The Inheritance

by Zelda Reed

  Remember those over-dramatic moments in comedies? Where a hilarious twist of events are sprung on the protagonist, and for a moment, they’re stricken dead-eyed and immobile? The audience laughs – the applause sign flickering on and off – but the protagonist is always seconds away from passing out. I imagine this moment to be a lot like that. Me, unaware, that there’s a studio audience full of people, lapping up the sight of Justin, scurrying over to Suzanne, one arm thrown around her waist, the other reaching for her champagne glass. She pulls it out of his reach and he smiles before he drops a kiss to her lips.

  I’m going to be sick.

  Justin was never handsome but his boyish looks remain, blond hair sweeping across his forehead, not a speck of facial hair to be found. Next to Suzanne he looks like her brother, the two of them sporting the same shade of blue eyes, round faces and a similar shade of hair. Two exuberant siblings dressed in designer clothing and way too close.

  “Caitlin.” He holds out his hand. “It’s been way too long.”

  In an instant my romantic image of Justin is shattered and replaced with a boiling pit of anger that brews in my stomach. You asshole. You utter, insufferable asshole. Grinning as if the last time we saw each other didn’t end in me rushing out of his house in tears.

  I nod and smile tightly, limply shaking his hand, my skin crawling at his touch. “It has. I didn’t even know you and Suzanne were dating, nevertheless married.”

  “It just sort of happened,” Suzanne interjects. “You know how it is. We were home for the summer after our first year of college, feeling cooped up and antsy and,” she laughs, “one thing led to another and soon we were in love.”

  I hate that I know that feeling. I hate that Suzanne and I share it with Justin.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says, trying to save face. “But yeah, she’s mine and I’m hers --”

  “Forever and ever amen,” says Suzanne.

  She’s elated. Over the moon. Drunk with love and rubbing it in my face.

  During the course of our friendship I had nothing she could resent me for. Her relationship with her father was better, she was ignorant to my relationship with my mom, and she had siblings – Wonderful! Equally ruthless siblings! – where I was an only child. It was Justin who drew the wedge between us. My wonderful, caring boyfriend vs. the prep school boys who fucked and abandoned her. She constantly made biting jokes about how we were never going to last, not when I planned to stop seeing my father and she was right.

  I should’ve expected that she would swoop in and steal him. Just in case. Just in case she ran into me on the street and could flash her ring in my face, saying, you won’t ever guess who I’m married to.

  “But enough about us,” Suzanne says, patting Justin’s chest. “You were about to tell me about your boyfriend.”

  I wasn’t. I was about to update her on my happily single status. There’s no good men in Baltimore, you know, they’re all down in DC. But I can’t let her win. I’ve been unwillingly roped into her dog and pony show. She’s shown me hers, now I have to show her mine or risk the faux-sympathetic pout, the patronizing pat on the shoulder, and the married girl spiel: “You’ll find someone one day”.

  Neal glides out of the kitchen, ducking his head as he weaves through the crowd, a fresh bottle of beer in hand. He’s stopped by a group of blue-haired ladies, all of them instantly smitten, wrinkled fingers grabbing his shoulders, his arms, his cheeks.

  “He’s right over there, actually,” I say, pointing him out.

  Suzanne straightens her shoulders. “The one in the navy suit?”

  I grin. “Yeah. Let me run and get him.”

  Suzanne pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, securing her mouth from dropping open in surprise. Take that, bitch.

  The giggling gaggle of women grow louder as I make my way over to Neal.

  “You must be thinking about settling down,” one of the women says.

  “I have a granddaughter who I’m sure you would love,” says another.

  Neal easily sucks up their attention with a straw, nodding graciously and spitting out the answers they want to hear. “Only if your granddaughter is as beautiful as you.”

  Our eyes lock across the heads of the women and his eyes widen. Please save me. I gently push my way through their circle and grab his wrist. Rising on my toes, I press a kiss to his lips. I can feel the wave of disappointment crashing through the women around me, their arms crossing over their chests, lips growing tight as they watch us with disapproving eyes.

  “Kissing at a repass,” one of them says, “how very disrespectful.”

  I would laugh if Neal’s mouth wasn’t on mine, my fingers pressing into the muscle of his bicep, his arm swinging around my waist. The kiss is supposed to be quick. A gentle peck on the lips - one, two, three seconds, no longer - but Neal tilts his head and deepens our kiss.

  My head’s swimming when I pull away, that slow grin spreading across his mouth. In his ear, I whisper, “Play along. Please.”

  He smiles. “Alright.”

  How lucky am I? To have found the one man in this entire building willing to play a game of charades with a stranger. A kissing stranger. A handsy stranger. One who laces our fingers together, his palm warm against mine, as I lead him over to Suzanne and Justin.

  The newlyweds stand uncomfortably together, a new glass of champagne in Suzanne’s hands, Justin awkwardly glancing over my shoulder, surveying Neal as we get closer. I can hear the alarmed words springing up in the forefront of his mind: Shit, why couldn’t he be ugly?

  “Neal,” I say leaning into him, one hand on his chest, the other locked in his. “I want you to meet my friends, Suzanne and Justin. The Meraux’s.”

  Suzanne plasters on a beauty pageant smile and sticks out her hand. “Well, well, well,” she says with a laugh. “You’ve certainly done well for yourself.” She’s talking to me but staring at Neal, struck by the bright color of his blue eyes and the sharp line of his jaw.

  “Not better than me,” Neal says, quickly shaking Suzanne’s hand. He removes his fingers from mine and for a split second, my hand feels freezing cold. He throws an arm around my waist instead.

  Suzanne makes a noise in the back of her throat. A polite, if you say so. She darts her eyes between Neal and me, looking for something, anything, she can comment on to cut me down.

  “Justin?” Neal says, offering his hand to my ex-boyfriend who can barely meet his eyes.

  Justin’s always been self-conscious about his height – he’s 5’5” on a good day – but around Neal he can no longer swallow it. Neal towers over him, like most of the men in the room, broad shouldered where Justin is slight, a slightly hooked nose where Justin’s is round and flat. He shakes Neal’s hand with a tight jaw, fingers pressing hard into his, asserting dominance where dominance isn’t supposed to be necessary. Neal raises an eyebrow and I know he’s picked up on it, the strange power dynamics that shift between the four of us, the awkward, silent conversation we’re all having in our heads.

  “Neal…Dietrich, right?” Justin says. Neal nods. “Don’t you work for Lee Geon?”

  Neal ducks his head and smiles. “Guilty.”

  “Lee Geon?” Suzanne says, squinting as she thinks. “Doesn’t he hate your father?” she says to me.

  “Lots of people hated my father,” I say.

  Neal pulls me closer. “And I wasn’t one of them. Even though he and my boss didn’t get along, I would be stupid to ignore all that Julian’s done for the financial climate of Chicago. So it’s only right I take a little time off to pay my respects.”

  “Huh,” Justin says, unimpressed.

  “So let me get this straight,” Suzanne says. “And I apologize for being a little dense but. Are you still in Baltimore?” she asks me.

  “Yes,” I say.

  She points to Neal. “And you’re in Chicago?”

  Neal nods. “You’ve got it.�
�

  “Oh,” Suzanne says, her words evolving into a deep chuckle in her throat. “I don’t know how you two do it. You’re both so brave to tackle that whole long distance relationship thing. I know we couldn’t do it, right Justin?”

  Justin locks eyes with me and I press a little closer to Neal.

  Towards the unknowing end of our relationship it became apparent that it was all about proximity for Justin. He loved me as long as I was a train ride away, waiting for him on my back, my legs spread wide, my hands ready for his shoulders and hips. I sometimes view our relationship through rose colored glasses, focusing on the bright moments of lust and love and ignoring what happened the afternoon we broke up.

  “I just can’t do the whole, long distance thing. I told you this!” he shouted.

  I slapped him, one fierce hand sharp across his face as I said, “Fuck you. This could’ve worked if you wanted it too.”

  “No, I don’t think we could,” Justin says, turning to his wife – his wife! – with a smile. “But that’s not something we have to worry about.”

  “It’s really not that big of a deal,” Neal says. “We both have vacation days --”

  “And I have the whole summer, of course,” I say. “Three months away from teaching, every year.”

  Neal glances down at me. “And when she is…teaching…I don’t mind flying to Baltimore on the weekends.”

  “Flying commercial is so exhausting,” Suzanne says, desperate to change the conversation.

  “Well, good thing Neal doesn’t have to worry about that. He has access to the company jet.” I remember my father was always ranting about it. Lee Geon and his damn fleet of planes. Four company jets at the disposal of their high ranking employees.

  Neal laughs and looks down at me. “Those are only supposed to be for company trips,” he whispers, loud enough for Suzanne and Justin to hear him. He kisses me again, this time quickly but I’m still willingly suffocated by his body heat.

  Suzanne grins a little harder. “I wish I would’ve known,” she says to Neal. “I would’ve invited you both to the wedding.” She pushes her hair behind her ear, blatantly flashing her ring. Did you know I was married? Have you forgotten? Let me remind you.

  Neal holds out his hand. “Do you mind?”

  Suzanne fills with glee. “Of course not.”

  She drops her hand into his palm, his strong fingers grazing over her ring. Justin stiffens and places an arm around Suzanne’s waist, his wife transfixed with watching Neal inspect her ring.

  “It’s from Tiffany’s isn’t it?” Neal says.

  Suzanne dreamily nods. “Every girls dream.” She turns to Justin. “A diamond from Tiffany’s.”

  Neal releases her hand and Suzanne places it against Justin’s cheek. She stares at him for a long moment, thumb caressing him, lips slowly parting before she presses their mouths together in a kiss. It’s slow and dramatic, tongues sliding against tongues, Justin’s hand tightening on her hip. If its attention she wants, she’s getting it, the small groups clustered around us, turning towards them with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

  Suzanne releases a breath and turns toward us with a grin. Take that, bitch.

  Neal laughs, honest-to-god laughs before he claps Justin’s shoulder. Justin stands straight as Neal says, “I’m sorry man, it’s just. You look like a pretty intelligent guy --”

  “Pretty intelligent?” Suzanne says. “Justin’s pretty much a genius.”

  “Oh yeah?” Neal says, raising an eyebrow. “What do you do?”

  “I own a couple breweries,” Justin says. “Here and in Wisconsin.”

  “A couple is an understatement,” Suzanne says. “He owns seven.”

  Neal looks impressed but I squeeze his arm as if to say, don’t be. Justin’s father created those breweries and willed them to him when he died.

  Neal leans forward. “Well you might be a genius, but you got swindled on that ring.”

  Suzanne’s eyes widen in offense. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tiffany? They don’t sell well cut diamonds, they’re selling you a dream and packing it in a ten-thousand dollar box, to make people who know nothing about diamonds feel like they’ve made a well informed choice. Everyone,” he clears his throat. “Most people know they’re nothing but a well branded scam.”

  Suzanne’s mouth drops open before it quickly shuts. She glances between Neal and me and Neal and Justin, her bottom lip quivering as her mind attempts to dig up a response. She’s short circuiting, her hand clutching Justin’s arm as she downs her entire glass of champagne. “Come on,” she says to Justin. “I really need to get another drink.”

  They say nothing as they walk away, Justin throwing me one last glance over his shoulder before they disappear in the crowd.

  I look up at Neal who’s watching me with an amused raised eyebrow. “Is all that true or did you bullshit for my sake?”

  “It’s one-hundred percent true,” he says with a smile.

  “And you know that how?”

  “Family business.”

  When I pull away from him a chill rides up the right side of my body, a welcome weight slowly lifting from my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say. “I just…”

  Neal smiles. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We go find a nice corner and you tell me what the fuck just happened.”

  Six

  I’ve never been the sort of person who finds comfort in opening up to strangers. It’s a trait I inherited from my father. He knew the trick of poking tiny holes into your past and your personality, allowing others just a peek before you turned your attention towards them. The key is to ask a slew of questions, one after the other in rapid succession, so fast they don’t have time to stop and think about how they know absolutely nothing about you, because they’re enthralled with talking about themselves.

  Neal pulls the same trick on me.

  Behind the bar, near the patio, we lounge in two dining room chairs pushed into the corner. A flower pot full of cigarette buds stands to my right, smokers carelessly dropping them when they come back inside. (After the sixth cigarette I snap at a woman with wild red hair. “Really? Have some respect. You know my father would kill you if you did this while he was alive.” The woman’s eyes grow wide before she shuffles away.)

  I can’t stop talking. Neal nurses another beer as I tell him about Justin and Suzanne and the summers we spent together. I tell him how Suzanne couldn’t stand Justin when we first met. He was too short, too baby-faced and he followed me around like a puppy.

  “Get rid of him,” she always sneered. “Or I swear to god, I’ll shove him off the train platform.”

  I tell him about our lustful summer of love, a wispy, dreamy feeling crawling into my throat; the memory of Justin-then greater than my knowledge of who he is now. Mr. Suzanne Meraux.

  “Did he break up with you?” Neal asks, knocking his knee against mine.

  I duck my head. “No. I broke up with him.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “Why? Weren’t you in love with him?”

  Yes. I was stricken dumb and blinded by my love for him.

  The summer before I left for college our dates were less frequent, kisses stiffer, and whenever he fucked me he would roll over, tug on his pants and announce that his father was expecting him home. It was a lie. His father rarely expected anything from him, but I chose to swallow my fear because I didn’t want to push him away. I wanted our summer together to be perfect.

  He told me he didn’t want a long distance relationship and I ignored him. Oh, he’ll change his mind once he tastes these cupcakes I made. Oh, he’ll rethink that decision when he sees me in this dress.

  Instead of falling for me all over again, he grew cold and distant, like my father. But unlike my father, Justin was a coward. He couldn’t face me, like a man, and end it. He drove me ou
t to a cliff, opened the car doors and shoved me off of it.

  To be more clear: One week before I hopped on the plane back to Baltimore, back to my mother and her SUV filled with boxes, packed up for BU, I traveled to Justin’s house in Lincoln Park for lunch. His parents were out – his father, working, his mother, shopping – and we were going to drink their wine in the backyard before heading up to his bedroom for lazy, tipsy sex. I was wearing the same dress as the first day he kissed me. It was going to be nostalgic. It was going to be perfect.

  The door was open, as always, and I called out for him. Loudly. He heard me screaming his name at the base of the stairs but there was no response. I climbed to the second floor, clutching the railing as muffled voices filled the hall.

  “Justin!” I called again. No response.

  That afternoon, my mind played a wonderful trick on me, distorting the voices behind Justin’s bedroom into something pleasant. That wasn’t a moan of pleasure, but a moan of pain; that wasn’t a guttural, fuck-me-groan but a fuck-you-groan, the kind Justin made when he was playing video games with his friends. I’d convinced myself that if there was someone on the other side of Justin’s bedroom door it was Dylan or Tom or Hunter, one of Justin’s friends.

  The door wasn’t locked. I flipped my hair and smacked on my flirtiest smile, sauntering my hips as I walked inside and saw them. Justin and the girl from down the street (Sasha, maybe?) naked, on his bed. She was on her knees, gripping his pillowcase and burying her face in his mattress as he fucked her from behind. His hips moved quickly, one hand flying out before he smacked her ass. She moaned and he threw his head back, eyes glazed over with lust, mouth parted in ecstasy.

  I was going to throw up.

  “Justin.” My voice was so small, I barely heard it. But he did. He heard that.