Dirty Headlines

She blinked at me, cupping her mouth with the hand that held the cigarette. “I thought you were the one who sent Phoenix away.”

I turned around, glaring at her. “Huh?”

She rubbed the side of her forehead, looking around for an imaginary person to explain everything to her. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Lost. She looked lost.

“When I asked Mathias what happened, he said you sent Phoenix to Syria, and that he would never forgive himself for letting you get away with it.

“I was mad, Célian, so mad. I divorced him solely for not standing his ground, but I couldn’t divorce you. You’re my baby. I tried so very hard not to hold it against you. I love you so much. I always will, but I didn’t know why you needed to interfere with Camille’s life like that. You and Camille…you were different. I called you Célian because you were like the moon to me. You shone bright in the darkest time of my life. I gave Camille her name because she was virginal, unblemished. She was always so different from us. A free spirit. She loved who she loved and didn’t care about the consequences. That’s what made her different.”

No, I wanted to correct. That’s what made her good.

Camille had been happier than the rest of us. Her smile had been contagious. I’d used to tug at her braids and call her sunshine, because her face was round and full of cheeks and always bright. Because I was the moon.

I shook my head. “He lied. He’s always lied. Why would you ever believe him? Only reason I let him do that was because I figured if I could play house with Lily Davis, she could find another charming fuckboy to piss her daddy off. When I realized she was miserable and told her the truth, she ran into the street.”

“I thought she was mad at you.”

“No. She was mad at Mathias.”

“Then why do you always think it was your fault?” She plopped on the sofa, holding her head in her hands.

“Because I should have told her somewhere else. Because I should have fought Mathias. Because I fucking failed her.”

There was a coffee table and an ocean between us, and I realized I hadn’t given Jude the entire truth when she’d asked about my relationship with my mother. In all honesty, I had no relationship to speak of with either of my parents. Truth was, I no longer had a sister, or a fiancée. I was no less lonely than she was.

“You never loved Lily,” my mother’s voice softened, and her eyes followed suit.

I shook my head. A year ago I’d cared for her—in some fucked-up way. But to say I didn’t love her now was like saying I disliked eating shit-smeared rocks. A real under-fucking-statement.

Maman nodded. “Can you save LBC?”

“Not at the price of being unhappy for the rest of my life.” I tilted my chin up. All the fucked-up mannerisms of a heartless prick had been picked up at home anyway, so she could hardly blame me for them.

Heart attacks at fifty.

Nameless girls in bikinis every weekend.

An ex-wife who would love to see me in a casket.

Yeah, no thank you. I didn’t want my father’s life. I’d take shitty pasta and a Yankee game in a two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment every day of the week over life in a lonely, sixteen-million-dollar penthouse.

However, watching my family’s business die was going to make me unhappy. I was headed straight into misery no matter which path I chose.

Maman stood up, walked cautiously toward me, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed my cheek, her lips halting at my ear.

“You’re nothing like Mathias,” she whispered, “I promise you.”

No shit.

I dragged my suitcase up the stairs to my apartment, letting out a feral groan. Why had I packed my entire room before I left for Florida? Oh, that’s right. Because I’d wanted to dazzle my emotionally stunted boss by showing off my alluring wardrobe, consisting of eighty-year-old librarian’s conservative dresses and an unhealthy amount of Chucks.

Célian had offered to help me with the suitcase, but I’d politely declined, and I guess he was relieved. He knew Dad still thought I was with Milton. As much as my dad liked him, he would punch both of us in our reproductive organs if he thought I was two-timing my long-term boyfriend.

Our Floridian getaway had taken a sour turn after we’d left his mother’s place. The stone-skipping and record-shopping was replaced by the usual dark fuck-a-thon in which we were lost in a tornado of feelings and numbness. We’d walked the main street in heavy silence before Célian had dragged me into a Cuban dance club. We’d watched other people dance and grind into one another while we drank tequila.

“Your father seems to think you fell in love with me.” I’d tried to laugh it off.