by Sage Rae
For Peter and the life she knew they could have together.
Nothing in her told her that this was impossible. And as such, she began to pack her bags swiftly, telling her landlord that she wouldn’t be returning to the apartment. She was in such a whirlwind, completing her exams, drawing up large and complex architecture designs, and scanning through architecture school applications back at home. She hadn’t announced her plans to her mother, father, or Manu yet. She figured she’d have the first conversation with the only person who currently mattered in her life: Peter. She’d figure the rest out, later.
Her announcements of her plans to her girlfriends, however, were met with disdain, with rolled eyes. She’d been speaking of Peter non-stop since his arrival back into her life over the summer. Yet, her friend Monique pointed out, Peter hadn’t been a figure in her life, for real, since. He’d been a fixture in tabloid magazines (many of which Charlotte had attempted to ignore), which called him the world’s most eligible and rich bachelor.
“You can’t stop this train from moving, Charlotte,” Monique continued. “He’s on a path, you know? He’s, well. He’s not going to just settle down with you and have a couple of babies, if that’s what you think.”
Charlotte scoffed at this. “As if I just want to settle down and have babies…”
Although, of course, the thought of having Peter Bramwell’s babies stirred her stomach. She envisioned their dark, curly heads, their eager eyes. She pictured their little fingers, stretching across her chest as they nursed. All her dreams about them were so specific, she felt so sure they had to become true. “Trusting in her gut” had never seemed more relevant. This was for real.
So, she bid her Parisian life goodbye. Said adieu to the people who loved her most—her friends, her colleagues, her professors. And she sped off to her original life, the one she’d left behind, hoping to craft a delicious one alongside Peter. She had the arrogance of a near-22 year old girl, never assuming anything might go wrong. On the plane, she had delicious dreams. And when she awoke, she was home.
Peter, 24 years old
“I’m surprised to see you here without your business partner,” Jeffrey Marigold said, giving Peter’s hand a sturdy shake. “Manu and you are quite the sight to see around town these days.”
Peter’s smile faltered just a tinge. Manu had been a near-constant partier in the recent weeks, around Manhattan: busting into a fist-fight at a Christmas party for a modeling agency they worked with; binge-drinking till dawn in his new penthouse apartment; getting into arguments with potential clients and leading them to abandon them both. Of course, Peter had spoken with Manu regarding his outbursts, and Manu had vowed to clean himself up.
It was just that, Peter wasn’t entirely sure he wanted Manu to clean up his act.
For the previous few months, Peter had begun to take business meetings alone, reigniting the business brand to be all his, rather than both his and Manu’s. And generally, Manu had been a bit too ignorant to notice. When they were together, Peter had taken to gazing across the table at his once-best friend, the kid he grew up alongside, and marveling at how different they’d become. Manu’s slight frame now looked so weak to Peter, who lifted weights consistently and ate a Paleo diet (only protein and vegetables, to maintain his muscle mass).
“Manu and I are considering separating, actually,” Peter said, making his smile stretch wider.
“Oh?” Jeffrey said. His voice tweaked, and a small wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. “I had assumed you were a package deal. Nothing like having a half-Frenchman onboard. It really suits us up with the international community, you know. It gives you a boost.”
“I understand that. And so does Manu,” Peter said, his tone smooth. Of course, he hadn’t thought about that whatsoever—that Manu could possibly give him a leg-up in an international audience. But whatever. “Manu has a passion project he wants to align his efforts with, and I have to understand that,” he lied.
“Ah, I see.” Jeffrey’s eyes glowed, as if he could see through the lie. “Although, of course, you must understand—this gives you full reign over the company.”
It was almost as if Peter could smell the amount of green, coming his way. When he blinked, visions of hundred-dollar bills flashed across his vision, like some sort of cartoon. Why should he live with the million-dollar realm, when he knew, alone, he could boost himself into the billions? Was it greed, that pushed him this direction? Or was it simply knowledge that, if he didn’t take what he wanted, someone else would?
Or was it simply that he wanted to cut the fat (Manu), and become the full face of the company?
The meeting with Jeffrey sped on, after that, ending with an electric handshake and an assurance that the pair of them would “keep in touch,” after all contracts were signed. Peter sauntered from the restaurant, hungry for a steak and a glass of whiskey (admittedly not Paleo, he knew). He arched his arm on a busy Manhattan road, hailing a cab, and sped back to his penthouse apartment. Just that day, his assistant had stated that his new business cards had arrived and were waiting for him on his desk. On them, he’d listed only his name—eliminating Manu’s altogether.
He was already speeding away from him. He was tearing their friendship apart. But it had been a long time since he’d felt like Manu was a part of him. It had been a long time since he’d given any strength to the past.
Which was why, when little Charlotte appeared on his doorstep later that evening—all bright-eyed, wearing a tight black dress, her hair curled and her makeup dusky and perfect, he felt a slight punch in his gut. Of course. Charlotte. The woman he’d wined and dined back in Paris. The woman he’d written, albeit infrequently, over the previous few months. And the girl he’d grown up alongside—the younger sister of Manu, himself.
Fuck.
“Charlotte,” Peter heard himself say, lending her one of his big-toothed, shark-like smiles. “Jesus, I didn’t expect you here. Are you back for Christmas? Already?”
Charlotte shifted her weight from heel to heel. The heels were a bit too tall for her and she seemed to teeter. Peter remembered when she’d tumbled down those steps in Paris, faltering to her knees and reaching for the railing. It had been raining. He’d scooped the girl up, dug his hands into his armpits. Even then, he supposed he’d known she would fall in love with him. Women tended to do that.
“Can I, um. Can I come in?” she asked, her nostrils flared. Her cheeks had this remarkable sparkling of pink. Just the blood pumping a bit too quickly. He marveled at how beautiful she was. She’d morphed into a full French girl, a little black beret atop her head. Back in Greenwich, she’d had perpetually scabbed knees, a bandaid across her forehead from tumbles off her bicycle. Always, she’d been trying to keep up.
Now, she’d chased him down.
“Sure thing,” he said, cutting the door wider.
She entered, tossing her curls behind her shoulder. She glanced back, pausing on the marble floor of the foyer. It had been shined recently, presenting a mirror image of her down below.
“You can go into the study, if you want to,” he said, pointing. “I can grab you a drink.”
“Oh. Um. Sure,” Charlotte said. She ducked her head forward, striding through the doorway of the study and seating herself near the fireplace. It felt like she wanted him to hunt her down. To charge toward her in that way he had back in Paris—like an animal, unable to resist her.
But things felt different, now.
Peter followed her—what else could he possibly do?—and sat at the edge of his desk, pouring them both a glass of whiskey. He passed her the glass, watched her quivering hand grip it. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. He marveled at the fear she exhibited, in his space.
“You must think it’s crazy that I stopped in here like this,” Charlotte began, after taking a first sip of the whiskey. “I didn’t mean to just jump into your world like this…”
“No, no,” Peter laughed. He was frightened at how false his own laugh sounded i
n his ears. Did it even belong to him? His teenage self would have noted how untrue it was, and probably called him a phony.
“Okay,” Charlotte said. The word was almost too simple. Her eyes pored over him, drawing a line toward the desk on which he leaned. Then, they fixated on something, grew wider. She jerked to her feet and strode toward the desk, reaching for the stack of freshly-printed business cards. On them, the business he and Manu had started had been inked. And, beneath, was a single name: Peter Bramwell.
“Where is Manu’s name?” Charlotte asked, her eyebrows stitching together. “What’s going on?”
Peter forced another smile. “We just got, um. We got separate ones…”
“No. I’ve seen Manu’s business cards, and they all say both of your names,” Charlotte stammered. “He showed them to me last time you were in Paris together. He was so—so fucking happy with them. Said that he wouldn’t have wanted to be in business with anyone else…” She continued to stare at him, wide-eyed. Her eyes were the size of the world.
“Well, we. Um. We.” Peter stammered. Ordinarily, in front of some of the richest and most vibrant businessmen across the world, he could speak with a smoothness that would defeat any lie detector test. But something about Charlotte seeing him this way—Charlotte, whom he’d grown up with, who’d seen him before he’d been anything special—gave him pause.
“You’re up to something,” Charlotte said. Her words were cold. Behind her eyes, something seemed to click in place. Something that said, in every sense: Jesus Christ. You’re betraying us. You’re betraying both of us.
And he was.
Charlotte pressed her finger into Peter’s chest, stabbing it deep into the muscle. Peter felt sure she would have tried to dig into his skeleton, if she’d been able to. He dropped deeper against the desk, allowing it. In this moment, he felt smaller than she was. A pin on a cushion, a needle in a haystack. He was nothing—just another sick, twisted businessman, making plans to rule the world. Eliminating anyone who got in his way.
“You know what?” Charlotte said, her nostrils flared. “I fucking loved you. How disgusting is that? You were about to abandon my brother. Hell, you’d already abandoned me. And I was too lovesick and such a believer in you to know the difference.”
Peter didn’t speak. He just watched her, feeling like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff. On the other side was only darkness. Surely, there would be love over there. A better kind of love. One of riches and intriguing women and grand apartments. One of access to the entire world—a billionaire’s access, rather than a millionaire’s. Being a millionaire was nothing, when you had that extra 0. Someone had recently told him that at a Manhattan party, when they’d been smoking cigarettes at the edge of a balcony, gazing down below. “Aren’t they all so small? We control them.”
“Fuck you, Peter. I regret the day I first laid eyes on you,” Charlotte said. “But I don’t hate you for me. Know that. I hate you for what you’re doing to Manu. I hate you for what you’re doing to yourself, too. Because one day, not so far into the future, you’re going to look around and realize that everyone who’s ever loved you, everyone who’s ever cared if you lived or died, is gone. Including me. Including Manu.”
Charlotte swirled toward the door, walking violently—her heels clacking on the marble. She kept one of the business cards between her painted nails, holding it like it was piping hot. “You won’t make a mockery of Manu,” she said at the doorway, her eyes spitting fire. “I’ll make sure of that.”
Taxi
Once in the cab, Charlotte allowed the tears to run: fat and hot, coursing into her lips. She tasted the salt, felt her chest heaving. How had she fallen for this? Wasn’t she meant to be one of the more intelligent of her “kind,” an artist and an architect and a hot-minded 21 year old, who created boundaries for herself and her life?
Perhaps she wasn’t. She was just a child. The kind of snot-nosed child who’d grown up not far from that very street corner, with scabbed knees.
The taxi driver’s eyes skirted toward hers in the mirror, then dropped back to the steering wheel. She marvelled that he must have seen countless girls like her weeping in taxi cabs, for perhaps decades. Certainly, it brightened his day to see something different. She was his television.
Charlotte gave the driver Manu’s address, and he sped toward the Lower East Side apartment. From pictures Manu had sent her, she knew that the place was a great deal smaller than Peter’s. That, perhaps, Peter had already begun to cut out some of the funds owed to her brother, leading him to make different, more middle-of-the-road choices. Of course, those choices might have also been influenced because of Manu’s recent obsession with the “party lifestyle,” the cocaine and the women and the alcohol that flowed like water. Perhaps Peter had his reasons for cutting ties…
But no. Peter had a similar volatile lifestyle. And he was cutting out Manu, his “best friend,” and embarking on a better life for himself. How fucking selfish! How fucking egotistical! And to think: she, Charlotte, had thought him to be one of the best people she’d ever met, the kind of man to write songs about, to daydream about, to live for.
She’d been envisioning a future with him. And now, that future was laughable. As was she, she knew.
The taxi yanked up outside of Manu’s apartment building, and she paid the driver in crisp twenties and ones she’d just received from an ATM, after leaving the plane. She didn’t make eye contact with the driver, if only because she didn’t want to feel the weight of his pity. She had enough pity for herself, without him.
The buzzer down below, at Manu’s apartment building, let out a strange, purring noise when she pressed it. She waited, strumming her fingers along her thigh. She hadn’t informed anyone that she’d be arriving in New York, nor that she’d packed up almost everything she owned and left her Parisian apartment. She was grateful, in this moment, that she hadn’t dropped out of architecture school. She’d been moments from pressing the button, sending the email. I QUIT. But she’d held back. Perhaps, something in her had known…
Manu buzzed her up and met her at the door, his skinny arms wide. In the back of the apartment, a slinky woman in a short purple dress waited, holding onto a bottle of white wine. Charlotte’s eyes traced up and down her frame, labeling her as a gold digger. She probably had half-forgotten Manu’s name, already, but was digging her way through his alcohol cabinet, preparing to sleep with him as long as she could, to make use of his cash.
Of course, as of today, that cash would be running out.
“Manu, I need to talk to you,” Charlotte said, her voice firm.
Manu’s voice showed his drunkenness. She thought back to Peter, so strong and stoic back at his apartment. Even when he was a bit drunk, he wasn’t sloppy. Not like this. She crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her chin.
“Baby sister, what are you doing here?” Manu cried, his face stretching out wide so that his cheeks became floppy.
“Seriously. I need to talk to you, alone,” Charlotte said.
Manu pointed toward the purple-dressed woman, his finger flapping. “This is Marcia. I met her out last night. Did you know we both have the same favorite TV show? That French one we grew up with, that nobody else watched?”
“I’m sure you and Marcia have a great deal in common,” Charlotte sighed. “And you can get back to talking all about it, after I speak with you. In the next room.”
Charlotte shot her hand onto Manu’s shoulder, gripping the bone and guiding him down the skinny hallway. Something about the hall reminded her of the high school they’d attended—of marching to the principal that time when she and Manu had gotten into a strange bickering fight on the sidewalk after they’d walked to school. He’d elbowed her in the nose, casting blood across the white ground.
Charlotte clipped the door closed and blinked at him. How could she possibly verbalize that the person Manu trusted most in the world was betraying him? Tears blinked up in her eyes, but she forced them in. Somethi
ng about Manu’s meekness in this moment told her that she had to be the strong one. Proper posture. Firm stance. Just say what you need to say; get it out, she told herself.
“Listen. There’s something you should know about Peter,” she began.
Manu’s smile stretched out wider. He shook his head left, right, cackling a bit. “I know, sis. You’re in love with him, right? I’ve known it for years. But honestly, Charlotte, you need to understand something about Peter. You might be chasing something nobody can ever have. See, not that many people understand Peter the way I do…”
Charlotte’s stomach clenched, she was so revolted at his arrogance. “No. That’s not it,” she said, her voice becoming harsh.
“Then, what? You’re not in love with him?”
Of course she was, she wanted to scream. It wasn’t like the emotions that had made her press pause on her life back in Paris had completely scattered to the wind. But she had to uphold her family’s integrity, above all things.
“Peter’s planning on kicking you out of the company,” she said. “He’s already started the process.”
Manu faltered. His face became almost pancake-like, flat, like it might fall directly from his skeleton and down to the floor. His lips became white and thin. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.
“I just stopped by there to see him,” Charlotte said.
“Why?” Manu asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Charlotte said, her voice rising in pitch. She would be labeled a crazy person if she didn’t lay out the facts in a reasonable way. “I found his business cards on the table. And they had only his name. Nothing about you. And I asked him about it. What the hell it meant. And he more or less admitted that, well…”
Manu’s face grew even more slack. He dropped into his desk chair, swirling it toward the window. Outside, New York’s grey clouds grew dominant and thick over the tops of buildings, shrouding them all in a strange kind of igloo. Snow was coming. Christmas would be bleak.