Under Wraps

by Louisa Keller

  The sun shone down mockingly as it illuminated the devastation.

  3

  Carson

  Okay.

  So, here’s the thing.

  In college I stumbled across these four guys who became basically my entire world.

  Leo, my hilarious, slutty confidante.

  Finley, who was constantly bending himself into intricate yoga positions while simultaneously making dick jokes.

  Porter, the stoic, thoughtful one.

  And Dom, level-headed and pragmatic, my best friend in the entire universe.

  For a couple of years, we were all good friends—you know, the way everyone in college makes good friends.

  But then the unthinkable happened.

  One minute, everything was wonderful, and the next—

  Torn flesh, numbing coldness, air snatched from lungs, death and destruction as far as the eye could see. People obliterated in the blink of an eye, flickering out like candles in the wind. The details of that day were scorched into my mind, omnipresent and devastating.

  My life came to a screeching halt, and I was left to sort through the rubble, looking for anything I could salvage. Covered in scars, both physical and emotional, I lost myself completely—to grief, to agony, to loneliness.

  From that point on, my friends were the only family I had.

  Dom and his mom, Sydney, took me in while I recovered, worked through my grief. Sydney made it very clear that she was in it for the long haul, insisting that I spend summer and winter breaks at her home in New York.

  As time moved on, I focused on rebuilding my life. It looked nothing like I had imagined, but it contained five people who loved me immensely.

  Fast forward eight years, and I was doing well, all things considered.

  Sure, I was held together with tape and glue and a steady stream of painkillers, but I was alive. My life looked almost normal from the outside.

  Dom and I were kind of like the parents of our little group, constantly herding our raucous kids away from the possibility of danger or humiliation.

  Porter didn’t need the same kind of guidance as Leo and Finley—he tended more toward serious depression than frat boy stupidity, but ever since he and Levi moved in together, his mental health had improved tenfold.

  I loved them all, deeply and without wavering.

  But it was kind of nice to get away with Dom, spend some quality time together. Especially since he and Smith seemed to be out of town more often than they were home. They were highly successful YourTubers, a pair of gay world travelers who recorded their adventures before sharing them with the world.

  We drove in silence for a while, idly watching the landscape slip by.

  I knew that he was still worried about Sydney, still anxious about the upcoming week with Alistair. Hell, I was nervous too.

  This was my family, and I wanted everyone to fit together harmoniously.

  So, it startled me when Dom finally spoke.

  “Are you lonely, Carson?”

  I let the question sink in for a moment before answering.

  “Where did that come from?” I asked carefully, eyes glued to the road.

  Dom squirmed in his seat.

  “Sorry, I was just thinking…I mean, Mom got married this winter. And I’ve been with Smith for an entire year, which seems like some kind of lovely fever dream. Porter and Levi are planning their wedding. Leo has a threesome every other night, it seems like, and Finley’s hooking up with random guys he meets at clubs every weekend.”

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, gritting my teeth.

  “So?”

  Dom sighed.

  “So,” he said, “you haven’t dated anyone since…”

  We drove over a short bridge, the Puget Sound glittering below us. I sucked in a deep breath, concentrated on staying perfectly centered in my lane.

  “It’s not like I’m actively not dating,” I murmured. “I sleep with people when I feel like it. But for a while it was like…what was the point of dating? You know?” He nodded, and I pressed on. “And now, I’m content with the way things are. I would love to meet some amazing guy and get swept off my feet like you and Porter and Sydney. Of course I would.”

  “Then why aren’t you going on more dates?” Dom asked. “Ten minutes on Tinder, I guarantee you’d have a dozen new matches.”

  I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.

  “Like I said, it would be great to fall in love, to have a partner. But it took me a long time to feel like things were some version of normal, you know? I just…don’t want to rock the boat, I guess. If love comes to me, I’ll welcome it with open arms. But I’m not going to spend all my energy on searching for someone to share my life with. It’s too easy to lose the people you love, Dom. I want to spend time with the people who already matter to me.”

  He cleared his throat, and I glanced over at him.

  “Carson—”

  “Yeah?”

  Dom looked immensely sad.

  “They wouldn’t want you to limit yourself,” he muttered.

  My knuckles were nearly white on the steering wheel, all the tension in my body channeled into my grip.

  I wasn’t mad—that wasn’t it at all.

  Most of my energy went into being content with the here and now, as my meditation coach had suggested right after the accident. I took deep, steadying breaths. I practiced self-directed lovingkindness. I expressed gratitude often and effusively.

  Those were the ways that I got rid of the tension, kept myself from drowning in negativity.

  But sometimes my whole body went tense with misery, with grief, and it washed over me like ocean waves.

  I ran through my meditation in my head.

  May I be happy.

  May I be healthy in mind and body.

  May I be safe.

  May I live with ease.

  Dom’s hand was on my shoulder, sturdy and strong, barely making contact.

  “I’m not limiting myself,” I told him.

  Or rather, I told myself out loud.

  “I’m sorry, Carson, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, drawing in a shaky breath. “You’re right, they wouldn’t want me to limit myself. But that’s not what I’m doing. Tell you what, if you see me passing up an opportunity for love, let me know.”

  He cracked a smile.

  “That I can do.”

  “Good,” I said, staring out at the road ahead.

  It was long, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.

  Flashback

  When I was a child, I used to cry when I heard ambulance sirens.

  Somebody out in the world was hurt, or sick, or dying.

  It filled me with an immense, permeating sadness.

  One day, my mom pulled me into her lap and murmured, “Don’t cry, my love. For the person who needs that ambulance, those sirens are the sweetest sound in the universe.”

  I was twenty years old when I learned just how right she was.

  It took twenty minutes for the sound of sirens to reach me, twenty achingly long minutes.

  My cheeks were already wet with salty bay water, but I could still feel the tears as they streaked downwards. Tears of relief, mingled with the grief.

  4

  Ainsley

  I had no concrete expectations for the house Alistair acquired in Ponderosa, Oregon. It would be large, of course, a showcase of his wealth. He would likely have hired someone to cook for the week, or ordered a week’s worth of catered meals to be delivered three times a day. But when it came to the details, I drew a blank.

  It was nevertheless shocking when the town car pulled up outside a sprawling, two-story farmhouse. Painted a cheery cream color, with cornflower blue shudders and window boxes filled with violas adorning each window, the place was a far cry from anywhere I had ever imagined Alistair stepping foot. There was a wide wraparound porch, studded with rocking chairs, and a brick-red barn towering behind the
main house.

  Grudgingly, I found myself falling in love with the place. There was a genuine air to the estate, a sense that the farm had been plodding along for decades, maybe even centuries. It was kept up well, and the animals seemed happy enough. There were, of course, animals—a pair of bored-looking goats grazing in an enclosure with three gorgeous horses, a cluster of chickens making raspy noises, several snow-white Great Pyrenees lifted their heads to assess us before going back to lounging around. All in all, it was the opposite of what I had expected.

  “I don’t suppose he could’ve found somewhere a little less dusty,” Beau sniped, and I frowned at him.

  “You are the one who wanted to come all the way out here,” I pointed out.

  “Touché,” he sighed, grabbing his suitcase and making for the front door. The steps creaked pleasantly as we ascended them. It wasn’t as if they were falling into disrepair—rather, the house was greeting us, letting us know that it was far from new, but had a rich history to share.

  “I would have thought Alistair would be out here to greet us,” I said, reaching for the brass doorknocker in the shape of a rooster. Before I could knock, however, the door flew open and there he was—resplendent in a suit that was far too formal for the farmhouse.

  “Ainsley,” he said, spreading his hands wide in a show of welcome that fooled neither of us. “Beauregard. Welcome to Abshire Manor.”

  I regarded him warily, but Beau reached out a hand to shake Alistair’s. “Good to see you, Dad. Thank you for inviting us.”

  My brows furrowed, anger already bubbling to the surface after just ten seconds in my dad’s presence. Beau stepped pointedly on my foot, widening his eyes.

  “Alistair,” I said stiffly, keeping my hands in the pockets of my tailored jeans. “Are you going to let us in, or shall we set up camp here on the porch?”

  Alistair narrowed his eyes, but stepped back to let us cross the threshold. “Of course, of course. Come in, make yourselves at home. Sydney went for a walk, she should be back momentarily.”

  “Is her son here yet?” Beau asked, making a big show of being polite. “And his friend—what were their names?”

  “Dominic and Carson,” Alistair said, smiling easily. “They should be arriving at some point this evening. I have an elaborate dinner planned for tonight, of course. Speaking of which, here are your schedules for the week. I expect you to adhere to them.”

  Ah, I thought, there it is. The first of many hoops through which he expects us to jump.

  I glanced down at the schedule and let out a high peel of laughter. “You have broken the entire week into mandatory activities and meals. My god, every minute is accounted for. I don’t suppose you considered the possibility that we might not want to have our movements dictated while we are here?”

  Alistair’s smile hardened almost imperceptibly. Beside me, Beau shifted—though I wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable or amused.

  “Always pushing limits, aren’t you?” Alistair said, his voice almost lethally calm.

  “You lost the right to impose limits upon me decades ago,” I said coldly.

  Beau stepped between us, ready to intervene. “We’re barely in the door, do you both think we can leave the fighting until we’ve at least unpacked?”

  He was right, of course. The smart thing to do would be simmering down, getting my feet under myself before engaging in a verbal duel with my estranged father. But at that moment, I wasn’t feeling particularly smart. I was feeling reckless.

  “Surely Alistair doesn’t need any more time to rehearse his defense,” I told Beau, though I was really speaking to Alistair. “He took the time to painstakingly construct this frankly insulting schedule, knowing full well that I would object. We may as well get this first fight over with.”

  Alistair’s eyes widened, and he puffed himself up.

  “I don’t think—” began Beau, but Alistair cut him off.

  “Very well, Ainsley,” he sneered. “You are here at my bequest, to meet the newest members of our family. I see no reason that you shouldn’t adhere to the schedule. Unless I misjudged your maturity—tell me, will you be picking petty arguments all week? Would we be better off without your company?”

  I scowled at him. “I cannot believe that you would demand we come all this way, only to have the audacity to hand us a schedule for the week. That is not how adults conduct themselves, family or not.” A vein was twitching in his forehead, and I felt a surge of triumph at the indication that my words were actually having an effect on him. “And on the subject of family—these people you have chosen to bring into your life are not my family. Frankly, neither are you. Families interact with one another more than once a decade, they care for each other, accept each other.”

  “And I haven’t cared for you?” Alistair said darkly. “All the resources I poured into you, and you don’t consider yourself cared for? It is clear that the millions of dollars I invested in your education were wasted. You stand before me, a grown man, throwing a temper tantrum.”

  I scoffed. “My tuition hardly scratched the surface of a million dollars. Do Stapletons exaggerate now? Is that the new standard?”

  “Watch your tongue,” Alistair bit out. “You think the library at Willowbry Academy was named after a different Stapleton? I was investing in your future before you were even conceived, and I would thank you not to forget it.”

  “How could I?” I shot back. “You thought that you could buy my affection with school tuition and a trust fund. You assumed that dollar bills were the only requirement for successful parenting. It never even occurred to you that I might want some contact, some love from my parents. So, no. I will never forget the money you invested in me. Because I would trade it a thousand times over for a parent who actually cared about me.”

  “Ainsley,” Beauregard warned, but I shook my head.

  “I am not in the habit of holding my tongue, Beau. That skill has never served me,” I said.

  Alistair’s face was going bright red with fury, and he muttered ender his breath, just loud enough for us to hear, “What an utter disappointment.”

  “That’s enough,” Beau snapped, glaring at Alistair.

  Well, it certainly didn’t take Beau long to break, I though.

  “Something to add, Beauregard?” I asked, eyes narrowed.

  “You asked me to convince him to come out here,” Beau said, clearly trying to tamp down on his anger, “under the guise of making amends. You said nothing about dictating our time once we arrived. You can hardly blame him for being pissed.”

  “I assumed it would be understood—there should not be a need for me to spell these things out, Beauregard,” said Alistair, sounding deeply put-upon.

  “That is laughable, Alistair, it really is,” I barked, shaking my head derisively. “You never once showed up for a single important event in my life—let alone in Beau’s. And yet you expect us to adhere to your schedule of family dinners and horseback riding and wine tasting? Tell me, are you forgetting how little you enjoy our company, now that you are staring down the barrel of seventy years on earth?”

  He was just opening his mouth to retort when the front door banged open once more and a pair of men came barreling through it, laughing and jostling one another. They looked to be mid-to-late twenties, both considerably shorter than my six-foot-two inches. The smaller of the two was wearing thick-rimmed glasses and had immaculately-styled hair. But I barely noticed him, entranced as I was by the second man.

  Stocky and tan, he had sandy hair and gorgeous green eyes framed by thick lashes. His expression was open and delighted right up until the moment when he noticed Beau, Alistair, and myself. Then shutters seemed to close behind his eyes, his smile going bland and polite. Slow to warm up to strangers, then. I wanted desperately to know what was going on in his mind, hidden away behind his captivating features.

  Dear god, it had been more than a decade since I had last felt drawn to someone this way, and that had been Callie. My de
ar, sweet Callie—she was the only person I had ever loved, and our year together had been eye-opening and bittersweet. So, it was jarring to feel those butterflies suddenly reappearing in my stomach, the race of my pulse, the pounding of my heart. Because the man before me was the opposite of Callie…he was strong and distant, and most importantly, a man.

  And then, of course, there was the distinct possibility that the guy who was making my palms sweat might be my new stepbrother. I had no desire to touch that thought with a ten-foot pole, so I tore my gaze away from his—when had our eyes locked?—and glared at Alistair once more.

  Alistair had shifted seamlessly into the role of amiable host, a convincing smile plastered onto to face and an ease to his posture. “Dominic, Carson. How good to see you both. Welcome to Abshire Manor.”

  “Nice to see you, Alistair,” said the one with the glasses, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Is my mom around here somewhere?”

  Relief flooded me. This was Dominic, Alistair’s new stepson, which made his gorgeous friend not my stepbrother. I still could not identify quite why that was such a relief, but I felt better nonetheless.

  “She went for a walk around the property, I assume she will be back before long,” Alistair replied easily.

  “Good,” said Dominic, his eyes glinting. “I wouldn’t want her to hear you fighting like that. You know she’s supposed to be avoiding stress.”

  Alistair blinked at Dominic, then glanced back at Beau and me.

  “Of course, you are quite right. I didn’t realize you heard that—perhaps the Manor needs a thicker front door. Let’s put this behind us, shall we?” he asked.

  Beauregard shrugged, but I shook my head, suddenly right back in the thick of it.

  “You lost the right to tell me when to hold my tongue.”

  “Ainsley,” hissed Alistair.

  “No,” I snapped, “I refuse to spend the week speaking only on your terms. If you want someone to worship the ground you walk on and let you call all the shots, you might have better luck with your new stepson.”