EIGHT ROWAN

EIGHT

Rowan

I CALL my cousin after dinner, bracing myself for a blast of icy indifference, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“Why are you calling me at eight o’clock on a weeknight?” This is August’s usual greeting, always so warm and open.

Ha.

“What, are you an old man who’s in bed early on weeknights?” I’m giving him shit because it’s one of the only ways to disarm him. My father describes August as a, and I quote, tough nut to crack.

I’ll say. The guy never cracks. Ever.

“No. You just never call me out of the blue like this unless you want something.” He pauses for only a moment. “What do you want?”

“I need you to do some research for me if you have the time.” I settle into my desk chair and crack open my laptop, logging in and going straight to Google, opening the search page I conducted earlier.

“On who?”

August has become my go-to person for digging up information. He’s really good at it, with hacker tendencies he claims he picked up from his aunt Sylvie. I wouldn’t doubt if what he’s told me is true. She’s pretty sly, and I heard back when she went to Lancaster Prep, she could actually hack into the computer system and change grades and shit.

Talk about lucky.

“Winston and Marietta Hartley Thomas.” My gaze locks on the photo of the couple I’m talking about. They’re attractive for old people, I’ll give them that. From what I could glean off the internet, he’s a big-time finance guy and she doesn’t do shit but spend his money and hang on his arm at various social events.

After what Bells told me earlier, I hate them on sight.

I hear the clacking of keys as August types and I wait patiently for what he might discover while I scroll through the boring articles I did find. Whatever search engine and access August has, he discovers way more information on someone than I ever could. This is why it’s good to keep him in your back pocket. His scary stealth searching skills are unmatched.

“Why do you give a shit about these two?” he asks me at one point.

“I go to school with their daughter.”

“Hot for her?”

“No,” I lie.

“Uh huh.” There are a few taps and clicks on the other end. “Check your email. I want to Zoom with you.”

I go into my inbox and open the Zoom link he sent me. Within seconds I’m facing August, who’s sitting on his couch, the glow of his laptop the only light in the room. He’s scowling, which is a normal look for him, and I realize I’ve basically modeled myself after him over the last couple of years.

“I’m going to share my screen with you.” A couple of clicks and there’s his screen, showing a large photo of Winston and Marietta standing together at some party where he’s in a tux and she’s clad in a black sequin gown, both of them wearing phony smiles and lifting their glasses in a toast. “These two hang out with some of Manhattan’s most elite.”

“How much are they worth?”

“Approximately …” He’s tapping away again before he goes quiet for a moment. “Twenty-five mill, give or take.”

Compared to Lancasters, that doesn’t feel like much.

“Where do they currently live?” That I couldn’t figure out, which was frustrating. If they live in New York and were purposely ignoring Arabella, I might come for them.

Correction. I know I’ll come for them. Hurting their daughter is the equivalent of kicking a puppy in the gut. When I think about these people, all I can see is red.

“Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong?” I repeat.

“Financial capital of the world. They come back to New York often though.”

“How often?”

“Umm … they were here last week. Brief stay for the both of them.”

“And they didn’t even try to see her,” I mutter.

“Who?”

“Their daughter.”

“The one you want to fuck.”

“I don’t want to fuck her,” I practically growl, which only makes August laugh.

“Uh huh. Sure. Why else would you be pissed at her shitty parents?”

He’s right. Not that I view Arabella as a casual fuck. Honestly? I don’t view any girl like that. But I do look at her like she’s someone … different.

Like she matters.

As if she’s special.

What the hell? I don’t think anyone is special. But I am protective over her. Abnormally so. Seeing her walk around campus and in class all day wearing my jacket? Felt like a claiming. As if I were telling people hey, she’s mine .

She belongs to me.

But that’s impossible. No one belongs to anyone, and she would agree. I have a lot of nerve, getting all territorial over her when I don’t feel for her like that.

Feel for her like what? My brain asks me.

I can’t even begin to explain it.

“She’s a nice girl and I feel bad that her parents are never there for her.” This is all true—it’s just not all of my truth.

“That is some bullshit,” August mutters as he still types. “But you can’t change her parents. What’s done is done.”

“I know that,” I say irritably. “I’m just—curious. Who are these people? Why are they such shit parents? How much of a life has she had with them?”

“Are you referring to Arabella Margaret Hartley Thomas?” The amusement in August’s voice is obvious.

“Yes,” I bite out.

“Age seventeen. Birthday is November 29 th —coming right up. Born in London, England, to her British father and American mother. Supposedly he’s a distant cousin of Princess Diana.”

A somewhat confirmation of the royalty rumors that swirl around her. “That’s her.”

“She lived all over the world when she was younger. England. The US. Japan. Her father bounces around from one firm to another.” August is quiet as he takes in information. “She’s been in boarding schools since she was in the fifth grade.”

“Fifth grade?” We went to day schools where we got to come home and be with our parents every night, and only went to boarding school beginning our freshman year in high school because it’s a Lancaster tradition. “That’s young.”

“Eleven and on her own. She went to a few different schools in the early years but remained steady once she showed up at LP her freshman year. Graduating with you this May.” August taps a few more keys. “I’m sending you links so you can read up on the Hartley Thomas family.”

“Thank you.” I grip my phone tightly, feeling the vibration of my text notifications. “I appreciate you taking care of this so quickly.”

“That’s what family is for. Need anything else?”

“No—”

“See you at Thanksgiving.” August ends the call before I can say another word.

Typical.

I go into my text messages and hit the first link to find it’s an article about Arabella’s father and his enormous success in the finance industry. There are brief mentions of his wife. An even briefer, singular mention of their daughter, but that’s it.

The next article is from a magazine featuring their home in the English countryside. It’s about eight years old, which would make Arabella around nine or ten and she’s in a few of the photos. One in particular, she’s wearing a short white dress constructed almost entirely of rows and rows of ruffles. Ruffled skirt and bodice and sleeves. Her hair is pulled back in a matching white headband and her little face is solemn as she stares into the camera. She’s not wearing glasses but she’s squinting, and I wonder if she could see.

I wonder if she was happy. She doesn’t look like she was.

My heart actually fucking pangs in sympathy and that never happens. I can’t even pinpoint the exact moment when I switched over from my even-keeled self to a grumpy motherfucker—

That’s a lie. I can pinpoint it. It was a girl’s fault. A girl who doesn’t even attend Lancaster Prep any longer, who was a year older and toyed with me only because I was a Lancaster. She acted like she cared, while behind my back, she was fucking some other guy. I was so gone for her that when I found out about her betrayal, I told myself never again. I’m too young and we’re too fickle at this point in our lives. I’d rather wait it out and find a woman when I’m in college, if I even go. Maybe I’ll meet a woman who’s part of the same social circles. Who understands this life I lead, because not many do.

Bells would. She lives it too. Though no one really has money like my family does …

I find another photo of Arabella from the home interior article. She’s sitting atop her massive bed, the pink velvet comforter so thick I swear I can see the texture of it in the photo. Her room is straight out of a fairy tale, and I wonder if she loved it. If she ever got to spend time there when she was a child, considering she was always shipped away to boarding school.

Probably not.