“He’s funny,” I say icily.
“You’re scary, no offense.” He coughs into his glove and checks over his shoulder. “You’re going to make me invite myself in, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
His eyes ping from each of us, his breath smoking the air. “I just…I wanted to tell her that I’m…” He lets out a weak laugh, his eyes reddening. I notice an unlit cigarette between his left-hand fingers. “Never mind, it’s fucking stupid…” He turns to leave.
I snatch his hoodie, drawing him back.
“What the fuck?” He spins around and gives me a familiar look that says, I don’t even understand you. You’re kind of insane. What the fuck.
“Are you asking her to prom?” I question. “Because this is the most pathetic proposal I’ve ever seen. You need flowers, first of all.”
“I’m not asking her to prom.” His voice shakes some, his nose red from the cold. “I came to tell her that I’m leaving, and I guess to tell you too.” He nods to Lily and then briefly glances at Loren, not holding his gaze for long.
“What do you mean?” Lily asks.
That’s when I see Connor in the distance, trekking back to our house. I snatch my coat off the hook and slip on a pair of nearby boots: Daisy’s, nearly the same size as me, thankfully.
“My parents handed me my only Christmas present this morning: a white envelope,” he says bitterly. “I…they are withdrawing me from Dalton and sending me to this boarding school for ‘proper guidance’ to finish my senior year.”
I pass Garrison on the landing, my hand freezing as I grip the railing, careful not to slip on the icy steps.
“Where is it?” Lily asks.
I head down the driveway, Garrison’s voice drifting in the background. “Upstate New York,” he says, “Faust Boarding School for Young Boys.”
A chill nips my spine. I approach Connor at a hurried speed, meeting him at the mailbox, where he has his hands in his coat pockets, unsurprised by my sudden appearance. He stands tall, unconcerned and unafraid of everything, despite just speaking to that detestable rodent.
“You went into the lion’s den,” I say, my throat raw from more than just the cold.
Connor shakes his head. “We’re the lions, Rose. Our den is right behind you.”
My nose flares. He’s saying that we’re stronger and better than Scott, but I can’t move past this. “What deal did you just make?” This—we did not agree upon. We did not discuss. We did not—
“None.”
He pops my thoughts. “You gave him road kill.”
His lips rise in a humored grin. “I’m not Lo.”
I should know what he did. He’s my husband, but I can’t see the answer that’s literally standing right in front of me. Snow begins to fall again, dusting our hair with flakes and wetting my nose and cheeks. I have to ask outright.
“What’d you do?”
“I gave him a bottle of expensive wine.”
My brows tighten. “You drugged him?”
His grin widens. “Rose, darling, come back to Earth.”
I perch my hands on my hips, eyes narrowed. “You just gave him a bottle of wine? What are you friends now…” My face falls. “No, Connor.” This is what he does. He fakes friendships and then slices them at the knees when he has no more use for them. “He’ll never believe you’re his friend.”
He holds my cold hand. “Scott isn’t smart. He’s self-righteous and irritating. He can be manipulated. I never had the chance to do this before, not in the constraints of the reality show, but I do now.”
“And you can just bear to make nice to him?” Hot tears try to well, impassioned and disgusted by the mere idea.
Connor’s hand rises to my face, his blue eyes assured but calm, so calm to my fervor. I want him to crack, to unleash his fury and appease my insides that begin to roil, but he can’t…or else we lose.
“My skin is crawling,” I shake. He probably shared fake laughter with Scott and even complimented him.
“Then you know how mine feels.” He seems so put-together, but it’s all inside—the things I can’t see, deep down, his disgust at having to befriend him.
“Can you stomach this?” I ask.
He nods once. “It’s our best chance.” And then he recites, “‘The worst is not. So long as we can say, this is the worst.’”
“King Lear.” Shakespeare. I try to push him off. “You just quoted a tragedy, Richard.”
He refuses to let me go, holding me closer. “I need you,” he suddenly says.
I freeze. “What?”
His gaze bores down on me. “I need you to keep looking at me like you’re going to burn a hole through my heart, and I need you to tell me that you love the real me. Every day, I need you, Rose. That’s how I’m going to stomach this.”
Without hesitation, I say, “Bien sûr.” Of course.
I can’t remember another moment where we’ve both been so unsure about the future. It’s as though we’re standing, hand-in-hand, at the edge of an obscured forest, riddled with iron traps and predators and prey. I only cling to one certainty.
We’re entering this tragedy together.
21
CONNOR COBALT
I lie in bed past 11 a.m., light streaming through the windows. January 3rd of all days, I try to sleep past the morning to cut out a chunk of time. I did this last year, and the day seemed somewhat shorter.
I roll onto my side, Rose already gone. My fingers graze the blankets, absent of a second warm body. My eyes lift a fraction, and I flinch.
Lily is perched on the vanity stool beside the door, wearing a white, furry Star Wars Wampa hat, jeans, and a Superheroes & Scones T-shirt in blue block letters. This may be one of the only days she’s dressed before me. She raises a hand and gives me a sheepish smile. “Hi.”
I sit and fix my tousled hair. She’s up to something. “What are you doing, Lily?” I grip the comforter, about to climb out of bed.
“Waitwaitwait!” she slurs, panicked. “Rose said you had underwear on, but I just need to confirm before you get up.” So Rose is a part of this. Lily rambles, “It’s not so much about my sex addiction, but just respecting my sister’s husband on his birthday.” She nods resolutely—and then flushes. “Not that I wouldn’t respect you on any other day.”
“I understand, Lily.” I smile, half-forced from the mention of my twenty-seventh birthday, the word instantly deteriorating my mood. “Thank you, and don’t worry, I’m clothed.” In navy flannel pants.
She lets out a breath while I stand, and then she springs to her feet, blocking the door.
My brows rise. “Are you holding me hostage?”
“You can take a shower,” she says, not denying the fact that she’s keeping an eye on me. “In fact, you should probably wear something nice today.” She keeps nodding. Then she adds, “Just…no one wants a repeat of last year.”
Last January 3rd, they all decided to throw me a surprise party. I surprised them by flying to Ontario for the day and returning home the next morning. No one was pleased but me, and I thought they learned their lesson.
I have no problem celebrating someone else’s birthday. If it holds meaning to them, that’s fine, but my birthday holds no meaning to me. My age has always been a restraint. It bars me from advancing as fast as I’m capable. I could’ve driven at twelve. I could’ve been an informed voter at thirteen. I could’ve outwitted professors at fifteen. I don’t like celebrating my age—this irritating, unbending nuisance that parallels with time.