“I usually meet up with a friend for lunch.”
I nodded. I’d thought for a moment he was going somewhere with his questioning. Guess he was just being polite.
But then he cocked his head in my direction. “Join us?”
The friend, it turned out, was Brett Larrabee. I’d been aware of Brett from the parties at The Keep, but we’d never officially met, and I was glad for the introduction. An extremely extroverted, politically conservative, openly homosexual African American, Brett was an oxymoron, and I found him absolutely intriguing.
He was also quite a talker. He’d led us to a small Vietnamese café, that was surprisingly not busy considering how good the food was, and proceeded to monopolize the majority of the conversation while we ate.
I didn’t mind. I was happy just to be included on the excursion. Every few minutes I had to remind myself I was awake, that this wasn’t a dream. That I was actually sitting at a table making a fool of myself with chopsticks in front of Weston King.
“The DOW is down, the DOW is down, the DOW is down,” Brett said with weary distress as he scrolled through his financial app on his phone. Even though he talked a lot, he still managed to eat the fastest. He’d finished and had been playing on his cell for the last five minutes. “The Fed better not raise interest rates. It is not the time.”
“Dad says it’s coming soon,” Weston said, pushing away his plate.
“Oh!” Brett’s head popped up with the news of something he’d just remembered. “Did you hear about Theodore Sheridan?”
Theo. I dropped my sticks at the mention of his name. Fortunately, I’d dropped them so many times, no one noticed. Hopefully no one noticed my hands shaking as I took a sip of my water, my throat suddenly dry.
Weston considered a minute. “Nothing interesting I can think of.”
Then you didn’t hear the one where he almost raped a girl in front of your own porch? At least it was reassuring to know that Donovan hadn’t told all his roomies. Not that I’d thought he was much of the sharing type.
Brett bent over the table and lowered his voice. “He got busted with more than a kilo of coke.”
“And you’re just mentioning this now?” Weston asked, as if reading my mind. Maybe Theo wasn’t a close enough friend for him to consider it headline news, but it was to me.
That wasn’t something I cared for anyone to know, though, so I kept my head low, scooting noodles around in my bowl. I’d lost any appetite that remained the minute I’d heard his name.
“Huh,” Weston said, running his hand through his hair. “I knew he had a problem with blow, but what the fuck was he doing to draw attention to himself?”
“I don’t know, but he was charged with intent to sell.”
“Theo doesn’t need money. He got his entire trust fund at eighteen.”
“He’s saying it’s all cooked up charges or something. Whatever. Daddy Sheridan will get him off, but he’s out for the year here.”
“Crazy.”
While it was a relief to think that Theo wouldn’t be around anymore, I didn’t get too excited by the thought that he’d face any prison time. Brett was right—his money and his privilege would get him off. Whether it was drugs or rape, he had the get out of jail free card.
Brett, seeming to be done with the Theo scandal, was ready for other gossip. “Did Numbnuts teach today?” he asked, leaning his chair back onto two legs.
“Actually,” Weston said, raising a brow in my direction, “it was Fuckwaffle.”
“That’s a nice one.” Brett turned his admiration to me. “You don’t like Donovan? I have to hear this."
Did I like Donovan? What a loaded question. My emotions where Donovan was concerned were like paperclips—I couldn’t pick up one without several others coming with it. I was grateful to him and resentful. Angry and preoccupied.
It wasn’t something I could begin to explain to myself, let alone someone I’d just formally met. Tugging on my ponytail, I tried to think like a typical disgruntled student. “He’s just…you know. A pompous, egotistical know-it-all. What about you guys? You live with him.”
Weston exchanged a glance with Brett. “That we do. And like I said, I love him like a brother. But sometimes brothers are hard to love. Do you have one?”
It was a smooth change of subject, one I wasn’t about to contest. Brett went back to playing with his phone, so I focused my answer just to Weston. “I have a sister. Audrey. But she’s easy to love. She’s thirteen and awkward and adoring.”
Weston sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and crossed his legs at his ankles. “She probably puts her eighteen-year-old sister up on a pedestal.”
“Seventeen,” I corrected.
“Seventeen?”
“I graduated high school early.”
“Kudos. That’s impressive.”
“Thank you.” I averted my eyes, embarrassed by the compliment, and sighed. “I’m still not sure I did the right thing deciding to come to school so far away from home.”
“Where are you from?” he asked and it almost felt like more than small talk, like he really wanted to know.
“Colorado, but it’s not really the distance that’s the thing. It’s that my mother died when I was twelve, and I feel bad leaving my dad and Audrey alone.” I knew he probably didn’t get it. He was from a world of nannies and chauffeurs and housekeepers and tutors. There was no such thing as alone. “What about you? Do you have siblings? Not like Donovan, but blood related?”
He’d started nodding before I’d finished the question. “I have a sister. She’s ten, and we’re in completely different worlds.” He puckered his lips as he thought, which was ridiculously unfair, since I was already on hormone overload. “I really grew up closer to Donovan, even though he’s four years older than me. We went to the same school, were on the same chess teams. We row together. Our families vacation together. I’ve always had him to look up to.” He sat up straighter, leaning in as if confiding in me. “I guess I idolized him growing up.”
“But not now?”
“It’s different now.”
He let that hang, and I searched for the right words to prod further while, at the same time, trying to understand exactly why I wanted to know more—because the answer said something about Weston? Or because it said something about Donovan?
I decided not to prod.
But then Brett said, “He’s not the same since Amanda died. I’m a sophomore, so I didn’t know him very long before that.”
“Amanda?” Okay. I was definitely interested.
“Brett—” Weston warned.
Brett glared at him in return. “What? Are we not allowed to talk about it ever? He’s not even here.”
Weston paused for a beat. “Amanda was Donovan’s girlfriend. She died in a car accident a year ago. Around this time of year. Coming back to school after Thanksgiving, actually.”
The air left my lungs. “Oh my god! What happened?”
“Another driver didn’t check his blind spot. He drove into her lane and pushed her into oncoming traffic. They said she died instantly. She was closer to campus when it happened, so it was Donovan who had to identify her body.”
“That’s awful. I feel awful.” It was the kind of thing I’d say after hearing any sort of tragic tale, but I really meant it right now in a way I usually didn’t. In a way I couldn’t explain.
“They were the real deal, too,” Weston went on. “He wanted the house, the kids, the whole nine yards. He’d planned to ask her to marry him for Christmas. I think he might have even bought her the ring.”
She had to be the blonde in the picture on his mantle. He’d seen me looking at it just before he’d turned cold.
“Is that why he’s so…?” I searched for the word I was looking for. What was it exactly that Donovan was? Distant? Cut-off? Alone?
Weston seemed to get what I meant. “He wasn’t ever what I’d call friendly before that, but he’s harder now. Sharper too
. In some ways I think he’s become a better businessman, if that makes sense.”
“I think it does. It’s like when you lose one sense and so your others become more acute.” I had my mother’s death to draw on as experience, but it was my assault that I was thinking of now. How had I changed since then? Was I harder or sharper or more business savvy?
And what about the thoughts I had at night now, the dirty thoughts with Donovan?
“Yeah. Like that,” Weston said as the waiter set down the check.
I reached for my bag, but Weston shook his head. “No, I’ve got this.” He dimpled at me as he handed his card off.
“Thank you. That’s really nice.” It came off halfhearted, though, because I was still thinking about Donovan. I was pained by his pain, for whatever foolish reason. He certainly hadn’t shown any concern for mine. But more interestingly, I was fascinated by his pain. I could imagine how he carried it, where he stuffed the details of his misery. Inside this bottle of scotch. Under that heartless remark. Behind this wall of indifference.
He knew the secret I hid behind smiles and nods, and now I knew the agony he hid behind ice and steel.
Maybe we were finally even.
“Well,” I said, forcing my attention back to Weston, “you sound like you’ve been a good friend to him.”
“Because I give him notes as he lectures in class?” His tone was sarcastic, but I heard the hint of helplessness underneath. He really didn’t know how to help his friend, his brother.
It wasn’t like I had the answers, but at least I could reaffirm him. “Exactly because of that.”
He looked up from the credit card slip he’d just signed and studied me. “Sabrina, I think you did the right thing coming to Harvard. I’m sure your dad will do just fine with your sister. He seems to have done a great job with you.”
I chuckled dismissively. “You don’t even know me.”
“Sure I do. I know that you’re strong. That you’re resilient. That you’re smart—probably smarter than both Brett and me. You’re obviously beautiful.” He reached over to tug my ponytail. “And I know that you’re coming to my party on Saturday with me.”
The butterflies were back, though they were flying now as though they had pebbles for wings. This was everything I’d wanted, everything I’d hoped for. A date with Weston King. And all the murky, confusing feelings going on inside right now were probably just related to going to The Keep for the first time since Theo.
Yeah, that had to be it.
So. Smile. Nod. “I guess you do know me after all.”
But how could he when I was only just starting to figure me out for myself?
Five
Audrey: Dad won’t make stuffing if you aren’t here.
Me: Then make the stuffing yourself.
I moved my eyes from the chat box in the corner of my computer screen back to the Excel spreadsheet I was working on for Statistics. It was early Thursday afternoon, two days before Weston’s party, one day after he’d invited me to go with him, and I was still vacillating between so many emotions about it that all I felt now was anxious. My sister’s efforts to try and get me to buy a last minute flight home for Thanksgiving were not helping.
Another message popped up.
Audrey: But I don’t know hoowwww!!!!
Like a true teenager, my sister was as dramatic in her chats as she was in any conversation.
Me: You’re 13. Stove Top is cinch.
Audrey: But who’s going to put olives on their fingers and make olive monsters with me?
A notification showed up on the top of my laptop saying I had a new item in the Academic Portal.
Me: Put olives on Bambi.
Okay, Bambi was the dog. But seriously. I had homework to do. And homework to follow up on.
I clicked over to the Academic Portal and found that the new addition was to my Intro to Business Ethics folder. My corporate strategy and ethics awareness assignment that Donovan had said would be up this week. I opened up the scores and grades document and waited for it to load.
Audrey: Very funny. Come hommmmmeeee!!!!
Me: Aren’t you in class right now or something?
I hit return and then froze. There, on my screen where my A should be there was a big fat F.
No way.
Not possible.
I’d never gotten an F in my life.
I opened up the remarks for details. Student’s conclusions disregard the corporation’s economic responsibilities to its stockholders. Student speaks of moral high ground with poetic sentiment without considering how suggested actions will be funded. The student does not have a firm grasp of the concept of corporate strategy.
Goddamn, Donovan.
All I could see was red. I understood the concept of corporate strategy. It was Donovan who couldn’t understand the concept of an opposing opinion.
And this wasn’t just my pride hurt. This counted for more than half the class grade. I wouldn’t be able to get higher than a D if this wasn’t changed and my scholarship required a B average.
No. Whatever beef Donovan had with me, he couldn’t fuck with my grades.
Within a couple of minutes I’d looked up Velasquez’s office hours and found that he should be available for another hour. The weather was great for November—there hadn’t been any recent snow. I could make it if I hurried. If he looked over it, I was certain he’d see that my paper deserved to be re-graded and that Donovan was a fucking asshole.
The chat window dinged again.
Audrey: It’s study period.
Me: I have to talk to you later, Audrey.
I closed my laptop and headed across campus to fight for my grade.
Thirty-five minutes later, I stood outside Velasquez’s office. I’d tried to calm myself down on the walk over so that I could present all my points rationally to my teacher, but instead, I’d just gotten more worked up. The paper had been fifteen pages long. I should have gotten a C just for turning in the required length. As for my disregard to shareholders—I’d attached a detailed financial plan. If my math had been wrong, that should account for a point or two, but not entire letter grades.
It was obvious this wasn’t about my work—this was about Donovan. Why was he doing this to me? Part of me wondered if I should be going to The Keep instead, if it should be his door I should be banging on.
No. I wasn’t playing games. Velasquez would fix my grade and if Donovan got in trouble for giving me a bad score then he deserved it.
The door was closed, but I could see the light on through the frosted glass. I knocked and bounced my hip impatiently while I waited for my professor to respond.
“It’s open.”
I turned the knob and stepped into the office. It was the size of a shoebox, lined with mismatched library-style bookcases, so cramped that the door wouldn’t open all the way, and I had to shut it behind me to see Velasquez’s desk.
Then, fuck, it was Donovan sitting behind it in his place.
Goddammit all to hell.
The son of a bitch didn’t even look up from his laptop. “How can I help you, Sabrina?”
My hands were shaking. I stuffed them into my coat pockets. I couldn’t talk to Donovan. Not like this. Not when he’d already written me off. “Where’s Velasquez?”
“You have to schedule an appointment to see him.” His dress shirt was crisp white and his muscles bulged tightly against the fabric.
I’m not looking at him. “I’d like to do that then.”
“You can schedule online through the portal.”
Jesus. Of course.
I put my hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.
“He’s here on Fridays at three,” Donovan said to my back.
I did a mental scan of my schedule. “I have class then.”
“Then you’ll have to skip class. Or you’ll have to talk to me.” Finally, he looked up at me—caught me, caged me with those sharp, piercing eyes. “What can I help you with, Sabrina?”
“My grade,” I said.
He cocked his head, as if he had no idea what I meant, that asshole motherfucker. “What about it?”
Anger gave me courage. I pulled my hands out of my pockets and stepped toward him. “It’s not fair, and you know it. I understand that you don’t agree with my conclusions, but my reasoning was fair and sound, and I referenced many credible and reliable sources—”
He nodded to the chair facing the desk. “Sit down, Sabrina. You’re awfully worked up.”
He didn’t even ask me to sit. He told me. It was patronizing and infuriating. “I’d like to stand.” I was getting hot, though. I unbuckled my pea coat and threw it on the chair instead. “My paper was not ‘F’ work.”
He nodded and ticked his jaw a couple times as though considering. After a beat, he said, “I care to differ.”
“This is not subjective!” I yelled.
“It is, actually.” His tone remained composed, in perfect contrast to mine. “Unfortunately, for you, it’s my opinion that matters.”
God, the calmer he was the more worked up I got. He was goading me on purpose. I should leave. I knew I should leave.
I started for my coat then stopped. “Why are you doing this?”
“It’s sad, really.” Donovan shut his laptop and pushed it aside. Then he clapped his hands together silently as if praying and pointed them at me. “You showed such promise at the beginning of the term, Sabrina. But this last month you’ve become a different person. You’ve arrived late to class. You’re disengaged. You’re disruptive. The work you’re turning in—this paper—is less than acceptable. It’s a shame you’re letting the events of one night stain the rest of your life.”
His last sentence was heavy and weighted with subtext.
“Are you—?” I was incredulous. Was he really blaming this on what happened with Theo? “Oh, and you’re a perfect example of how not to let a tragedy stain the rest of your life.”
Dirty Filthy Rich Men Page 4