38. Drew

Istopped crying about twenty minutes ago. I've spent some time in Jericho's bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I've had a few sips of water, and I've checked my phone to see…

I think it's pretty obvious what I was wanting to see.

I didn't find it.

Jericho made it clear she wants to hear about my relationship with Olivier, and that she'd rather I didn't leave without talking to her about it. I figure it's part curiosity and partly because she can tell I'm not exactly walking around on Cloud Nine. Like I said, she's way too goddamn good for me, and I'm the asshole who'll use her as long as she'll allow it.

But I owe her an explanation, if that's what she wants, and maybe the last several months of her life back, so even if it's just curiosity she wants to satisfy, I'll give her that. It's the literal least I can do.

She brings out the Hennessy for this conversation, and I take a long drink of it to prime myself for discussing yet another painful topic.

"I want to start by saying, we had a pretty significant fight tonight, and I'm not sure it's gonna go any further from here, but it's only been going on a few weeks. Since after my birthday. It started kind of—I don't really know how to describe this."

"You want me to throw some words out there?" she asks.

"No, please—just know I really fucking hated him at first, too. Like I wasn't even mad at you about it at dinner—he can come off as a real prick. I've been watching him come and go for a long time now, so trust me—I got it. Anyway, it was kind of a fucked-up situation that went too far to a place I hadn't expected it to go."

"Objection, your honor, vague."

"I'm not gonna say more than that," I say. "Just that it wasn't okay. There were a lot of consent issues, and it was…rough…if I'm honest. Violent."

She looks genuinely surprised. "That doesn't sound like you."

I sigh heavily. "It was. It was maybe the worst part of me. I guess I tend to keep a lot in, and it all just…came out."

"He's engaged, isn't he? Am I wrong about that?"

"His engagement is a whole thing to do with his family and hers, and I really shouldn't talk about that."

"Who do you think I'm gonna tell?"

"I don't know, Jericho. It's just—these people—the old money people—they're a whole breed I can't even wrap my head around, and I've been up there watching them for years. They live by a different set of rules and priorities, and the engagement is more like a business arrangement. Which they're both fine with," I add, and yes, I do sound bitter about it.

"No shit," she says, her eyes sparkling with interest.

I guess it is pretty interesting when you don't have an emotional investment in either of them.

"So, he's actually gay?" she asks.

"Uh…no. I know this sounds terrible and cliché, but it just sort of happened. And I can't really explain it, but it went from unhinged to addicting really quick, and I don't know what that makes me or him because I'm still trying to figure it out."

"I can barely picture it."

"Jesus, I'd rather you didn't."

"But it fascinates me," she says.

"Is this easier than if it were another woman?" I ask.

"Kinda, yeah. It's almost cute?—"

"It is not cute."

She grins, "I mean…that pouty face of his, your whole grumpy bear thing—all soft for the rich boy."

"No one said I was soft for the rich boy."

"But you are," she says knowingly. "Aren't you?"

"Not right now, I'm not," I grumble.

"What happened?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Drew." She pours me another two fingers of Hennessy. "Let me help you for once. Jesus. If I don't get to be your girlfriend anymore, let me be your damn friend. Let me be something."

"I'm not good at talking about things like this."

She hands me my refill, and I take it. After the burn of whiskey wears off, I lean back on the couch and look up at the ceiling. "I don't want him to get married. I don't want him to be dependent on his parents for the rest of his life. He feels trapped now, but he's only making it worse, and he's just fucking scared."

"What's he scared of?"

"Losing his diamond safety net."

"Well, from what I understand, he should be scared, right? He's a socialite. He has no degree, no ambition, no skills?—"

"Yeah, I got it. I get it."

She puffs out a laugh. "Sorry. I just…"

"He's more interesting than he sounds."

"Okay. Go on."

"Elodie's in just as big of a mess, though. It's not just him. They're like puppies being forced to crate together to keep them from pissing on the floor."

Jericho snorts. "Effective analogy."

"This is strong," I say, looking down at my glass.

"That's why I brought it out." She takes another sip. "So what happens if they don't get married?"

"According to Olivier, he's cut off."

"You don't think he will be?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It matters what he thinks, and he believes it."

"And Elodie?"

I get a sudden flash of Elodie's face when she'd pulled away from Olivier to look at me earlier. The bruising. The cut. Her tears. "I think she'll do anything to get out of her house at this point."

"So, you said arranged. Arranged by whom?"

"Is this an interview?"

"It's interesting," she says.

"It's awful," I counter. "Fucking—medieval."

"I know, right? Like what a good story it is in modern-day society?"

I narrow my eyes at her. "Are you asking as a friend right now, or are you asking as an acquisitions editor?"

She gives an innocent shoulder shrug, and I get a flash of a thought. "It actually might make a good book."

"Yeah?" she asks, all smug and cute. "Pitch it to me."

"Upper East Side heirs tell all about what it takes to avoid working for the rest of their lives?"

"No," she laughs. "Go deeper."

"About…the dark side of inheriting an ass ton of money?"

"You're getting warmer. I'm listening…"

"The secret suffering of spoiled socialites."

"Sold."

I huff. "Yeah, they're just like the rest of us."

"Well, they hooked you," she says with a little snap in her voice. She's entitled to it. I don't even try to defend myself, and I don't think she wants to hear me apologize again.

"How much would you pay for a book like that?"

"A tell-all from an Arnaud and a Lafayette? Six figures."

"Are you shitting me? They just have to be born and be rich and they get a six-figure publishing deal?"

"Right? Look. I don't make the rules. They might even get seven figures with Olivier's recent brush with the law, but only if there's more dirt."

"There's dirt," I say because the whiskey made me do it.

"Is there proof?"

"I have no idea. Neither of them are exactly open books."

She traces a finger down the phone sitting near her hip. "You think I could maybe…get Olivier Arnaud's number…?"

I sigh and then I say the most I'm going to say about it. "You should really talk to Elodie."

She puts a fingertip to her nose. "Got it. But—" she turns the finger out to hold it up to me, "If I get a deal for her—or them—or whatever—your part of the story isn't nothing, you know?"

My eyes widen. "What do I have to do with it?"

"Well, it's a love story."

"Oh, come on, no one said anything about love."

I mean…fine, I had a moment last night. Whatever. I can still take it back. And it's not like I came here with some sort of hero complex hoping Jericho would solve all of their problems. And yeah. Maybe it's really irritating that someone who's done nothing worthwhile with their life could garner a seven-figure book deal for a book they probably won't even have to write.

On the other hand… It would be enough money to get Olivier out from under his parents' thumb. Of course, he'd have to figure out something to do with the rest of his life, but a book deal would buy him some time to do that.

Maybe I am his fucking hero. The doorman.

I put down the whiskey. Clearly, I've had enough. "I have Elodie's number if you want it."

"Seriously? You'd be in?"

"Let's just say I saw something tonight that made me want to help her out. But that's your story to get out of her."

"Do you think I can?"

Honestly, I'm not sure whether the high echelon of Upper East Side society is penetrable at all. After how Olivier treated me tonight, I felt like an intruder in his cordoned-off world. Why would Elodie act any differently?

I give Jericho a shrug, doubting whether the couple in name only knows what's really good for them, or they're just so used to being kept like pets that they're too whipped to strike out on their own.

I shouldn't care, but I do. I shouldn't be pissed off, but I am. I shouldn't be hurt, but I'm drinking myself numb. "Do you mind if I crash on your couch?"

She gives me quite a look then. "I'll call you a car."

Right. I just told her I cheated on her, and then I dumped her. I appreciate the kindness and understanding she's extended so far, but it was a dumb question, and I feel appropriately chastised, which she goes on to do by saying, "I still want us to be friends, Drew. I love you a ton. But no sleepovers."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I totally get it."

I get to my apartment about fifteen minutes later. No one's home, but I turn on the living room TV, make the sofa bed, and fall into a restless sleep to the sound of a space documentary I chose for exactly that purpose. I wake up to a buzzing intercom and a vibrating phone.