One for the Money

“He’s getting worse,” I say, my voice rough.

I don’t want to admit it, but he’ll find out soon anyway.

I remember Eva in my father’s office. I remember her dark eyes looking up at me, her mouth on my skin. I remember the way I needed so badly to escape into her body.

Where is Hemingway supposed to escape?

With some kid from Pembroke Prep, apparently.

At first I drew lines in the sand. I thought this was the worst it could get. Then it got worse. I thought the nurses were bad. Then my father had a small stroke. He was unable to eat by himself for months. It was unrelated to the dementia but made it infinitely worse. He didn’t understand the limitations. He fought them. That’s when I understood the line in the sand kept getting redrawn. Feeding tubes and morphine drips and diapers. Everything is on the table. And dignity? That’s long gone.

No one will see me like that, except for my brother. Definitely not some poor woman trapped in a loveless, arranged marriage. And sure as hell not Eva Morelli.

I want her to remember me the way I was in the office.

Even though I’ll eventually forget.

Hemingway stands up. “Do you want me to make dinner?”

My brother is a surprisingly good cook. He could probably be a professional chef if he stopped getting into fights or fucking in bathrooms. “That depends. Are you going to make me Kraft cheese slices again?”

An eye roll. “They were yellow bell peppers, asshole.”

This is how brothers bond with each other—by talking shit. He made some fancy dish that involved yellow bell peppers cut into insanely thin slices sitting in a tangy sauce. It tasted delicious but it looked rather like cheap cheese when arranged in a square.

“Then there was the caviar.”

“Seaweed caviar.”

“Seaweed caviar,” I say, my nose crinkling as I remember. Unlike the yellow bell pepper dish, the seaweed caviar did not taste delicious. It tasted like… well, seaweed. My brother likes to experiment with food. Sometimes that works out great. Sometimes not so much.

“Am I seriously taking shit from a guy who burned spaghetti?” my brother asks an imaginary audience. He gestures to me, as if he were a lawyer in court. “He. Burned. Spaghetti. How do you even do that without actively trying?”

“It wasn’t burned. It was just a little… dry.”

“And brown.”

“Only on the edges.”

Hemingway stands up and stretches. “Whatever I make, you’ll eat it and you’ll like it.”

“Nothing spicy.”

His expression turns serious. “I know, Finn. Nothing spicy.”

A million acknowledgments were in his eyes. It wasn’t just about making bland food for our dad. It was about staying grounded. About remembering where we came from… and where we’re going. Make food while you can. Fuck while you can. Get expelled while you can, because someday soon you may not even remember your own name.

I’m failing you, Hem.

Chapter Thirteen

Eva

Imagine a gladiator ring in ancient Rome. The weapons. The blood. The stray lion.

That is what a family dinner at the Morelli mansion is like.

You wouldn’t think that charity foundations could have emergencies, but we got a call from an organization we’ve supported for years. They had a rare opportunity to get refugees out of a war-torn country, and we had to work quickly to vet their new efforts.

Nothing like transferring a few million dollars in a rush to get your blood pumping.

My phone vibrates. I glance down. A text from the organizer: Wheels up.

Relief floods my chest. I’d seen the manifest of high-value targets that were slated for evacuation, including women and children. At least they’re safe. It feels like a drop in the bucket compared to the suffering in the world. And jarring as the limo pulls into the long drive.

Luxury pervades the grounds, even outside, where perfectly trimmed green topiaries rise from two-hundred-pound sculpted pots. The limo glides over the fine gravel. Not ordinary gravel. This was specially imported from Italy for its particular red-brown color.

There’s always a duality to my work at the foundation.

I can make a big impact with our wealth, but no matter how much we give away, we live a privileged life. Right now children have only the clothes on their backs with them. We have a mansion with more rooms than we could ever use. I’m not sure I’ve even been in all of them.

The Morelli mansion has been in our family for generations. My great-grandfather purchased the land and built a more modest home. My grandfather tore it down and had the mansion built in its place, not sparing a penny on it. The facade looms large for any visitor, the large, dark front of it encompassing your view. It blocks out the very sun. Inside, every square inch has gold plating and hand-carved molding. Solid wood furniture creates comfortable nooks inside, leather armchairs with chess pieces. Expansive bookshelves with volumes in every language. A massive globe inlaid with ivory and diamonds.