Absinthe

by Winter Renshaw

  Springing up, she’s all smiles, resting her hands on the small of her back as she follows me to my room.

  I kick off my heels, yank out my earrings, and strip down, changing into a thin white tank top and a pair of pajama shorts.

  Lila’s smile fades when she checks the time on her phone. “It’s only seven o’clock.”

  “Yep.”

  “So it didn’t go well with Judd?” Her frown borders on a pout.

  “To say the least.” I plunk myself down on my bed, shoving a pillow behind my neck. “I just want to Netflix and chill right now. By myself.”

  “Lame.” She exhales, taking a seat on the edge of my desk. “What was wrong with him? Why didn’t you like him?”

  Resting my forearm over my eyes, I say, “I don’t know. He was boring.”

  She’s quiet for a beat. “He’s not Kerouac. That’s what you’re trying to say.”

  Sitting up, I roll to my side, facing her. “Not true.”

  “Bullshit.” Crossing her arms, she rolls her eyes. “Look, I know Judd isn’t Kerouac, but that’s the whole point. You need to move on. You need to see that there are other guys out there who aren’t him.”

  “Regardless, he’s not my type.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Don’t date Judd. Who the hell cares? Just stop comparing every guy you meet to Kerouac because there’s only one of those, and he moved on a long time ago.”

  Rolling to my back, I close my eyes. I know Lila’s right.

  But it doesn’t change the way I feel.

  He’s the only one I want.

  The only one I’ll ever want.

  Chapter 40

  FORD

  “You’re American, right?”

  I’m sitting at the end of a bar in Milan when a leggy brunette sidles up to me, a martini glass in her left hand. Her wide mouth forms a smile and she tosses her thick waves over one lanky shoulder.

  Glancing toward her for a split second, I turn my attention back to the whiskey sour I’m nursing.

  “Sorry. I thought you were American,” she says, biting her lip.

  “I am,” I finally respond.

  “Oh, jeez.” The woman clasps a hand at her chest. “Thank God. I don’t speak any Italian. I’m here for a modeling job, and I’m new at all of this.”

  I take a sip, staring straight ahead at the backlit shelving unit before me and the shiny bottles of liquid amnesia.

  I was never much of a drinker until the last couple of years, always opting to do so socially or with a good book and an even better cigar. But lately, I’ve found a strong drink takes the edge off, and as long as I don’t overdo it, I manage to straddle the line between the past and future just enough to function.

  “Where are you from?” she asks, elbow resting on the bar, her entire body facing me.

  I’m not sure how to answer her. As of right now, I’m not really from anywhere. Ever since my sister kicked me off her couch last year, I’ve been drifting around from country to country, taking in the sights with nothing but a backpack on my back. Contract work pays my bills, mostly writing or translating academic write ups into English. Sometimes I’ll teach some ESL classes. I take what I can get, and so far, I’ve been getting by just fine.

  “You’re seriously just going to ignore me?” she asks. “I’m just trying to make conversation, not hit on you. It’s been a week since I’ve spoken to someone without an accent, and I heard you order your drink, that’s how I knew you were American. I’m homesick. And you looked nice. Guess I was wrong.”

  I smirk, taking another sip. “Yeah. You were.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch as she lifts her martini glass, contemplating whether or not she wants to splash her drink in my face. The emerald green liquid sloshes in her hand, threatening to spill over the rim before she takes a step back then trots off in her sky high stilettos.

  Absinthe.

  She was drinking absinthe.

  Even thousands of miles away, I can’t get away from her.

  Chapter 41

  Halston

  Another Year Later …

  “I’m sorry Halston. The trail ran cold as soon as I got to New York,” the private investigator I hired to locate Kerouac fills me in over the phone. “Looks like he left Rosefield three years ago, moved to Brooklyn, then after that … nothing.”

  “How can there just be nothing?” I ask. My stomach churns when I think about the student loan I took out to pay the investigator, and the fact that it was all for nothing.

  “I’m guessing he went overseas,” he says. “For all we know, he could be backpacking in Europe. He wouldn’t have an address there. That’s the only thing I can think of. There’s no death certificate, so he’s still alive. He’s just … not anywhere we can find him.”

  Hunched over my computer desk, I rest my palm against my forehead, trying to think. “So there’s nothing else we can do?”

  “Not unless you want to pay me to go overseas, but no offense, sweetheart, but even I wouldn’t recommend that. It’d cost you a small fortune. No ex-boyfriend is worth that,” he says. His voice is wise and sharp, and he reminds me of a father figure. “If you were my daughter, there’s no way in hell I’d have let you hire a PI in the first place. A man who walks off like that, leaving you broken hearted? Not worth an ounce of your time or money.”

  “You’re sweet to say that, but our situation wasn’t that simple.”

  “Oh, hey.” His tone perks. “One other thing. He’s got an ex-stepbrother who lives in the Silicon Valley area. Name is Mason Foster. He’s some tech billionaire. I tried calling him several times, but he never would get back to me.”

  I lift a brow. I had no idea he had a step-brother. In fact, he never really spoke about his family at all.

  “I can give you his number if you’d like. Maybe you’ll have better luck?” He clears his throat, rattling off ten digits that I scribble down as fast as I can.

  “Thank you, Kent,” I say. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Good luck, Halston.”

  Ending the call, I perform a quick Google search on Mason Foster—my last remaining avenue to Kerouac.

  Chapter 42

  Ford

  “I can’t get over how different you look,” my sister says. I’ve been back in Brooklyn forty-eight hours now and she hasn’t stopped staring once. “The longer hair, the scruff. The styled, casual outfits. You remind me of a high fashion model. It’s like you left the states and came back someone else completely.”

  “Are you saying I look like shit?”

  “No. I’m saying it’s taking some time to get used to,” she says. “When you left here, you looked like shit. Now you look like you should be walking runways in Paris.”

  She folds her arms, leaning back against the bench we share outside a little park in her neighborhood. Arlo climbs across playground equipment, stopping to wave when he sees us both watching.

  “Hey, buddy!” Nic yells.

  I give a quick wave and a short smile. I’ve missed this kid something fierce, but Nic’s been good about sending pictures and videos.

  “You doing okay though?” she asks a second later.

  “Of course. Having the time of my life.”

  Shielding her eyes with her hand, she cocks her head. “Really, Ford?”

  I nod, concentrating on my nephew. “Yes, Nic. Really.”

  “I call bullshit.”

  “That’s fine. You can call bullshit.”

  “You’re lonely,” she says. “I can see it in your eyes, the way you talk.”

  “How does the way one talks suggest loneliness?”

  “You sound sad.” Nic shrugs. “And you look sad.”

  “I can assure you you’re wrong,” I say. “I’m not sad. Quite the contrary. I’m free as a fucking bird, living life without a care in the world. That means I’m happy.”

  “Maybe you’re not sad, but you’re definitely lonely,” she says.

  “Why are we talking about th
is again?” I adjust my position, crossing my legs wide and leaning away from her.

  “Because I’m a good big sister, and I care about you.”

  I say nothing. I can’t argue with those facts.

  “Do you ever think about finding someone and settling down?” she asks. “I mean, we’re both in our thirties now. I’d love to find someone special and share my life with them. I can’t imagine you don’t want the same thing.”

  “My mind doesn’t even go there, Nic,” I lie. “Settling down couldn’t be further from my mind.”

  “I don’t mean right now. I’m talking someday,” she says. “Do you want to settle down someday?”

  Someday is a concept that no longer exists for me. When I think about “someday,” I think about missed opportunities, a future in ruins, and everything I’ve had to sacrifice.

  “Uncle Ford, can you pitch for us?” Arlo runs up to the bench, red-cheeked and out of breath, a ball and mitt in his hand. He points toward a group of boys all his age, setting up a makeshift baseball diamond in a grassy area.

  “Sure,” I say, rising. He runs ahead.

  “What are you going to do, Ford?” Nicolette asks.

  “Right now? I’m going to play baseball with my nephew. Tomorrow? I’m going to Amsterdam.”

  Chapter 43

  Halston

  Another Year Later …

  “Yes, can I help you?” A narrow-eyed receptionist with jet black hair pulled into a tight, low bun glances up from a reception desk.

  This is Mason Foster’s administrative assistant.

  His gate-keeper.

  The woman who, allegedly, hasn’t been relaying my messages for the past month.

  “I’m here to see Mason Foster,” I say with gumption.

  She reaches for her phone. “Is he expecting you?”

  “He should be,” I say. “I’ve been trying to reach him for weeks.”

  Placing the phone back in the cradle, she bites her lip. “I’m sorry. Unless you have a scheduled appointment, he can’t see you. We have a strict, no-soliciting policy.”

  “I’m not a solicitor,” I say.

  “Then what’s this meeting in regards to?” She bats her thick, dark lashes.

  “I’m going to change his life,” I say, knowing full well I sound insane, but one of the top rules of marketing is to hook the customer within the first several seconds, and I’m already running out of time.

  The girl laughs. I don’t blame her. I would laugh at me too.

  “Trust me, all I need is five minutes of his time,” I say with a wink. “Then I’ll stop with the phone calls and the emails and crazy ex-girlfriend behavior.”

  Her smile fades the second she glances over my shoulder, and when I turn, I see a tall man, a few years older than me, with sandy blond hair and an overwhelming air of arrogance in his step.

  “Mr. Foster,” the receptionist says, sitting straighter.

  “Ming.” He approaches her desk, glancing over the ledge. “Everything all right?”

  “This is the woman that hasn’t stopped calling all month,” she says. “Says she’s going to change your life if she has five minutes of your time.”

  Mason takes a step back, eyeing me from head to toe before a devilish smirk claims his mouth. “I’m not sure whether to have security escort you out or to insist you join me for sushi so I can get to know you better.”

  I think he’s hitting on me.

  Extending his hand, he says, “And you are?”

  “Halston Kessler,” I say. “Owner of Fusion PR. We specialize in promoting tech companies.”

  “Beautiful name,” he says, “for a beautiful woman.”

  “Flattery is not necessary, Mr. Foster,” I say, releasing his handshake and trying to imagine Mason and Kerouac side by side at Thanksgiving dinner, wondering how they interact and if they keep in touch.

  “So tell me, Halston,” he asks, “would you care to join me for lunch?”

  If it means getting his attention, then yes. “I’d love to.”

  “Perfect. I’ll drive.” Mason nods toward the elevator, and I follow. “We’re in the market for a new PR firm.”

  “I know. I saw the ad in the Silicon Register.” Two months ago, Lila and I graduated from Greatwood, loaded up our little cars, and road tripped it to Silicon Valley to start up our PR firm. We figured a specialized firm in a location with loaded locals was going to be a recipe for success, and with my degree in Public Relations and her degree in Information Technology, our business plan practically wrote itself.

  For now, we work out of a two-bedroom basement apartment we share in a shitty side of town, but our lease is month-to-month and as soon as we land a few contracts, we’re going to upgrade our digs and get an actual office.

  The elevator deposits us in a basement parking garage, and Mason leads us to a parked Ferrari. Bright red. The shiniest thing I’ve ever seen, even in dimly lit surroundings.

  “Hop in,” he says with a wink.

  This was almost too easy.

  My heart races when I think of Kerouac and how insane it is that I’m spending time with his stepbrother or ex-stepbrother or whatever their dynamic is. I’ll figure it all out soon. I don’t want to rush this, don’t want to make it obvious.

  I’ll work for Mason, get to know him, and maybe one of these days I’ll see Kerouac.

  Even if it’s just in passing, even if it’s a photograph or a conversation … I’ll settle for that because it’s better than nothing.

  The never knowing is what kills me.

  And as soon as I know, I can finally move on.

  Chapter 44

  Ford

  If I’m lucky, I won’t remember any of this tomorrow.

  My vision blurs as I scroll through Halston’s Facebook page, one finger on the trackpad of my laptop and the other hand wrapped around a long neck bottle of Guinness as I recline against the headboard of a Belfast hotel bed.

  For four years I’ve held strong.

  I haven’t so much as Googled the woman who ruined my life—despite the fact that I’ve thought about her every single fucking day. It has taken all the power I had not to dig anything up on her since leaving Rosefield, not to go down that rabbit hole.

  It was always for the best.

  No good could come from that, from ruminating in what-might-have-been.

  But tonight, on the eve of her twenty-third birthday, I find myself missing her more than usual, unable to stop myself from seeking the answers to the questions I’ve asked for the past four years: What is she up to? How is she? Is she happy? Did she find someone new?

  My self-control is pathetically non-existent, and six beers later, I’ve typed her name into a search engine and found a few limited results.

  Her social media is pretty sparse, her pages private and locked down so tight I can’t even see her friends list or where she lives. Her Facebook profile picture, a photo of her with a grinning dark-haired girl draped around her shoulders, hasn’t been updated in fifteen months, and the rest of her photos are pretty non-telling.

  Halston smiling in front of some sculpture.

  Halston standing in the middle of a group of friends at someone’s wedding.

  Halston volunteering at a soup kitchen.

  She seems happy in all of them, and fuck, is she still just as gorgeous as before, if not more so.

  Her hair is longer, her jade eyes brighter, her bombshell figure just as curvaceous. I can almost taste her berry-sweet lips on my tongue, can almost feel her soft hair in my fingers.

  I take another swig of Guinness, emptying the bottle. My eyes blur, my vision darkening. In a few minutes, I’ll pass out.

  Erasing my internet history, I slam the lid of my laptop down and place the empty bottle on the nightstand. She may have ruined me, but I still love her, and that’s what hurts the most.

  Closing my eyes, I try to relax until I’m overcome with a heavy stupor that sinks me into a black oblivion.

  Here�
�s to forgetting, if only for a little while.

  Chapter 45

  Ford

  Another Year Later …

  “Lighten up, Fordie.” My sister straightens my tie and dusts specks of invisible lint from my shoulders before smiling.

  We’re in Sag Harbor for our cousin Bristol’s five-day wedding extravaganza, which isn’t exactly my idea of a good time, but she made me an usher and made Arlo a junior groomsman, and she happens to be our only cousin on our father’s side, so here we fucking are.

  “I don’t know how you can be so flippant right now.” My jaw tightens, throbbing as it has been all week. “It’s going to take all the strength I have not to punch him in the face the second I see him.”

  Nicolette laughs. “Not true. I know you, and you’re not going to do that because this is your favorite cousin’s wedding that your favorite aunt and uncle are spending a small fortune on, so you’re not going to cause a scene.”

  “Aunt Cecily ceased to be my favorite aunt when she decided to become best friends with Catherine.” I haven’t said our former stepmother’s name in I don’t know how long.

  Nic rolls her eyes. “Still. You’re a class act, Ford. You always have been. Just go out there, catch up with our old friends and family. And in a few days, you’ll be free to go back to … where are you staying now?”

  “Prague.” I groan. “I’ve told you this. And after that, I’m going to London.”

  “I can barely keep track of my ten-year-old. You expect me to keep track of you?” she asks. Nicolette steps back, inspecting my suit and tie. “You look nice, brother. Still hard to get used to you with the longer hair.”