I wished I had Cammie’s parents. They would have stayed longer than twenty minutes. Then again, they wouldn’t be on the run. They wouldn’t have broken the law.
“I can’t believe they are running.” I grabbed the tissue Cammie offered and blew my nose. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known. Mother wouldn’t do prison. Father would probably come apart at the seams. And both of them, regardless of their actions, seemed to think they were above punishment. And they must, despite all of my thoughts to the contrary, still have money. When I’d walked them outside, I’d watched their designer shoes clip right into a chauffeured Mercedes. No taxi for Mom and Dad.
“It just seems unfair,” I continued. “They aren’t getting punished at all. And I’m here, trying to pay off my tuition and…” And Mom was sashaying around town with a twenty-thousand dollar purse. It was so unfair that they were headed to a new life and so frustrating to know that any chance of us regaining a relationship was disappearing in that flight.
“Chloe.” Cammie pushed me upright. “Not to be bitchy, but I think this was actually good for you.”
“What?”
“You were pretty entitled before.” She shrugged. “You’ve changed from all this.”
“Entitled?” I raised my eyebrows at her. “You aren’t exactly scraping by on your Tahitian vacations.”
She leveled me with a look. “You were spoiled.”
“We were all spoiled.”
“But you’re nicer now,” she said gently. “You’re smarter. You see things differently. Before, you wouldn’t have given Carter the time of day.”
I laughed into a fresh tissue. “I kinda didn’t. Not in the beginning.”
“I’m sorry about your parents.” She said the words quietly and I hated the change in topic, the return to this ugly reality.
“Thanks,” I said flatly. “I just don’t know what to do with them.” I didn’t even think of calling the police. It seemed, no matter how flawed family may be, they were still that: family. They still required your love, your acceptance, your protection. Or maybe I’d just watched too many episodes of The Sopranos.
I crawled into bed that night and lay in the dark, the room spinning a little from the wine. Was I happy they had stopped by to say goodbye? I couldn’t, through all of my emotions, decide.
90. Was I Reading Too Much Into This?
I sat in the backseat of the Brantleys’ SUV, Chanel in my lap, and stared at the text from Carter.
We should talk. Dinner tonight?
Hmm. My first instinct was to run in the opposite direction. We should talk?
I hadn’t told him about my parents’ visit. Had sworn Cammie to secrecy so it was a non-event, something that had never happened. If the cops or FBI ever showed up, I wanted his statement to be truthful and non-discriminating. And it wasn’t like I was lying to him. I was just excluding facts.
Which … was kind of exactly what he did with me. Like how he conveniently failed to mention his parents’ wealth or their eight-million-dollar Fifth Avenue penthouse (Benta’s research, not mine). Granted, I really should have asked more questions. Or any questions. The ironic thing was, a few weeks ago, I didn’t really want details, assuming that his poor upbringing would make me feel guilty for mine. HA. Silly me.
I glanced up, toward Dante, the SUV idling at a red light. “I just got a text from Carter. He wants to talk.” The clear enunciation of the last two words would have had any female lifting her head in interest, eyes widening, full understanding instant. Dante simply sat there. Silent.
I leaned forward. “Did you hear me?”
“So?”
“So?” I repeated. A typical man’s response. “So what should I do? What could he want to talk about?”
“Why don’t you just ask him?” He said the words slowly, as if my brain might not process words spoken at any other rate of speed.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated, my fingers over the phone. What a simple and novel idea. One that might reduce my stress in the six or seven hours before dinner and This Talk. I blew out a breath, Chanel jumping up, her tongue licking at my jaw, and I smiled despite myself.
What do you want to talk about?
I stared at the question, then sent it, my text bouncing off satellites and landing before him, three little dots indicating an impending response.
My parents. The things I haven’t told you.
Oh thank God. I let out a sigh of relief and saw Dante’s eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror. “It’s nothing,” I blurted out. “I thought it was about me.” Or us. Or something Vic did. Or breaking us. Or a hundred other things because it seemed like all I’d done lately was mess up.
He coughed out a laugh. “Girls are so weird.”
I smiled despite the insult. It was kinda true. We are, in a million complex and unexplainable ways, weird.
But at least this dinner would be about him. I pulled my notebook from my purse and started to write down a list of Carter questions that I still needed answered.
Not just weird. We were organized. And procrastinators. Speaking of which, I still needed to quit. Dante pulled up to the Brantleys’ and I glanced up, deciding to put it off just a few more days.
91. A Grown-Up Conversation
“I didn’t mean to lie to you.” Carter pushed aside his bread plate and looked at me, the restaurant quiet, warm light from the candle between us flickering over his features.
“It wasn’t really a lie. More an omission.” He was too serious, his face drawn, and I watched him, trying to find the source of his tension.
“I knew what you thought, and I didn’t dissuade you. I’m sorry for that.”
“Was it a test?” That had been one of the first things I’d wanted to ask him. “Were you wanting to know if I was dating you because of your money?”
“I don’t really have money, Chloe.” He leaned forward. “My parents pay me a salary for my work at the apartment. And for the other two that I super. It’s not a lot.”
“But you will.” He was an only child, one thing I knew. And there had to be something to protect, his Mother all but accusing me of stealing her family fortune.
He nodded slowly. “When I’m thirty-five I gain access to my trust. My apartment—it’s part of that. As are a few other things.”
“Okay.” I shifted in my seat, unsure of why this conversation was so stiff. Unsure of, really, why we needed to have this whole production at all. He could have just shared this, over coffee in his kitchen, at some stolen point in the last three days.
“My mother called me. I wanted to talk to you about it, apologize to you properly for her actions at dinner.”
I didn’t know how I missed all of the clues. His excellent diction. His manners, almost formal at times. The way he held a glass, a fork. Maybe it was because I’d seen these things, men like him, my entire life and was blind to their traits. Maybe it was because a part of me liked the thought that he wasn’t like the boys I grew up with. Maybe I’d invented an alternative Carter in my mind and formed him into a rough creature he wasn’t.
Because the man before me was all polish and tact. Showing his breeding, his training, the expensive education. Then I remembered Vic’s bar, Carter’s launch into the room, the fists, the blood. I remembered being in the engine room with him, the dirt on his hands, the sweat on his chest, the grunt in his throat when he fucked me against the wall.