“Darling, you must introduce me to Jennifer. I’ve heard such wonderful stories.”

They float away from me, and I’m left standing alone among the hundreds of stricken carolers, trying to remember how it is that we breathe.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

I’m in Able’s office. I was going to leave, but instead my body led me here, and I don’t know what I wanted but my heart is racing fast in my chest and I feel sick and scared, and it’s clear to me now that everything is exactly the same as it was back then, that I am exactly the same, and that I always will be.

The lights in the office are low, hidden in the walls above the mahogany desk. The walls are still lined with books chosen to make Able seem smart, informed: Stanislavski, Chekhov, Miller and Williams, most of which I know Able will never have touched, let alone read. With trembling hands, I pick up the photograph still on the desk. Able and Emilia stand proudly behind the girls, frozen in time at age three with Able’s hands on their shoulders.

The door to the office swings open, and I jump behind the desk, dread tracking heavily through my veins. Emilia. She closes the door behind her and she looks exhausted, sadder than I’ve ever seen her.

She starts to make her way over to me, but I flinch and she stops moving, somehow understanding that I can’t have her near me right now. She smells of champagne and cigarettes, of good times, but her eyes are drained of all signs of life.

“The other day, in my kitchen. Your face,” she says quietly, and in her I can see my own rawness reflected back at me. “Just tell me one thing. And I will never ask it again.”

I nod, and the ringing in my ears gets louder with every passing second.

“Were you ever in love with my husband?” she asks, and I understand she’s asking me what I have asked myself every single day since I was fifteen in my own attempt to do what she’s trying to do right now.

“No,” I tell her.

Emilia’s body deflates like a balloon, her shoulders curving in as if she can’t support herself anymore, and I can see how hard she’s worked to keep everything together over the years. I can see all the rumors, the late nights, the self-deprecation, the fake smiles. A whirling dervish with a martini in her hand and lipstick on her teeth. I feel sad for her now, this stranger who tried to help me when she thought I needed it the most. She didn’t know she’d already been cursed, just like I had.

Emilia straightens, and picks up the photo from Able’s desk.

“I didn’t think so,” she says, turning it facedown.

* * *

? ? ?

I’m on my way out of the house, knowing that it will be for the last time, when I become aware that something is happening in the kitchen, and that everyone else is pretending not to notice. I make eye contact with a tall man in a green velvet smoking jacket who is standing closest to the kitchen door, and he raises one eyebrow back at me. I frown at him but I’m listening now, too, my back pressed against the cool wall.

Emilia’s voice is taut but shrill, cutting over the ambient Christmas music and hum of polite conversation.

“Why aren’t they leaving?”

“Emilia, please. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

I don’t hear what Emilia says in response to that, but Able’s voice gets quieter, his tone rougher. I have turned to stone, my feet rooted to the floor, and maybe I want to tell her my story before he does, or maybe I want to protect her from him, or maybe it’s always been something more complicated than that.

Emilia opens the kitchen door and pushes past me. She walks straight upstairs without looking at anyone. Most of the guests notice her but nobody wants to go home yet, even though the alcohol ran out at least an hour ago. I consider following her, but I don’t know what I could say.

When Emilia emerges again, she is wearing cream silk pajamas, and her hair is pulled into a scrappy knot on top of her head. She has removed her makeup, and her eyebrows have disappeared completely, replaced by smooth skin that is shiny and raw, like the rest of her face. She walks down the stairs slowly, coming to a stop at the foot of the staircase, then she sits on the bottom step, her arms folded across her chest and her face set, unreadable. Silver runs over to her.

“Mommy, what are you doing?” she asks loudly, clearly panicked. Emilia brushes her away. She sits in silence, glaring at everyone until they are forced to acknowledge her presence. The music stops and the guests finally start to make their excuses, shaking Able’s hand firmly, then bending down to kiss Emilia’s clean cheek without quite meeting her eye. They trickle out the door steadily, already gossiping about the night as they leave. The coat check girl is the last to leave, and I stand by the door, holding it open for her too.

Once she’s gone, I follow Emilia like a ghost into the kitchen, where the girls are sitting. Ophelia is playing with the cheese board in front of her, but Silver is anxious, watching her mother closely.

Able storms into the kitchen and opens all of the cupboards, searching for something.

“I’m sorry, why are you still here, Grace?” he asks as he slams another cabinet door.

“Don’t be rude,” Emilia says sharply. I think of her, sitting on the steps in her pajamas, still lifting her cheek for everyone to kiss good-bye because the worst thing in her world would be to be impolite.

“I’m tired, I just got back, and I would like to spend some time alone with my family,” Able says quietly, leaning against the counter and folding his arms across his chest. I recognize the pattern of behavior instantly: the steely quiet before he blows up.

Silver tugs at her mom’s sleeve, but Emilia is still staring down at her hands.

“The hands are the first thing you notice. People say it’s your neck but it’s your hands,” she says quietly.

“Okay, Lady Macbeth,” Able says, always irritated by the oblique. “I need another drink. Girls, why are you still up? Where the fuck is Marla?”

“Marla broke her leg,” Ophelia says, not lifting her eyes from the piece of Brie she has wedged her fingers into.

“I told you that twice,” Emilia says.

“Can I have some wine?” Silver asks, trying to get anyone’s attention. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s on the verge of a tantrum. I sit frozen, watching the family portrait unfold around me, despite me and because of me at the same time. I am unable to move.

“We’re out of everything,” Emilia replies to Able coolly.

“I’m going to go and pick something up then.”

Able pushes off the counter too quickly and has to grip the back of a chair to steady himself.

“You can’t go anywhere in this state.”

“Daddy’s drunk,” Silver sings desperately, willing even to sacrifice herself to change the dynamic in the room.

“Well, then you go get me something,” Able says challengingly.

“I’ve drunk too much too. It’s enough. We’ve had enough. Able, sit down. The night’s over. It’s over.”

Emilia’s voice is hard and Silver starts to cry. Emilia turns to comfort her.

I stand up then, slowly and deliberately.

“I can drive you, Able. I haven’t had anything to drink.”

Emilia looks between the two of us, her expression unreadable as Able finally meets my gaze.

“Yes, Able. Why don’t you let Grace drive you?” Emilia asks tautly, daring her husband to say something. The air stops moving around us all.

“Fine,” Able says as he turns and walks out of the room, knowing that I will, of course, follow him.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Able tosses me the keys and slides heavily into the passenger side. My heart is pounding, but I try to steady my hands as I turn the key in the ignition. A Tom Petty song plays softly through the speakers. I pull out onto the road.

“I hear you’re speaking to John Hamilton about Anatopia,” he says, tapping his fingers on the console between us. “It’s a smart move for you.”

I shake my head. “I know what you’re trying to do. It’s not going to work.”

He shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

“Do you ever feel bad about it?” I ask, my voice tight.

He stares out of the windshield and pauses for long enough that I think he must be considering it at least. “I try not to feel bad about anything.”

“No regrets,” I say, thinking about how my mom has always said the same thing, and neither of us has ever lived by it.

He touches the car audio system, skipping a couple of tracks before he lands on another Tom Petty song. That he feels the need to even control what song is playing infuriates me so much I can’t think for a moment.

“You need to leave my family alone, Grace. I know you know that.”

“Emilia is the one—”

“Emilia feels sorry for you because you’re lonely, and you’re mentally unstable,” he interrupts, holding up his hand to stop me.

“Don’t pretend this is about her. You still need me,” he says, so simply that I almost believe him.

“I don’t need you.” Almost.

“Why are you hanging around my family then? Always in my house? You can’t keep away from my life.”