by Geneva Lee
“I’m Adair,” I say. I consider holding out my hand, but that feels a bit too friendly given that she looks like she would bite it off.
“I know.”
I’ve encountered this brand of disdain before. It runs in the family.
“You missed the show,” I say to her.
“It’s hard to pay attention when you know there’s a rapid bitch on the loose.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I say. “What exactly is your problem?”
“I don’t like you.” Sutton takes a long draw off her beer bottle and flashes me a toothy smile. It’s incredible how much she looks like her brother. Right down to the wicked intent gleaming in her eyes.
“You don’t really know me.” I don’t know why I’m bothering to argue with her. She made her mind up about me before she stepped into the Barrelhouse. The texts she sent Sterling proved that.
“I know my brother,” she says.
“Do you?” I blurt out. Instantly, I regret it.
Sutton glares at me, her fingernails scratching off the label on her bottle. “Better than you do.”
“I doubt it.” There are a lot of things I’m not sure of anymore. I am certain that I know Sterling Ford better than anyone else alive. Better than Jack and Luca. Maybe better than he knows himself. That’s not saying much. But part of understanding him is seeing how much he walls himself off from the world—how much he shuts it out.
“He’s my brother,” she says. “He’s my family. My blood. Do you know what that means?”
“Family only means as much as you let it.” It’s a truth I understand all too well. “Blood doesn’t mean much more.”
“Maybe not to you, MacBitchFace.” She practically spits the insult at me, but I find it strangely fitting. “It means everything to us.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.” I turn to leave before this gets worse.
Sutton jumps off her barstool and blocks my path. “What does that mean?”
She thinks she wants the truth. We’ll see if she can handle it.
“You want a family so badly you will do anything—anything—to get it. You’ll cater to every expectation. You’ll turn a blind eye. You’ll make excuses. You’ll defend them. You’ll protect them,” I say. Why force her to learn this lesson the hard way when she can have the benefit of my experience? “But family doesn’t ask you to do that. Family accepts you. Family protects you. Family expects nothing. Family doesn’t cost. Family gives.”
“Like Sterling gave when he paid for my tuition at NYU a few months after we first met? Or maybe you mean give like the time he showed up at 3 in the morning at some house in Queens to pick me up when my date tried something at a party and I was too drunk to drive? Or like how he’s paying Francie’s bills before they even make it to her mailbox because he knows she won’t take the money? He takes care of his family,” she says. “He gives everything he can to us.”
I close my eyes, wanting to shut her out, but all I find is Sterling. She knows him. Maybe not as well as I do. But she knows the side of him I fell in love with—the part of him that gives so completely. “Do you know why he’s like that?”
“Because he’s not a piece of shit, rich heiress?” she guesses, crossing her arms.
“That probably helps,” I admit. “He’s like that because he loves you. He shows up because he loves you. He takes care of you because he loves you. He does it because he wants to be loved. That’s all he’s ever wanted.”
Her familiar eyes burn. “If that’s true, why does he think he loves you? Because he doesn’t act like it. He came here hating you, and now he thinks you hung the goddamn moon! Or is that it? Are you just keeping him on the hook, dangling love in front of him? Making him think he can finally have it? He doesn’t need you to love him.”
She might be right. I think I’ve always needed Sterling more than he has needed me.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Sterling’s angry voice cuts into our conversation, but he’s not mad at me. “Are you drinking? Do you want Jack to get busted? Do you want to wind up in jail?”
“It was one bottle of beer.” She rolls her eyes and places it on the table. Then she holds up her hands like she’s being arrested.
“And you promised me that if I let you tag along, you’d behave. I don’t want to see you get in trouble.”
I back away while he continues his lecture. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen before. Big brother Sterling is fiercely protective, and not because he’s trying to save face, like Malcolm. Because he’s looking out for her. Because she’s his family.
Maybe Sterling finally got what he needed. Maybe the best thing I can do is finally let him go find happiness.
I find Poppy and Cyrus sitting near the bar, heads bowed together, deep in conversation. “I’m going to head home.”
“What? But Kai should be out soon and then we’re going to grab a bite,” Poppy says with a pout.
“I have a deadline,” I lie, “and a massive headache.” The last part is true, even if it’s only a metaphorical headache.
“Do you want a ride?” Poppy asks, elbowing Cyrus in the ribs.
“Yeah,” he jumps in. “I can call my car.”
“It’s only a few blocks away, and it’s still early. I think I’ll walk.”
Poppy’s lips flatten like she’s holding back her thoughts on this plan. She keeps them to herself, but she forces a hug. “Call me when you’re home.”
“I will. Tell Kai he sounded amazing.”
“Will do.” She blows me a kiss goodbye before returning to her conversation with Cyrus. I feel a stab of envy. Most of the time, I’m not jealous of their relationship. It’s not exactly rock solid. But tonight I feel alone. It’s a marrow-deep ache, reminding me I’m always just one more than is needed. The second child my father didn’t need after Malcolm was born. The sister who never left home. The friend always tagging along with the happy couple.
I weave around the back of the club, doing my best to blend in to the crowd.
No one stops me. As soon as I step out the door, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Even the sticky summer air feels cooler than it was inside the jammed bar. I dig in my purse and find a hair-tie. Lifting my hair off my neck, I sigh with relief. I've got it halfway up when a hand taps my shoulder, sending me jumping.
“Whoa, it’s me, Lucky.” Sterling’s voice washes over me, and I calm down.
“Don’t sneak up on me,” I demand as I finish tying up my hair, spinning to face him.
He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he frowns. “Were you just going to leave?”
Is he serious?
“We didn’t come here together,” I remind him, planting my hands on my hips. “In fact, I think your under-aged sister is inside. Why don’t you worry about her?”
“Because right now she has two over-protective ex-Marines watching every move she makes,” he says, the frown deepening. “You, on the other hand, are walking home alone in the dark.”
“The neon lights will guide my way,” I say dryly, but he doesn’t laugh.
“I’m walking with you,” he decides.
I open my mouth to argue but realize there’s no point. Sterling is as stubborn as…well, me.
“What were you talking with Sutton about?” he asks.
“That?” I shrug my shoulders, carefully keeping a few feet between us as we walk. “We were just talking about girl stuff.” There’s no reason to repeat what she said to him. It will only get one of us in trouble. Plus, I need to mull it over. Maybe she’s right. Not about everything, but about enough.
“What kind of girl stuff?” he asks.
“Boys,” I say casually. He won’t want to hear about that. Not if it involves his sister.
“Really?” There’s a challenge in his voice.
“Really.” My eyes dart to him. Did he hear us discussing him? Does he know we were fighting?
“Must have been a one-sided conversation, since Sutton is a lesbian
.”
“She is? Oh.” I blink, and he smirks at my surprise.
“You didn’t see her staring at Poppy all night?” he asks.
“I guess…”
"You guess what?”
“I thought she was staring at me,” I confess.
“How narcissistic of you,” he says.
“Hey! What was I supposed to think? She’s not my biggest fan.”
“That’s an understatement,” he mutters. “Don’t worry about Sutton.”
A crowd spills out from Tootsie’s and we dart across Broadway to avoid the drunken tourists. We continue down 5th avenue in silence until we’ve nearly reached the Eaton. It’s all very civil. Sterling is on his best behavior. I doubt he’ll even shake my hand at the door. That means he’s learning his lesson. So, why do I wish he would pick me up and carry me to bed?
I’m caught in my imagination when he breaks the silence. “What else do you want to know, Lucky?”
“About?” I ask absently.
“Me. Before. Whatever.”
“Now you’re dying to tell me the truth.” I take a deep breath. “It’s late. I’m tired. It can wait.”
“It can’t wait!” Patient, gentlemanly Sterling vanishes in an instant. His eyes storm with barely suppressed frustration. His hand lashes out like he’s going to grab me, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he rakes it through his hair, leaving a tousled mess behind. I hate myself for liking this primitive version of him.
That doesn’t change our fundamental problem, though.
“You came here with a plan!” The words claw out of me, each one as painful to say as the truth. “You can’t change that. You can say you’re sorry. You can come clean. But you planned this. So tell me, why should I forgive you?”
Sterling steps closer. My body reacts to the proximity of his, and I want him to touch me. I want him to find some magic words that make this okay. Because I want to forgive him. I just don’t know how I ever can.
“I love you. I didn’t plan on that,” he says in a soft voice. “I can’t take back what I did. Five years ago. Yesterday. Those moments are gone. I can’t change them. I can only stand in front of you and offer the moments I have left.”
“How many of those are there? Between the FBI and god-knows-who-else after you?” I ask. He looks frustrated again, which sends my pulse racing. “How many of those moments do I get?”
“All of them.” Confidence radiates from him. He believes what he’s saying. He means it.
But I know how time has a way of changing people. “Until you tire of me. Or you meet another woman.” I think of my father. I think of Malcolm. My whole life has been a parade of ending marriages. “Everyone believes in forever when they say it, but I don’t actually know anyone who understands what it means.”
“You want to know what forever is, Lucky? Forever is built on moments. This one. The next. Love means never living another second without you. Love is you and me—now, tomorrow, and every day after. That’s forever.” He dares to brush the back of his hand across my cheek. His touch scorches me to my core. “I’m not giving up on our forever.”
But even I can’t deny the budding hope inside me that he will. “Honestly, I hope you don’t.” I shake my head, backing away from him and his white-hot touch. “But saying something doesn’t make it happen, Sterling. Action does.”
“Then I’ll prove it to you.”
23
Adair
The Past
The flight takes a little over two hours, and when we arrive at LaGuardia airport, it is through a bank of gray, foggy clouds that seem to sit just fifty feet above every building. The terminal is old and still yellow from decades of cigarette smoke, but somehow this adds to the charm. In my mind, things here are supposed to be ancient, because no one can stop using them long enough for them to be replaced. I have no idea if it’s really true, but I look forward to finding out. I’ve seen New York in movies. I know it’s where the heart of publishing is in America. My father hates it. I already know I love it.
Sterling holds my hand as we exit the gangway, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Does it feel good to be home?” I ask.
“A little. Not the going home part. I’m excited to show you things.” Guilt is written plainly on his face, and when he sees my quizzical look he explains, “Everything is still open today. Tomorrow, half of everything will be closed, and on Christmas we’ll have our choice of bodegas and food carts, but not much else.”
“Gotcha. So what’s the plan?”
“Francie is at work. We’re already in Queens, so it won’t take long to get there and drop our stuff off. After that, we’ll go into Manhattan and start eating.”
“Start eating? How much eating are we going to be doing?” My stomach grumbles audibly, as if it agrees with Sterling.
He chuckles, his stubbly chin rubbing against my temple as he folds me into the space under his arm. “Don’t worry, it’s less than we’ll be walking. In here,” he says, pointing at a tram with a sign above it showing various transit symbols. “New York is an incredible food city. And I don’t mean haute cuisine, although there’s a lot of that, too. Food carts, pizza parlors who sell by the slice, literal holes in the wall. Every immigrant who comes here brings their food along with them, and if you’re adventurous enough, you can have stuff from all over the world.”
“And you’re adventurous?” I ask, letting him take my rolling carry-on bag as I get on the tram.
“I want it all,” he says simply, and I wonder if I can convince him to screw my brains out before we leave the apartment in Queens.
We end up taking a bus to a subway line marked with purple, then go a few stops west, getting off somewhere marked 40th Street - Lowery Street. When we climb the stairs to street level, I’m surprised to see that most of the buildings are small, about 10 stories at most, with most quite a bit shorter than that.
“I always thought everything in New York was a skyscraper,” I say, turning slow circles as I trail along the sidewalk behind Sterling, trying to take everything in.
“I guess that’s normal. It’s what all the movies show. Most of the tall stuff is in Manhattan, but there’s a lot more to New York than Manhattan,” Sterling explains, pointing with his chin at the forest of steel buildings in the distance while wheeling both our suitcases over the frequently broken pavement.
“Hey you,” a man calls to me, unfolding his body from beneath a cardboard box in an alley which happens to be next to a very posh shoe store. “I told you. I told YOU.”
I feel a little ashamed when realization dawns: this is a homeless person. I turn over a few phrases in my mind, trying to figure out what to say to diffuse his apparent anger, but Sterling reaches across my body and pulls me along after him. “Back off, buddy.”
The man grumbles under his breath, and we’re maybe another 40 yards down the street when I hear him yell the same thing at a different passer-by.
“Told you what?” I ask when we’re well past, confused. “Did you know him before or something?”
He takes a moment to consider his response.
“We used to be best friends. But that was before she came between us,” Sterling says wistfully as a grin twitches at the corners of his mouth.
“I guess not.” I stick my tongue out at him.
“Don’t be like that, Lucky. Your innocence is adorable.” He pauses to pull me close, enjoying being with me. “It is a little surprising. I didn’t think you had any innocence left.”
Sterling stops in front of a modest brown-brick building more or less like every other one on the block. “Wait out here while I drop the bags off.”
“Can’t I come up and look? I know you said Francie is at work, but do you really think she’d mind?” I am almost as curious to see the inside of Francie’s place as I am to see everything in New York.
“Better not. We can’t be trusted alone behind closed doors,” Sterling says. He grabs our bags and heads in
.
He’s gone maybe two minutes, which gives me a little time to work out how to handle the money situation. I have plenty. My father and brother insisted I take my own weight in traveller’s checks, as well as a credit card, and a taser. I left the taser under my bed, of course—there was no way I would get one on a plane.
My father wasn’t happy when I told him I was going. He raged for five straight minutes about ruining Christmas before I told him I would go even if he didn’t give permission. I expected him to give in at that point, as we both knew he didn’t want me—or anyone else—around this year. And sure enough, after a moment’s consideration he said ‘fine’ and walked away. I hadn’t been completely honest about who I was going with or where I was staying. That’s probably why Malcolm suggested I check into The Plaza.
I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before. All my travel has involved five-star resorts and chauffeurs. I want to experience Sterling’s city, though. Still, I can’t help worrying that Sterling will try to impress me. I know Sterling’s pride won’t permit me to pay for him. In fact, I suspect it won’t allow me to pay for myself.
“Ready?” he asks, adjusting my Burberry scarf against the wind.
“I am.” I’ve managed to figure out exactly how to work the money situation. It’s the oldest trick in the arsenal: play dumb. After our run-in with the homeless man, it shouldn’t be a hard sell.
I deploy my plan for the first time at the metro station not far from his apartment. It’s easy enough to pretend I don’t know what I’m doing at the automated terminal selling MetroCards, switching the setting from one to two unlimited level cards while Sterling isn’t looking.
“I got you one,” I say proudly. “Is it enough?”
“Lucky, this is an unlimited card—for a month. We’re only here for a week,” he says with a laugh. “Let me help you next time.”
Maybe my plan is working a little too well.
We board the subway in Queens and take the purple line over to Manhattan. From there, we walk a few blocks to Rockefeller Square. We watch the ice skaters—mostly tourists in bright, puffy coats—attempt to stay upright. It’s particularly fun to watch parents get pulled down by their children, both collapsing with laughter on the ice. My stomach grumbles, and I’m reminded of his plan to eat everything. “Didn’t you say something about food?”