhys returned with our drinks.

  “Ready to dance or shall I give you a tour? Second floor and all that.”

  “A tour sounds nice.”

  “Honestly? I keep getting a sense that you don’t like the place.”

  “It’s just a bit . . .”

  “Detached and breathlessly aristocratic?” He pointed to a large portrait at the base of the main staircase. “F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ivy’s literary claim to fame. That’s how he described the club in This Side of Paradise. I don’t think there’s much aristocratic left in it, though. And certainly nothing breathless.”

  “Then why do you come here so much?”

  “Habit. It’s easy to keep doing what you’ve always done.”

  We went upstairs and sat by a fireplace in one of the rooms. The walls were covered with photographs, mostly outdated group shots of young men in retro jackets and ties.

  “How come there are no women?”

  “Because Ivy didn’t admit women until 1991.”

  “That late?”

  “You know how it is. People fight for tradition.”

  “I don’t know how it is, no. The traditions I grew up with were somewhat less . . . male centered. And either way, shutting others out of your bastion doesn’t seem to require much fighting.”