This Love

by Emily Snow

  “You make it sound like I’m already doing it.”

  “You should.” He grabs his bag from the counter and points at my book, where his card lies within the pages of Catherine Sloper and Morris Townsend’s ill-fated fauxmance. “Use that number”—he squints at the nametag pinned lopsided on my tee shirt—“Veronica.”

  “Yeah, I will.” When he gets to the door, I can’t resist calling out, “Your wife—is she really a fan of that movie?” If she is, she has good taste. I could listen to “Pope’s Concert” twenty times per day and never get bored.

  He scrunches his face into a scowl. “We’ve watched it five times in the last month, and I’ve got no other choice but pay attention because she points out every detail. But she’s amazing, so it’s worth seeing her smile. You’ll meet her if you decide to stop by the office. Look her up if you get a chance—Rachel Bamberger-Strauss.”

  Then he leaves, the bell on the door tinkling on his exit.

  I don’t have time to process what just happened because a Tiffany charm-bracelet-wearing arm spreads over the counter to dump at least ten CDs in front of me. “I just can’t decide,” Liz says breathlessly. She turns her small nose toward the door. “You have an admirer.”

  “He’s married.”

  She smacks her lips into a smirk. “Ooh, scandalous.”

  “Also not my thing.” In fact, the word “cheat” turns my stomach. I stack her items in two piles and start keying in the prices. Her stare blazes into the top of my bent head, so finally, I peek up from under my lashes and sigh. “Liz … I want to apologize for what I said to you last week. I don’t usually drink like that.”

  She waves it off, rolling her perfectly-lined green eyes. But the flash of anger is there as she says, “You should hear some of the stuff I’ve said when I’m drunk. April Lauren didn’t speak to me for, like, a week when I told her Zeke said sex with her is like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. A very wide hallway.”

  I distinctly remember her hanging out with April the night of Bennett’s party, their hands linked as they sang songs on the Delaney’s rooftop. Holy. Shit. These people. Where else on the planet does someone latch on to the person that made fun of them for their wide … hallway? And the worst part is I like April. While I’m friends with her younger sister, she’s never been anything but kind to me.

  “You know, I didn’t even realize you worked here.” Liz traces her fingertip along the logo on one of the CD cases as she feeds me the lie. I tug it away from her and place it in the bag. “Did you decide not to go to Barnard?”

  I try hide my surprise she knows about my plans for the fall, really, I do, but I’m running on slow-mo today, so my jaw slackens. I recover swiftly and hunch one shoulder into a shrug. “This is just a summer job.”

  There’s a good chance those two words, summer and job, don’t mesh for her. Liz’s parents are managing partners at the most prestigious law firm in Manhattan. Their client roster includes everyone from the politicians Charlotte’s always going on about to major players like the Delaneys.

  And according to the last article I read about him, Erik is worth just over two billion.

  “I’m still going to college,” I say firmly. And even if I keep my job, which I’m strongly considering despite an eighteen-credit first semester load, I’ll be fine. Barnard is only a train ride from my apartment.

  Her red lips part in a big “O.” “Good for you! Know what you’re studying? I’m thinking of switching from Economics to History of Art, but my mom would throw a fit. You know how that goes.”

  I tighten my grip on the plastic case I grab, biting on the inside of my cheek because there’s nothing I want more than to shove it in her face. She graduated a year ahead of me—with Bennett and Judson—but it’s no big secret my mother lost her battle with breast cancer late last year.

  “Sure, I know how it is.” I scowl at the price label on the CD clutched between my fingers and jab the register keys so hard, pain streaks through my wrist. “I’m going for English.”

  She glimpses down at my book—Henry James’s “Washington Square.” “I can see you doing that.” When I give her the total in a flat voice, she presents me with an American Express. “You’re coming to Bennett’s birthday party tonight, aren’t you? That’s what I was buying these for—the music his mother usually picks is so boring.”

  My hand locks up before I run her card. “His birthday is Saturday.”

  “Monica and Erik are leaving for Perth Sunday morning, so we’ve been planning this for months.” We've. She puts so much stress on that single word, the pit of my stomach shrinks into a penny-sized knot.

  “I’m actually babysitting for a neighbor tonight.” I swipe her card and focus on the columns of light gray buttons on the card reader. “So, no, I won’t be able to make it.”

  She pouts and makes a disappointed clucking noise. “Aw, that sucks.”

  Sure, it does. Why else would she be fighting such an enormous grin?

  “I’ll be okay, and I’m sure he won’t even realize I’m not there.” I snatch the receipt off the top of the reader and scoot it halfway across the counter, along with a pen. “Sign the bottom, please.”

  “If you change your mind or get off early, you should definitely come.” She bends over the receipt and begins scribbling her name, turning her face to the side so she can look up at me while she speaks. “We’re taking my dad’s new yacht out.”

  They’re going on a boat. Some of my anxiety dissipates because Bennett and Graham both know how much I hate being on the ocean. I’m an intermediate swimmer at best, so just the thought of boats and water has always made me queasy. “I won’t, but you have fun.”

  Standing upright, she leaves the receipt on the counter and plucks her bag into her hand, dangling it from her manicured fingertips. Her expression—it scorches my lungs. So much triumphant.

  “I’ll have enough fun for the both of us,” she promises.

  CHAPTER 7

  VERONICA

  “Liz is sort of a nasty B-word, isn’t she?”

  “I know what that means,” a small voice sings. Charlotte cringes and mutters an apology. We’re in my living room a few hours after my shift ends, eating pizza on the sofa while my neighbor’s two children—Romy and Elias—color on the floor. “Mommy says Mr. Freeman is a B-word for not fixing our sink,” Romy continues.

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing. Mr. Freeman is the super of our building, and I’m not the least bit surprised to hear that since his favorite pastime is dragging his ass on maintenance requests.

  “Sorry about that, Romy,” I say, and the small girl looks up from the black and white image of Dora the Explorer hugging her pet monkey to give me a dazzling smile. “But you shouldn’t repeat what your mother says and promise me you won’t repeat anything Charlotte says either.”

  She pretends to zip her mouth shut and goes back to her artwork, so I turn my attention to my friend. At her glare, I lift my palms slightly. “What?”

  “You should have asked her to leave, that’s what,” Charlotte says stubbornly.

  “And get fired? Because I can guarantee you, Mr. Ellerby would have freaked out if I told the Elizabeth Jones to kindly exit his establishment.”

  Considering this, she twists her lips to the side then stuffs a banana pepper between them. “I just can’t believe he dated her. Was she always so mean?”

  Honestly, up until a week ago, I didn’t exist in Liz’s world. I was just the "maid's daughter" or "that blonde who hangs out with Graham." Seeing me with Bennett himself, even if it was innocent at the time, had lifted the invisibility cloak and turned me into competition, at least in Liz’s eyes. I explain this to Charlotte, and she sighs heavily.

  “She sounds like Graham’s mom. I’m surprised the woman doesn’t walk around wearing a fur coat made from cute puppies and clubbed baby seals.”

  “Ooh! I love the dalmatian movie,” Elias excitedly declares from the floor. The six-year-
old's gaze never leaves his coloring sheet, so he doesn’t see Charlotte mouth, “Until you’re dating Cruella’s son.”

  But Charlotte’s right. In just a matter of days, she went from having to verify Monica’s identity to witnessing firsthand how viperish Mrs. Delaney could be. After Monica stumbled on them watching TV together, she informed Graham she hoped he was being careful and using protection since girls like Charlotte only wanted one thing. She wasn’t generous enough to pull him aside before saying it either.

  In true Graham fashion, he told Monica they were going to smoke crack before having bare sex on the terrace—slow sex, of course, because they had to make it last for the news helicopter he’d called.

  “Is his dad as bad as Monica? I mean, Graham doesn’t seem to like him much, but the guy's never actually around for me to meet him.”

  I rake my teeth over the inside of my bottom lip. “Erik is … complicated.” He’s not vicious like Monica, but he is manipulative. Even when I was a kid, that much was obvious. He pitted his boys against each other and broke promises left and right. But he’s also always treated me decently. While it took Monica months to remember “the nanny’s daughter’s name,” Erik caught on fast.

  Charlotte wiggles her eyebrows. “I think their whole family is complicated. One big, gorgeous royal mess.”

  That’s an understatement.

  Elias shuffles over with his paper plate outstretched, so I grab him another slice of pizza and a juice box out the fridge before returning to my friend.

  “You know what’s also complicated and just … crappy?” She arches both eyebrows at my question, and I pick a piece of lint off the leg of my plaid blue pajamas. “He’s on a yacht with Liz right now. Meanwhile, I’m gorging myself and worrying about it.”

  And I shouldn’t worry—I’m not supposed to because he’s not actually mine—but my chest compresses when I say it aloud.

  “It’s probably boring and whatever they’re eating doesn’t have anything on Gino’s. Plus, there's that pinky-up thing that makes eating anything hard.” She plucks a mushroom and a pepperoni off the slice of pizza on my plate and eats it with her pinky held out. At the dark glare I fire her way, she pokes out her bottom lip and offers me a sympathetic pout. “Look, I’ve spent just about every waking moment with Graham this week and he hasn’t said anything about it, so there’s that.”

  Yes, there was. It still didn’t prevent my stomach from lurching. “So, you and Graham, huh?”

  She lights up, her expression, her posture, everything. “He’s really … great. I know we’ll have the whole distance thing in the fall, but it’s fun right now. I don’t care what his mother has to say—just like you shouldn’t care about that see-you-next-Tuesday, Liz.”

  This time, Romy doesn’t chime in claiming to know what Charlotte’s referencing.

  I inhale deeply and nod. “I won’t, I promise”

  I manage to keep my word to Charlotte, deciding to focus on work for the next couple of days. It’s an easy task. Between my last paycheck and Dad’s, I’m four thousand dollars away from my tuition goal. I volunteer to work as many hours as Mr. Ellerby will allow on both Friday and Saturday, so I don’t have much time to sit around pining for Bennett—who hasn’t called—except to leave him a voicemail Saturday afternoon wishing him a happy birthday.

  Then he decides to get in touch with me that night, tipsy.

  “I need to see you,” he says the moment I pick up.

  Scowling, I prop the cordless phone between my ear and the crook of my neck. “It’s late.” I glance at the time on the corner of my laptop screen—10:23 PM. “In fact, it’s after ten.”

  “Do you have a curfew?” His breath grows heavy with impatience. “I’ve wanted to see you all day, Vero.”

  I close my computer screen and slide it away from me before I move my chair back. Stopping in the center of the room, I massage my temples. “You could have called me earlier.”

  “I did. It was—I dialed the wrong number.” I roll my eyes toward the popcorn ceiling, prepared to tell him it’s not necessary to lie to me, but then he adds, “I only had your Mom’s old number. The one she used when she worked here. I didn’t get yours until a few minutes ago, when I checked my messages and listened to you sing "Happy Birthday." It was … nice.”

  Oh. Softening, I wrap my fingers around the edges of the phone and dig my toes in the blue and white braided rug. “Now you really are lying. I have a terrible singing voice.” He chuckles lightly, a sound that pummels my brain to mush. I outline my lips with my tongue. “I honestly thought you already had my number."

  Graham certainly does. Other than Charlotte and my father, he’s my most frequent caller on both my home and cell.

  “I didn’t, but now I won’t ever forget it.” I hear the jangle of keys then the banging of a door. “I’ll come to you if I need to, I don’t—”

  “No!” He’s silent, so I take a second to calm my voice myself before continuing, “I meant that I don’t want you to drive after you’ve been drinking.”

  “You know I wouldn’t do shit like that. Even I’m not that stupid and reckless. I was going to take a cab to your place—or the train.”

  I try to picture Bennett Delaney on the train in lieu of a chauffeured luxury SUV or fast sports car, but it’s a difficult image to conjure. I glance at my bedroom door. The sound of the movie my father is watching seeps through. “How do you think I’d explain you stopping by this late to my dad?”

  “I’ll tell him I’m crazy about you,” he murmurs, sending pure euphoria streaking through me. So much for not letting him get to me. “I’ll tell him that—”

  “You’re drunk,” I say.

  “I’m … partially intoxicated. Definitely not drunk.” He pauses. “Come to me or I’ll just come there. Like I said, I don’t mind explaining this to your dad.”

  I clamp my eyes together, trying to figure out an explanation of my own for leaving so late because I’ve decided it’s absolutely necessary for me to be with him. “You won’t have to explain anything because I’m coming to you.”

  “Tonight?” The urgency in his voice, the raw need, passes a light fluttering through the pit of my stomach. I press my hand to it, pushing hard, struggling to catch my breath. “Tell me you’ll come tonight, Veronica.”

  I nod, not caring that he can’t see what I’m doing. “Yes,” I whisper, already on my feet with my fingers burrowing through the clothes in my closet. “Give me an hour.”

  Dad’s head pops up from Russell Crowe telling Joaquin Phoenix he’ll have his vengeance when I step into the living room twenty minutes later. This is the first time I’ve worn the flirty mint green halter dress; Mom and I picked it up from Macy’s last spring, before she was too sick to go shopping. Now, under my father’s narrowed scrutiny, I wonder if it’s too much.

  “You look beautiful,” he says at last.

  I beam and finish tugging up the side zipper. “Thanks.”

  “Going anywhere special?”

  While getting ready, I started to dread that question. I’m eighteen, legally old enough to make my own choices, but at the same time, I loathe lying to him. It shoves a bad taste in my mouth, one that will rot at the back of my throat unless I come clean. Avoiding his dark stare, I finger the hem of my dress.

  “The Delaney’s place,” I say.

  His response is similar to the one he gave that day in our kitchen—he doesn’t say a damn word. I sneak a glimpse to find his jaw clenched, and I expect him to protest. Expect him to remind me of how he sees the Delaney family. But then he shocks me. He scrubs his hand over his face, lets out a rasping breath, and mutters, “You’ll have your phone on you?”

  “Yes.” I grab it from my purse and wiggle it close to his face. His gaze immediately snaps to the battery level—it’s full because my phone has spent all evening on the charger. “Tonight’s Bennett’s birthday, so it’s kind of a big deal.”

  I’m not sure the explanation helps much, but he nod
s. “Be careful and call me the second you get there. I’m not kidding, Veronica—my heart can’t take worrying about you all night.”

  After I promise to call, I leave. I make one stop, at the 24-hour grocery two blocks away, then hail a cab to the Delaney’s building in Manhattan.

  Since I know all the alarm codes, I let myself inside the penthouse. And I stare incredulously at what greets me. The first floor is where all the parties happen, because Monica doesn’t like strangers touching her pricier possessions on the top three floors. But tonight, it’s stunningly calm. No music or voices or the scent of cotton candy infused vodka.

  Twisting the dimmer switch, I light the room just enough to find a note on the small console table by the elevator.

  In the small kitchen. Come up. -B

  I call Dad to let him know I arrived then ride the elevator upstairs, my stomach roiling in nervous anticipation. The elevator opens on the “small kitchen,” that’s name is a complete joke. While it is the second kitchen—it was built during a renovation a few years ago—there’s nothing small about it. It’s a huge tribute to their family’s wealth, Miele appliances, marble floors and countertops, and ivory-painted cabinets with crystal fixtures.

  But I’m more concerned with what’s in the middle of all the decadence, I always have been. Bennett sits at the center island, with a water bottle in hand, the first two buttons of his button-up shirt undone, and his blond hair mussed. He looks … wrecked. In a sexy, tousled way.

  “Hey.” At the sound of my voice, he looks up from the paper he’s examining. I tip closer, my attention zeroed in on the elegant Delaney International branding at the top of the page. “Anything interesting?”

  He folds the paper twice then shoves it under a vase of fresh cut lilies. “Looking at my birthday gift,” he says wryly.

  “Let me guess—your dad gave you a hotel on an island?” He laughs and shakes his head, so I drop my mouth in mock excitement. “Even better, the whole island? Can I name it?”