He really took it.
Ben stole Dad’s journal.
“I can’t believe we found it,” she says.
“I don’t get why he didn’t just incinerate the thing,” Rhys says.
I close my eyes. I feel like I may topple over. The man I’ve known since I was a baby, who taught me to skateboard, to play lacrosse, to recite all the lines to Monty Python’s Holy Grail before I was even allowed to watch it. Where is that man right now? What is he doing—laughing, eating, talking on the phone?—while I’m standing in his house, my whole world crashing down around me?
Ben Fleming is a liar, and I’m holding incontrovertible proof of it. He betrayed my mother and my dead father. And me. Ben has betrayed me, because Jax—not just the company, but the friendship it stood for—was the only thing I had left of my father. The thing that I got up in the morning for. And now that’s gone.
I want to ruin him. Take the evil son of a bitch down. I will.
“Was there anything in it? Like stuck inside?” I’m trying to keep my voice steady, but I’m sure Dele isn’t fooled.
“Sorry, Shorie,” Dele says. “No letter.”
My fingers lightly brush the cover. “I’m going to go look in the master bedroom. Just in case you missed something.”
“You okay?” Dele asks.
“Yeah.” But I turn away, my eyes burning. I need to be alone. Right now.
As I head down the narrow hallway, I hear Dele in the living room.
“Oh my God, a joint. Aren’t old people so cute?”
“Do not smoke that!” I yell back at them.
“Check!” Rhys yells. Dele bursts into laughter.
I slip into the last room on the right. I’ve been in Sabine and Ben’s bedroom before, but it was when I was much younger and wasn’t really paying attention. This time I am. The curtains are green, the bedspread is eggplant and pink, and their room is painted a strange shade of blue. Yale blue, I think, picturing Arch’s tie. The ancient sweatshirt he wore every winter.
Ben’s side of the room is neat, but Sabine’s looks like a very expensive flea market exploded. Her jewelry hangs from every available knob and handle and mirror corner. Hats adorn the bedpost, and a collection of strange art covers the walls from ceiling to baseboard.
A picture stuck in the corner of her dresser mirror catches my attention. I pluck it out. It’s faded, taken a long time ago, when she was young. High school Sabine, with a boy’s short haircut, dressed in her school’s green-and-white track uniform. Tanned legs for days. And oh my God, the angle and the light . . . what the photographer did with the lens or whatever makes her look like a fairy princess.
I turn it over. Just a date, 1989, and one word, Hermes.
Sabine was a senior in ʼ89. I know because so were Ben and my dad. They were all seniors at Mountain Brook High School. Best friends, and they also ran track. I don’t know if any of them were any good. Obviously Sabine would win for Most Like a Greek Goddess.
Stupid Ben. Stupid, horrible, selfish Ben’s ruined all of it . . .
I hear the front door open, the scrabbly scraping of dog claws, and the clink of keys on a table. My heart throbs in panic. I peer around the doorway and down the hall, just in time to see a huge dog with a curly honey-colored coat bound through the entryway, toward the back of the house.
“Tiger!” yells a woman. “Oh shit.”
I shrink back from the open door and listen, my fingers prickling with adrenaline. Is she following the dog back to the living room? What should I do, just saunter in after her like I was back here using the bathroom?
But then I hear the keys jingle and the front door open again. I hold my breath. She’s going back out; she must have forgotten something in her car. I jam the photo back into the corner of the mirror and hurry down the hall and into the living room. Tiger, a frowsy goldendoodle, leaps on me, covering me in slobbery kisses, then does the same to Dele and Rhys.
“Guys!” I whisper. “Guys! It’s Sabine! She’s here!”
Rhys and Dele straighten, putting on their most innocent faces, and seconds later Sabine appears in the room, a neon-pink leash looped in her hands.
“Oh, hi there, Shorie.” She cocks her head at Rhys and Dele. “Hello.”
“Hey, Sabine,” I say.
She doesn’t look all that surprised to see me. For that matter, she doesn’t seem perturbed to see a couple of kids she’s never met sitting on her sofa right next to a saucer full of weed ash and a half-smoked joint.
I suddenly see young Sabine from the photo. The glowing, perfect goddess with the perfect legs and cap of golden hair from the picture in her bedroom. She’s older now, a lot older, but she’s still fabulously pretty, and I wonder how Ben could be cheating on her. But what do I know? Maybe when it comes to love, looks aren’t everything.
She smiles her trademark Zen smile and tosses the leash onto a chair. But I notice her eyes are full of concern.
“Shorie?” she says. “Is there something wrong?”
37
ERIN
Jess settles back, eases out her legs on the stone floor. “My mom and dad met at a sit-in in Greensboro, North Carolina. Like it was not enough that they were making history sitting at a lunch counter, but also they were falling in perfect, fairy-tale love. And then they had my brother and me.”
I nod.
“Both of us crush it academically. Both of us”—she sighs—“head to the Ivy League, then naturally, get our MBAs. And then, in no time, we’re taking our rightful place in the Wall Street firms of our choice. Sister Jess, at J.P. Morgan in New York. Brother Matt, not at J.P. Morgan, but still a respectable bank.
“Things seem good. I’m moving up, up, up, but Matt isn’t. He’s just sort of stagnating in no-man’s-land. For a while I feel sorry for him, until reality hits me. Or rather, I hit a ceiling of my own. I’m not going any higher; that much has been made abundantly clear from every executive I encounter on the top floor. So here we are, the golden children, disappointing our parents, the ones who taught us we could and should change the world.”
“That’s a lot of pressure to be under.”
She nods. “All parents want their kids to do better than they did. But how do you top sticking your foot up the ass of Jim Crow?”
“Good point. So what happened?”
“Two years ago, we were back home in New Orleans. After dinner—and one too many drinks—Matt told me why he seemed so chill with his dead-end job. He had been stealing from his company for months. Little amounts here and there, accumulating quite a tidy sum. He dumped the money in an offshore account and nobody ever had a clue. And then he stopped.”
Her eyes go unfocused.
“They never caught him, and, I don’t know, I couldn’t quit thinking about what he’d done. How smart he was, and what a fool I was, still thinking I had to play by the rules. Anyway, on that same trip, I happened to meet a woman. Married, in town on business.” Jess hesitates. “She was stunning. Smart as hell and southern. Body to die for. I don’t know. It was the right time, I guess. The perfect storm of where I was in my life and where she was in hers.”
“Was her relationship an open one?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. And you can judge. I’m not proud of what I did; just know that I was in love, so to me, it felt right, at least on some level. Anyway, after that weekend, she went back home to her husband, and I went back to New York. But we talked every day. Texted, Skyped, the whole deal. I was overwhelmed . . . engulfed. In love.” She sighs again. “And that’s probably why I ignored all the warning signs.”
“Warning signs?”
“She didn’t want me to come to her. She always flew up to see me. And . . . I know I shouldn’t have . . . but I introduced her to my parents. I didn’t tell them she was married. They would’ve hated it. I just wanted them to know who I loved.”
The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Something is coming, I can feel it. Something very, very ba
d.
“I’m pretty sure she had somebody else, I mean, other than her husband, in addition to me. She was just that type—always scanning the horizon for the next best thing. But she insisted she didn’t want us to break up. She told me if I’d just be patient we’d end up together, and I believed her. She’d come to town, and we’d have this amazing time. Then she’d go back to her husband—or whoever—and ignore my texts for a couple of weeks until she decided she needed to see me again.”
“Seems cruel,” I say.
Jess nods. “When we were together she was so attentive. Completely present. She had this way about her. Made me feel so safe and loved. I wanted to tell her everything. My struggles trying to be the good daughter. My drinking. I even told her what my brother had done.” She laughs. “That got her interest. She asked some very specific questions. Like, she-might-be-planning-to-try-it-herself specific.”
Alarm ripples through me for a second time.
“That was January. Spring and summer, everything seemed fine. Then, in late July, we had a fight. A big one, about her husband and the other person she was sleeping with. She made this crack about how I was disloyal because I’d told her about Matt’s crime. I got scared, then. Made her swear she wouldn’t say anything to anyone. She just laughed. She said why would she rat on Matt when she’d been implementing the plan at her own company since the spring. It was me, she said, who couldn’t be trusted to keep the secret.
“About two weeks ago, she came to New York and everything seemed back to normal. She was affectionate with me, acting romantic, making promises. She wanted to go out to this new place, this bar in Tribeca where a bunch of celebrities were supposed to hang out. We went, had a couple of drinks. Then things got hazy. Next thing I know, I’m waking up on Prince Street with nothing. My purse was gone, all my credit cards and phone and keys. Even my shoes were gone. And I didn’t remember a thing.”
My alarm has ramped up another level. “She roofied you. Did you report her?”
“I should have. I was angry. And it was so wrong, what she did. But I just . . . I couldn’t bring myself to get her in trouble.” She studies her blood-encrusted nails. “I called my parents. And in approximately twelve hours they were in the city, putting me on a plane to Hidden Sands. For my drinking problem.”
I can feel the force of her stare, almost like a physical blow. But I don’t want to meet her eyes. I can’t. A strange chemical taste fills my mouth. The taste of fear.
“What’s wrong, Erin?” Jess says quietly.
I don’t reply.
“Aren’t you going to ask me her name? The name of the woman whom I gave away my brother’s secrets to?”
I can’t speak.
“Don’t you want to know who the blonde with the perfect body from Alabama is? Who that woman is, who is so talented—so incredibly adept—at drawing people to her and convincing them that she loves them?”
“I think I already do,” I whisper.
“Yes. I think you do.”
But I still have to say it out loud. I have to say her name. My best friend.
“It’s Sabine Fleming.”
Jess is quiet for a moment. “I would say this to you: if she did everything I laid out for her, everything Matt did at his bank, my guess is that she’s stolen at least a quarter of a million from your company since March. Since your husband died.”
38
SHORIE
I jam Dad’s journal into the back of my shorts and pull my T-shirt out over it. It makes me stand up really straight.
“Shorie? Sweetheart,” Sabine says. “It’s the middle of the week. What in the world are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. This is her freaking house, hello.
“I had to run Tiger to the vet,” she says. “But you should be in class, right?”
Her face fills with motherly concern, and I burst into a fountain of tears. It kind of surprises me. My first thought had been to play up a whole homesick act. Turns out I actually am homesick.
“Oh, Shorie,” Sabine says.
“I’m sorry,” I sob. “The key was where it always has been, and I thought it would be okay . . .”
“Honey, it’s okay.” Instead of hugging me, she turns her attention to corralling Tiger, who, at the sound of my crying, has started barking again.
“I was having a rough day. A rough couple of days, and I just wanted to see some familiar faces.” I sniff, but the tears continue to flow. Mindful of the journal in my shorts, I lower myself gingerly to the sofa. Tiger leaps on me and sprawls across my lap.
“Is everything with school okay?” Sabine asks.
“Yes. I just really miss . . . everything. Everybody.”
“Shorie,” Sabine says. “You know you are always welcome here. And your friends, of course. Just give me a call next time. You kind of gave me a start, standing in here like that.” She picks up the saucer with the joint and heads for the kitchen.
Dele punches my thigh and shoots me a meaningful look, but I can’t focus. My phone dings against my butt—another email notification, maybe from Ms. X’s account. From the kitchen, I hear the fridge open, drinks clinking in the door. I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.
“Y’all want some kombucha?” Sabine calls out.
“Sure,” Dele answers.
“Sure,” I say too. I’m jittery now—sweating and jangly all over with the worst nerves I’ve ever felt. I wish I’d come up with a better plan before getting into this mess.
“Oh! I just remembered,” she calls from the kitchen. “I have kale chips too!”
“Oh, good,” Rhys whispers. “Kale chips.”
“Go,” I hiss to them. “I’m going to stay.”
“No way,” Rhys says. “What if Ben figures out you found the journal?”
I keep my eyes trained on the kitchen doorway. “I’ll think of something.”
And then, the front door slams open, and Ben and Layton walk into the living room. They’re both dressed in running clothes, flushed and damp. Tiger starts his freak-out routine again, running around, barking at the top of his lungs, and Ben gives me a strange look. I give him one right back, then Layton gives me a hug.
Sabine bustles in, sets the tray down, and kisses Ben. I can feel the tension between them—or at least I think I can. Maybe I’m so freaked out, I’m imagining things. Over the din Tiger’s making, I introduce my friends to Ben and Layton and repeat the homesick story. While I jabber away, I keep tabs on Ben and Rhys, watching for any indication that they know each other. But they both act pretty normal. That is, if I’m any judge of what normal means.
“So,” Dele says to Ben. “Out for a jog?”
I widen my eyes at her, but she just smirks.
“They’re training for the Mercedes Marathon,” Sabine says.
Layton shows me a picture on her phone of Foxy Cat curled up on one of her chairs in the sunlight. She tells me how great Foxy’s doing, then says she should be getting home.
“I’ll take you,” Sabine volunteers, and when they’re gone, we all sit.
“So the Mercedes Marathon’s not until February, right?” I say. “You’re training already? And on a weekday?”
“We wanted to get an early start.” Ben sits, stretches out his leg, and rubs his knee with a grimace. “So we don’t drop dead in the process. You know how unpredictable the workweek can be. We take our opportunities when we can get them.” He looks at me. “What’s up, Shorie? It’s good to see you. Surprising, but good.”
“I just needed a break, that’s all,” I say. “Would you mind if I stayed here one night? I don’t want to sleep at my house alone.”
“You really shouldn’t miss school this early in the semester.”
Dele leans forward. “I’m in two of her classes, and they’re . . .” She makes a pshh sound. “Shorie’s so smart, a couple of days off shouldn’t be any problem.”
Then Rhys chimes in. “I can find so
meone to take notes for you in class. If you need me to.” He’s got this smug smile, which is funny—but sweet too.
Ben asks us more about school; then at last, Dele and Rhys say they have to go. I tell them not to worry about me, I’ll be fine. Ben escorts them to the front door, and I hear him thank them for looking after me and tell them to be safe driving back. After they’re gone, he walks back in the room.
“What’s going on?” he says, and this time I can tell he means it for real.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just tired. I’d love to lie down for a minute.” That happens to be true. But also, I’m desperate to get this stupid journal out of my shorts.
“You can stay in the guest room,” Ben says. “A day or two, if you don’t mind a little Tiger hair on the comforter. But you know how your mom feels about you staying in school.”
“I know.”
He sighs. “Come on. I’ll help you change the sheets.”
While Ben is gathering the sheets from the hall closet, I hide the journal under a skirted chair. He returns, and we go to work on the bed.
“Talk to me, Shor,” he says. “I can tell something’s going on.”
“I’m having a hard time,” I say. “School’s a lot harder than I thought.”
His eyebrows shoot up.
“Not the classes, just . . . the other stuff. The people, I guess. I don’t think I’m adjusting very well.”
Ben examines the quilt. “Interesting. You know, I told your mom you aren’t the kind of girl who’s going to be easily distracted by things like football games and fraternity parties.”
“You did?”
“Yes. You’re a feeler, Shorie. It’s your strength.”
I go very still. Lots of people have made fun of me for studying too much or understanding a calculus problem just by looking at it, but never because I felt things too deeply. It makes me feel good. But mad, too, that Ben can break down my defenses with one stupid compliment. I need to remember what he’s done. I need to remember that he’s the enemy.
I smooth the blanket and tuck it under the mattress. Ben does the same, but his side looks like crap. The next thing I say comes out of me in a rush. “Are you going to leave Sabine?” The words hang there, awkward and irretrievable. But I’m not sorry I said them. I’m curious to know how he’ll answer.
Until the Day I Die Page 21