The Dirty Ones

But all of this seems like something from the past. Like I’m still caught in a dream. Or a web of… of what?

The first word that comes to mind is lies.

But that’s not true. It can’t be true. We were nothing if not truthful. I made sure of it. I wrote it all down in the book.

I lie there for a little while—a few minutes, maybe—processing. Wondering about the past and trying to imagine the future.

“Are you coming?” I look over at the door and find Hayes peeking his head through.

“Hmmm?”

“Get dressed, Kiera. That wasn’t really a question.”

I laugh. “Fuck off.”

“Seriously,” he says. “I’m gonna drop you two off at Sofia’s and then I have shit to do before Connor gets home.”

“Home?”

“Sofia’s house. We’re gonna stay there for now.”

“We?”

“Get up and get dressed.” He leaves me with that. No explanation, just orders.

I don’t mind the orders, but I would like to know the rules of this temporary arrangement. But that can’t happen until we’re all four together again, so I give in. Get up. Get dressed. Pack up my bag I brought and place it in front of the doorway as Hayes talks on the phone about… whatever. And Sofia takes extra long getting ready in her suite bathroom.

When we’re all back on the same page, heading down the stairs—two house people carrying our bags—I suddenly remember something.

“Did they ever find Emily?”

Hayes ignores me. Or pretends he didn’t hear the question. Or maybe he’s just thinking about something else. So I ask again. “Hayes? Did they ever find Emily?’

“Yes,” he says, straight away this time. “She was found early this morning. She’s back where she belongs now.”

“Good,” Sofia says, letting out a long breath of air once we reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Has anyone talked to Camille?” I ask.

“I called her while I was getting my stuff together,” Sofia says. “She’s gonna meet us for dinner.”

“Cool,” I say. And I mean it too. Because this is the part I’ve missed living up in Vermont. Meeting for dinner and stuff like that. And Camille lives in the building across the street from Sofia. If I stay there with her—if we all stay there with her—then I can meet up with Camille all the time.

I feel unreasonably happy about this new perk.

When we get outside the frigid air reminds all of us that it’s mid-December.

And then I have another thought. If I stay in the city I can go to Christmas parties. Surely Sofia and Camille have invitations to all the best Christmas parties. I’ll get to go shopping, and buy gifts for people, and wake up to Christmas morning. Which I used to do with my mom, before she died. But these past two years have been very lonely for me during the holidays.

There’s a car waiting for us. A driver opens the back door and since I’m the first to reach it, I get in and scoot all the way down. Sofia gets in after me, then Hayes.

We sit there, breathing out puffs of steam, as the driver closes us up and walks around the back of the car to get in the driver’s seat.

There’s a partition between us and the driver, so that’s the last thought I have about him.

Now all I can think about is how good the heater feels, and how nice it feels to be pressed up against another body. One you’re allowed to be pressed up against.

Sofia must feel the same way, because she leans over and rests her head against Hayes. And I do the same to her. So we are a sideways pile of people who are allowed to crush each other with body parts.

I want to giggle at that thought. I should write that down. What a fun sentence. Use it in my next book.

But then Hayes says, “How would you like to go to a party this Saturday night?”

Sofia says nothing so I answer for us. “Yes.” It’s like Hayes can read my mind.

“Great. I’ll let Connor, Bennett, and Camille know attendance is required.”

“Whose party is it?” Sofia asks. She must be tired because her words come out in a mumble.

“Louise Livingston’s.”

I have never loved New York City. I’m not a New Yorker. My little town of Charlotte, Vermont is my happy place. But I have to admit, being chauffeured down Fifth Avenue and dropped off in the valet in front of Sofia’s pre-war building impresses me.

I’ve read her books. I read all about her version of New York. I’ve lived in the apartments and townhomes of her characters. I’ve walked through Central Park across the street and sat on the steps of the Met to eat lunch. I’ve experienced the splendor she writes about and even though none of those settings were her own personal apartment, I thought I’d prepared for the luxurious and opulent world she lives in.