RoyallyRaised

Henry

“It’suncanny.”

“It’sbizarre.”

“It’sfascinating.Lookather.”

Mybrother,Nicholas,gesturestowardsmydaughter,Jane,atthefarend
oftheglittering,goldballroom.Atnineteen-years-old,Janetakesafter
Sarahinbeautyandbuild—darkcascadinghair,alovelyface,long,lithe
limbs,sparklingbrowneyeswithspecklesofmygreen.Shesmilesand
mingleswiththepress,assheglidestowardsthepodiumtoanswer
questionsaboutthenewlyestablishedscholarshipfundinhonorofmy
grandmother,QueenLenora.

ButherpersonalityanddemeanoraredistinctlyunlikeSarah.Orme.

“She’spoised,self-assured,commandingeven.”Nicholassaysasshe
takestothepodium—chinhigh,backstraight,theveryembodimentof
royaltyinaction.“She’snothinglikewewereatherage.”

“Iknow.”Ireply,bewildered.“EveryresponsibilityIgiveher,everyduty—
sheabsorbslikeasponge.Shethrivesoffofit.”

“Mmm.”Nicholasgrunts.“Allyouryearsofrecklessness,allSarah’s
sweetness,andsomehowyoutwomanagedtogivebirthto…”

“Granny.”Ifinishforhim.

“Yeah.”

It’sthedamnedestthing.

“She’llmakeonehellofaqueen,though.”Nicholasoffers.

“Shewill.”Inod,withpride.ButthenIfrown.“ItsucksthatI’llbetoodead
toseeit.”

Mybrothergrins.“Youcouldretirewhenshe’sabitolder.Stepdown.Live
outyourgoldenyearsawayfromtheheadachesofthecapitalandpolitics
inoneofthecountryestateswithyourwife.”

Ishakemyhead.“Nah.There’dbetoomanycomparisons.Toomuch
secondguessingofherchoicesandwhatIwould’vedone.Iwon’tdothat
toher.WhenJanetakesthethroneitwillbehersandhersalone.”

AsJanebeginstotakequestions,weturnoursilentattentionbacktoher.
Untilmysister-in-lawslipsintotheroomanduptomybrother’sside
wearingashimmery,knee-lengthreddressandstrappyheels,herhaira
massofwildblackcurls.Eveninherlateforties,shecouldn’tbe
describedasanythinglessthanafull-onknockout.

“Hey,guys.”

“You’relookingespeciallylovely,Olive.”

Shegivesmeaglowingsmile.“Thankyou,Henry.It’sdatenight.Date
weekend,actually.”Shemovesherhandtomybrother’sarm
affectionately.“We’regoingtoCannesandIcan’twait.”Oliviaglancesat
Nicholas’sfaceandhersmilewobbles.“Youdidn’tforget,didyou?Tellme
youdidn’tforget,Nicholas.”

Theylivedthefirsthalfoftheirmarriageinthestates—NewYork—with
frequentlongvisitstoWessco.ThatchangedwhenGrannybecameill.
AndthedayIwascrownedKing,Iasked—begged—mybrothertomove
hisfamilybackhome,tobecomemyFirstRoyalAdvisor.Iknewitwasa
lottoask,butIneededhim.AfterdiscussingitwithOlivia,heagreedand
althoughtheyhavetheirownestate,theylivemostoftheyearintheir
apartmentshereinthePalace.

Nicholasgrinswickedlyandwrapshisarmaroundhiswife’swaist,pulling
herclose.“Twogloriousdaysalonewithmystunningwife?EvenifIwas
senileIcouldn’tforgetthat.I’vebeenlookingforwardtoitforweeks.My
bagsarealreadyinthecar.”

Olivia’ssmilereturnswithfullforce.Thensheglancestowardsmy
daughter.“Janeylooksgreatupthere.”Andthenshesnorts.“God,she
remindsmeofyourGrandmother.”

Thatseemstobethethemeoftheday.

Nicholasglancesathiswatch.“Weshouldgetmoving.”Henods,
smackingmyarm.“Henry.”

Neitherofthembow,norwouldIwantthemto—thatwouldjustbetoo
fuckingweird,evenforus.

“Haveagoodweekend,youtwo.”

Aftertheymakeaquietexit,Ifoldmyarmsacrossmychest,leanback
againstthewallandwatchJanedowhatshedoessowell.

Untilareporterbeginsaquestionwith,“LadyJane—”

Andmyfirst-borncutshimoff—rightattheballs.

“Princess.”

“I’msorry?”thereporterasks.

Janesighs,quickandimpatient.“IamtheCrownPrincessofWessco,the
heirapparent—whichmeanswhenyouaddressmeitwillbeasPrincess
JaneorYourRoyalHighness.Perhaps,onedaywhenyoucangetthat
right,Imaystooptoansweringyourquestion.”

Ohboy

Sheturnsherheadawaytotherestofthecrowd.“Next.”

Thesamereporterliftshishandtentatively.“PrincessJane—”

“Uh-uh,”Janeraisesherfinger,likeasharp-voicedschoolteacher
scoldinganaughtypupil.“Nointerrupting.Shush.”Shedismisseshim
again.“Next.”

Adozenmemoriesfrommyadolescencecomerushingback,andIshiver.

It’sdownrightfuckingspooky.

****

Later,IsitbehindthedeskintheRoyalOffice,thepaintingofmyproud,
elegantgrandmotherinhercrownandrobeshangingonthewallbehind
me.There’sacomfortinitspresence,likeshe’sstillherewithme,having
mybackasshealwaysdid,inherownway.Afullappreciationofher
supportandguidance,didn’treallyhitmeuntilshewasgone.

AndImissedhersomuch—Istilldo.

There’saknockonthedoor.

“Comein.”

Myoldestdaughterpopsherheadin.“Youwantedtoseeme,Dad?”

IsetthedocumentIwasreviewingaside.“Yes,sweets.Sitdown.”

Herblackdesignerslacksmakeaswishingsoundassheglidesintothe
office.Shetakesthechairacrossfromme,foldingherlegs,herface
sereneandsmiling.

“Iwantedtotalktoyouaboutthepressconferenceearlier.”

“Itwasfantastic,wasn’tit?”Jane’seyesglancetothepainting.“Ithink
Great-Grannywouldbepleasedthatanotherworthycausehasbeen
createdinherhonor.”

Ismiletightly.“Yes,shewouldbe.Forthemostpart,youdidverywell,
Jane—I’mproudofyou.”

Herprettyheadtilts.“Forthemostpart?”

“Well…therewasthatoneinteraction,withthejournalistwho
misaddressedyou.Iwantedtodiscussthatwithyou.”

“Whataboutit?”

“Youcould’vejustletitpass.”

Sheshrugs.“ButIwasright.Hewaswrong.Nowheknowsfornexttime.”

ThisisgoingtobeharderthanIthought.

“Whilethat’stechnicallytrue,yourresponsetohimcameoffasrather…,”
Iswirlmyhand,searchingfortherightword.“…entitledsounding.”

Herbrowfurrows.“ButIam…entitled.That’sthepoint,isn’tit?You
succeededGreat-GrandmotherandIwillsucceedyou.I’mentitledtothe
position,bybirth.That’swhatismeanstobetheheir.”

Ichuckle.Becauseshemakesitsoundsosimple.

“Youwouldn’tbetheheirifyourunclehadn’tabdicated.”

“Buthedidabdicate—asheshouldhave.Hedidn’twantit.Mycousinsare
happyforthat—theywouldn’thavewantediteither.Ido.Whyshouldn’tI
actlikeit?”

“Justbecauseyoucansaysomething,doesn’tmeanyoushould.Youare

theCrownPrincess—yourattitudereflectsonallofus.Youmustbehave,”
Ichokeoutthenextword,“…properly.”

ThenIglanceattheceilingandbraceforthelightningboltthat’ssureto
comedownfromtheskyandstrikemerightinthearse.Because…the
irony.

Whenitdoesn’tcome,Icontinue.

“Youshouldbehumble,Jane.Showgratitude.”

Mydaughterscoffs.“Whydoesajournalistdeservemygratitude?”

“Hedeservesyourrespect.Theyalldo—they’reoursubjects,our
citizens.”

Sherollshereyes.Cheeky–andnotinacuteway.

“IusedtothinkIdidn’tneedthepresseither,andIwaswrong.Whenyour
daycomes,thiswillgomucheasierforyouifthepressandthepeople
areonyourside.”

Andnowshehuffs.Andfoldsherarmsunhappily.

Whenourchildrenwereyoung,SarahandIdecidedagainstspankings,it
wasn’thowwewantedtoraisethem.NowI’mthinkingwewerewrongin
Jane’scase—she’sgottoomuchofmypetulantstubbornness.We
probablyshould’vebeatenher,atleastalittle.

“You’remakingabigdealoutofnothing,Dad.”

Ipointather.“Thefactthatyouthinksoisexactlywhatconcernsme.”

“Thepeoplewillhavenoothersidetobeon,butmine.WhenI’mQueen,
they’lllikeitorasfarasI’mconcerned,theycanpissthehelloff.”

Wow.Holyshit—wow.

Igapeather.

ThisishowObi-Wanmust’vefeltwhenAnakinturnedtothefuckingDark
Side.

“Theycouldprotestagainstyou.Fighttooverthrowyou.”

Shewavesherhand.“Revolutionsareneversuccessfulanymore.”

Myvoicerises.Withfrustrationandalsoworry.Formydarlingdaughter
whothinkssheknowseverything,wheninrealitysheknowssoverylittle.

“Successfulornot,whywouldyouwanttogovernapopulacewhois
openlyrevoltingagainstyou?Whywouldyouthinkthatyouevencould?”

Sheshrugsagain.“I’llhavethemilitarywithme.They’llfollowmyorders—
andI’llbesmartenoughtostopanyrebellionbeforeitstarts.”

Whatabeautifullittlemonstershesoundslike.

“Andthat,deargirl,iscalledadictatorship.Thoseneverendwell.For
anyone.”

MyhandrubsovermyfaceandItakeadeepbreath.

“Thefactthatyouarethepeople’sonlychoiceistheveryreasonyou
shouldviewthispositionasanhonor.Aservice.Asacredduty,Jane.”

Herfeaturessoften,slidingfromstubbornnesstothoughtfulness.AndI
thinkmaybe—justmaybe—I’mgettingthrough.

“Thereisatrustbetweengovernmentanditspeople.Anagreement.We
governthembecausetheyallowusto.Andthatisdependentonthe
monarchyputtingthepeople’swell-beingaboveallelse—aboveourselves.

Thegoodofthecountrymustalwayscomefirst.Thedayyouforgetthat,
isthedayyoudon’tdeservetowearthecrown—entitlementbedamned.”

Sometimes,IcanmakemyselfsoundlikeGrannytoo.

Janeslipsherphoneoutofherpocketandbeginstypingrapidly.

“Whatareyoudoing?”

“I’mwritingthisdown.It’sexcellentadvice.”

Thetensioninmyshouldersbeginstoebb.Until…

“Iwanttomakesuremybiographerincludesit.”

Ohforfuck’ssake.

“Jane…”

“No—Iunderstand.You’reright.I’lldobetter.I’lltakethisalltoheart,
Dad.”Shegivesmealovely,charmingsmile.“I’mveryluckyyou’reso
wise.”

NowIrollmyeyes.“Don’tpatronizeme.Iwaspatronizingthebestof
them,beforeyouwereanywhereclosetobeingborn.”

Shenodssweetly.“Ofcourse,youwere.There—gotit.”Sheputsher
phoneaway.“Wasthereanythingelse?Sasha,MellieandIaregoingto
Monacofortheweekend.Idon’twanttobelatemeetingthem.”

“No.”Isigh.“Isupposethat’sitfornow.Doyouwantmetotellsecurityto
accompanyyouinplainclothes?”

Herlittlebrowfurrows.“Why?”

“Movingaboutinpublicwillbeeasierifit’snotobviousthatyouarewho

youare.”

Janelooksgenuinelyconfused.“ButIlikebeingme.WhywouldIwantto
pretendtobeanyoneelse?”

Ipinchthebridgeofmynose.“Takealookinthehistorybooks—royals
whoenjoyedbeingwhotheyweretoomucharenotrememberedkindly.
Andthere’sareasonforthat.”

Slowlyshenods,playingatagreeingwithme.

Iinventedthattoo.

“I’msogladwehadthischat,Dad.”

Thenshegetsup,comesaroundthedeskandhugsme,kissingmy
cheek.“Iloveyou.”

Ihugherback,wishingshecouldbealittlegirlagain—whenitwasallso
mucheasier.

“Iloveyoutoo,Janey.Begood,besafe.”

“Iwill.”Shestandsupandpatsmyshoulder.“We’llchatagainsoon.”

AndIwanttoslammyforeheadintomydesk.

Instead,aftertheappleofmyeyebreezesfromtheroomandclosesthe
doorbehindher,IspininmychairtogazeatGranny’spainting.One
eyebrowseemsraisedhigherthanbefore,hersmirkmoreself-satisfied.

“You’reenjoyingthis,aren’tyou?”Iask.

AndIcanalmosthearheranswer.

Notsoeasy,isit,myboy?

“Goahead,laughitup.”Iraisemytea-cup,toastingher.“Chuckleaway.”

****

ThenexttimeIlookupfromtheworkatmydesk,it’sdarkoutside—
almostnineo’clock.MostdaysImakeapointofeatingdinnerwithSarah
andourchildrenwhoaren’tawayatboardingschool.ButwhenIcan’t,
Sarahholdsoffeating,sowecandinetogether.

Icloseupshop,wishmypersonalsecretary,oldChristopher,apleasant
eveningasIwalkbyhisdeskandgofindmywife.Atthistimeofnight,I
don’thavetosearchhard—there’sonlyoneplaceshe’llbe.

IheartheirvoicesbeforeIreachthenurserydoor,andthecornersofmy
mouthautomaticallytugupintothebestkindofsmile.

“…andthenJamesclimbedbackintothesticky,giantpeachreadytovisit
moreamazingplacesandseethemostextraordinarythings!”

Thesnapofaclosingbookechoes,beforeatinyvoiceobjects.

“Wait!Youcan’tstopthere—Ihavetoknowwhathappens.”

“That’stheendofthechapter,Gilly.”Sarahsaysinhersofttone.“You’ll
findoutwhathappensnexttomorrow.”

Gilbert,ouryoungest,willbesixintwoweeks.IfJanewasour
honeymoonbaby—well…slightlypre-honeymoon,ifI’mbeinghonest—Gil
wasoursurprise.Sarahwasforty-threewhenshegavebirthtohim,
thoughthedoctorsaidshehadtheuterusofatwenty-one-yearold.Jane,
whowasfourteenthenandEdward,oursecondoldestatayearyounger
thanher,weremortifiedbythenewsthatanothersiblingwasontheway.
Theycalledusfreaksofnature,theingrates.Whiletheirlittlesisters,quiet
MargaretandhappyIsabel,whoweretenandeightatthetime,didn’t
knowwhatallthefusswasabout.

Andyes,IwasasproudasastudlypeacockthatI’dknockedmywife
beautifullyupsoclosetomiddle-age.Itturnedout,thelastpregnancy
wastheeasiestofthebunchforSarah—shehadnomorningsickness,
moreenergyinsteadofless,insatiablesex-drive…Iwasbloodyecstatic
aboutthatparttoo.

Ipeakaroundthedoorjustintimetoseemysonflinghimselfbackonto
thewhitecarpetdramatically,armssplayed,hisblondhairwavyandwild.

“Tomorrowwilltakesolong!Ican’twait!”

Thatsoundsfamiliar.

Gilberttakesmoreaftermethananyoftheothers—energetic,
rambunctious—ahandful.Buthe’sajoy.Theyallare.

Whenthey’renotgivingusmigraines.

“Please,Mummy.Onemorechapter…pleeeeeeeeese.”

WhenSarahsighs,Iknowshe’sabouttogivein.AndI’mnottheonlyone
whosensesit.

“PrinceGilbert,don’tpesteryourpoormother.Orbeg,orwhine.Itis
beneathyou.”NannyAlicestepsinfromtheadjoiningroom,herfacestern
andherbroguethick.“Youhaveanearlylessoninthemorning.”Sheclaps
herhandstogether,quickandsharp.“Intobed,now.”

Gilbert’swholefacescrunchesintoafrown—andit’sreallyadorable.

“Nan-ny!Shewasgoingtosayyes!”Hewaveshishand,histhumband
pointerfingerpinchedtogether.“Shewasthiscloseandyouruinedit.”

NannyAlice’slipspuckersourly.“YourMummyhasasoftspotforyou—
andthat’swhytheykeepmearound—becauseIdon’tlikeyouat’all.”

Gilbertgiggleslikeit’sthesilliestthinghe’severheard.NannyAlice
adoreshimandheknowsit,butthankfullyforus,shedoesn’tlettherunt
ofthelittergetawaywithanything.

AsGilclimbsupontohisbed,Istepintotheroom.

“YourGrace.”Nannycurtsiesquickly.

Inod.“Thankyou,Alice.”

Shedimsthelightsbeforeslippingoutsidethedoorwhilewesay
goodnight.IslidemyhandalongSarah’sbackandwestepupbesidethe
bed.

Blinkingupatus,Gilbertyawns.“Canweplantapeachtree?”

IhearthesmileinSarah’svoice.“Yes,wecan.Iknowjustthespot.”

“Daddy,canweplayrugbytomorrow?I’vebeenpracticingandIwantto
showyou.”

Ibrushmyfingersthroughhiscrazyhair.Ourlittleheathen.

“I’llhaveNannyAlicebringyoutomyofficeafteryourmorninglessonand
we’llgoouttothecourtyardtoplayforabitthen.”

Heyawnsagain,longerthistime.

“Ireallylikethegiantpeachstory.DoyouthinkIcouldwriteastorylike
that?”

Sarahleansdownoverourboy,hervoicehushed.“Youcandoanything
youwant,anythingyoudream,aslongasyouaregoodandhonestand
workhardatit.”Shepeppershisforeheadandcheekswithkisses,
brushinghernoseagainsthis.“Goodnightmylittlelove.”

Andthenit’smyturn.

“Sleepwell,sweetboy.Weloveyou.”

Herollsawayfromus,ontohisside,crushinghispillowintoaheap
beneathhishead.

AndwithmyarmaroundSarah’sshoulders,Iguideheroutthedoor,down
thelongendlesshallwaytoourrooms.

****

It’samildeveningsowedineoutonthebalcony,beneaththeblacksky
spottedwithtwinklingstars,atatablesetwithchinafortwo.Thistime
withSarahalone—it’sthebestpartofmyday,anyday—fullstop.

Candlelightdancesacrossherfacemakingpinkandsoftorange
shadows,andI’mstrucknotjustbyhowutterlybeautifulshestillis,but
howunchanged—constant.Howshe’sbeenabletoretainthesamequiet
strengthandhopefulinnocenceshe’salwayshaddespitethe
backstabbing,unsavorypoliticalworldshelivesin.

Afterweeat,IfillherinonmyconversationwithJane,rubbingmy
templesasIrecountit.

“Shetalkedcirclesaroundme,Iswear.It’salmostemasculating.”

Sarahchucklesandgivesme“thelook”—theoneIlove.Asmallsmile,a
gentleshakeofherhead.

“Shetalkscirclesaroundyoubecauseyoulether.Becausedeepdown
you’redelightedbyhowcleversheis—howstubbornandstrongand
quick-wittedshecanbe.Likeyourgrandmother.Youadorethatabout
her.”

Isnortatbeingcalledout.ThenIstareattherumplednapkinonthetable.

“She’sspoiled,Sarah.”Iconfessinawhisper.“Nottothepointofrotten,
but…”

Mywifenodsandstraightensherback.

“Janewasbornblessed—beautiful,intelligent.She’sbeenraisedinluxury
andprivilegebyafamilywholoveshercompletely.She’sneverknown
hardshiportragedy.She’sbeentreatedwithdeferencebyeveryone
aroundher—andshehasmorepowerthananynineteen-year-oldever
should.I’dbeshockedifshewasn’tabitspoiled.”

“Butwe’renotjustraisingadaughter!We’reraisingaqueen.Anditjustall
hitmetoday,thatIdon’tthinkwe’redoingaverygoodjobofit,”Isay
miserably.“Ididn’trealizehow…difficult…itis.Atightrope.AndIhavea
wholenewlevelofrespectforGrannybecauseGodknowsNicholasandI
didnotmakeiteasyforher.”

Sarahtoyswiththerimofherwineglassthoughtfully.“Idon’tthinkit’sthe
sortoftaskthat’ssupposedtobeeasy.We’vealwaystriedtoprotect
themfromtheharsherrealitiesoflife.Janeknowslogicallythatsheis
morefortunatethatalmostanyoneelseintheworld.Butthere’sa
differencebetweenknowingthat,andseeingitwithherowneyes.Truly
understandingthesufferingothersexperienceintheworldandevenher
owncountry.Maybe,we’veshelteredhertoomuch.SamandElizabeth
sendtheirchildrenoncharitablemissionseverysummer.They’vedone
workinallsortsofplaces…perhapsit’stimewedothesameforJane.”

Ishakemyhead.“Ourchildrenaredifferent.They’retargets—weallare
—welearnedthatthehardway,yearsago.”

“Ihaven’tforgotten.”

“Idon’tlikeputtingthemoutthere,indanger.Needlessly.”

Sarahtiltsherhead,regardingme.“Butyou’rejustfinewithputting
yourselfthere.”

“It’snotthesame.”

“But,now,itisthesame.OnedayJanewillbeyou—shewillsitwhere
yousit,befacedwiththesametrialsandchoicesyouface.Itwouldbe
cruelanddangerousnottoprepareherforthat.We’reluckythatshestill
livesherewithus—thatshe’sjustinherfirstyearinUni.Butthetimeis
quicklycomingwhenshewillbeoutofourreach,Henry.Heropinionswill
besetandwewon’tbeabletoinfluenceher.Ifwehaveanyhopeof
shakingherviews,I’mafraidithastobenow…ornever.”

Irubthebackofmyneckandstareatmywifeforafewmoments.

“You’reright.”Ichuckle,shakingmyhead.“Ofcourse,you’reright.You
werealwaysthebraveone.”

Shesmilesgently.Remembering.“Notalways.”

Sarahreachesacrossthetableformyhand,andIgiveittoherwithout
hesitation.“Butyoukeptyourpromise.Youkeptmesafe,soIcouldbe
brave.AndIhavenodoubtthatyouwilldothesameforourdaughter.”
Shesqueezesmyhand.“Ihavenodoubtsaboutyou,Henry.”

Notforthefirsttime,IgazeatSarah’slovelyface,attheabsolute,
unconditionaltrustinherdarkeyes…andIknowdeepinsidethatIwould
befuckinglostwithouther.Iwouldbenothing.Lessthannothing.

Leaningforward,Ibringhersmallhandtomylips.ThenIcradleitinboth
ofmine.“I’llcallSaminthemorning.”

****

Sarah

“Butwhydidwehavesomany?”

Henry’svoicereachesmefromthebathwherehe’sjustfinishedhis

shower—alighterextensionoftheconversationwebeganatdinner.Isit
atthevanitytable,myglassesoff,rubbingmoisturizerintomycheeks,
tappingitbelowmyeyes,wearingaroseandivorysilknightgown.

Myhusbandstepsintothebedroomwithacloudofsteamwaftingbehind
him,rubbingatowelacrosshisbroadshouldersanddamphead,wearing
nothing.There’snoconcernthatthestaffwillenterourrooms
unannounced.Thatwasnippedinthebudduringthefirstweeksofour
marriage—whenHenry’svaletwalkedinononeofour…friskier…
moments.

Henrythoughtthewholethingwashilarious—butIcouldn’tlookthepoor
maninthefaceforamonth.So,myhusbandgavethestaffstrict
instructionsnottocomeintoourroomswithoutknocking,atanytimeof
day,unlessthepalacewasburningtotheground.

ThereareQueen’squartersneartotheserooms,butwe’veneverused
them.AsifHenrywouldeverletmesleepanywherebutbesidehim.Asif
I’deverwantto.Sometimes,Istillcan’tbelievethatit’sreal—thatthisisa
lifeIgettohave.Themostmiraculoushappilyeverafter.

“Imean,whydidwethinkhavingfivewouldsomehowbeagoodidea?I
don’trememberhavingthatconversation.Doyou?”

Iglanceovermyshoulder,myeyesdraggingupfromhistoestohiswild-
greeneyes.Henrywascrownedatforty—ayoungKingbyanystandard.
He’llturnfiftythissummer,andthegrandestpartiesarealreadyplanned
tocelebratetheoccasion.Butbesidesthesexydustingoflightgraythat
joinstheblondhairsonhischest,he’sstilltaughtandrippledinallthe
placesamanshouldbe.

Iamalucky,luckygirl.

“Idon’tthinkconversinghadanythingtodowithit.”Myvoicedropstoa
sultrylevelasIlookhimover.“Itwasmore…you…alwayscorruptingme
withyourwickedways.”

Hecatchesmyappraisalandhiseyesdarken.Hetossesthetowelaside
andstalksovertome,afilthysmiletakingpossessionofhismouth.

“That’snothowIrecallit.”Henryleansdown,behindmychair,tuggingthe
strapofmynightgownoffmyshoulderandkissingthenowbaredspot.
Thenhepunctuateseachwordwithanotherhotpeck,climbingtowards
myneck.“Ithinkyouhavealwaysbeentoodamndelectableforyourown
good,love.”

Hedragshisnose,upovermyear,givingmegoosebumpswithhis
breath,tomytemple.“Mmm,yousmellamazing.”

Thenhissimmeringeyesmeetmineinthemirror.“Christ,lookatyou.”

Igroanandcovermyface.“Uh,pleasedon’t.”Idropmyhandsandturn
towardshiminthechair.“DoyouknowthosecrinklesIgetaroundmy
eyeswhenIlaugh?Irealizedtheotherday,they’rethereallthetimenow.
I’msoold.”

Hemakesathoroughlydisgustedsoundandpullsmeupfromthechair.
“Thatissometop-notchrubbishrightthere.”Withhisarmsaroundme,he
leansback,lookingdownatme.

“YouareeverybitasbeautifulasthedayIfirstsawyouinthatpub.”He
chuckles.“Whenyoustuckyourbookinmyfaceandtoldmetosmellit.”

Ilaugh,pressingmyforeheadtohischest.“Youmakeitsounddirty.”

Ifeelhislipsonthetopofmyhead.“Iliketothinkitwasdirty.Thebest
kindofforeplay.Itcertainlyreeledmein.”

Henryrunshishandsthroughmyhair,leaningbackagain,lookingatme
adoringly.“Butyouknowwhat—Iwaswrong.You’renotasbeautifulas
thatday.You’reevenmoreexquisitenow.”

Hekissesthetipofmynose.

“MorebeautifulthanwhenIwastwenty-five?”Iaskdoubtfully.

“Oh,definitely.”Henrysighs,andbrushesmyhairback.“You’reawoman
now.”Hisknucklestrokesmyjaw.“Anincrediblemother,anactivist…”

Iglanceaway,blushing,butHenrychasesmewithhisgaze.

“…abelovedQueen.”

Myeyesdriftbackuptohisandhislovingfingerscaressmyface.

Hisvoiceislow,roughwithgentlesincerity.“Watchingyoubecomewho
youarehasbeenthegreatestprivilegeofmywholelife,Sarah.”

Thesweetesttendernessswellsinmythroat.

“You’reaking.”Itease.“I’mprettysurethat’ssupposedtobethe
greatestprivilege.”

“No.”Henryshakeshishead,kissingtheinsideofmywrist,wherehis
nameisetchedbeneathmyskin.“No.Evenmorethanthat.”

Andtheemotion,thedeepall-encompassinglovethatIfeelforthisman—
mywonderful,precioushusband—mydarling,amazingKing,expandsin
mysoulandbringstearstomyeyes.

Imeltagainsthimwithasigh.“Oh,Henry.”

Hebendshisheadandtakesmymouthinakisshotwithpassionand
need.Ifeelhisarmsencirclemyhips,liftingmeupandcloser.Myhands
skimoverhisshouldersandmyhairfallsaroundus,encasingusina
magicalworldthat’sjustheandI,andnothingelsecanreachus.Andwe
tasteeachotherdeeply,kisswiththejoyoftheveryfirsttimeand
desperateurgencyofthelast.

Longmomentslater,Islidemylipsacrosshisperfectlystubbledjaw,

nuzzlinghisear.

AndIwhisper,“ThisishowGilbertgothere.Itoldyouitwasyourfault.”

Henrylaughsintomyneck,devilishandunrepentantasever.Andthenhe
carriesmetobed.

TheEnd…fornow

Ifyouhaven’tcheckedoutmyotherbooks,fromtheRoyallySeries,the
LegalBriefsSeries&theTangledSeries,youcanfindthemall
here:

http://authoremmachase.com/books/

Andforyourreadingpleasure,here’sasneakpeekatbothTANGLED
andSUSTAINED…

TANGLED

Doyouseethatunshowered,unshavenheaponthecouch?Theguyinthe
dirtygrayT-shirtandrippedsweatpants?

That’sme,DrewEvans.

I’mnotusuallylikethis.Imean,thatreallyisn’tme.

Inreallife,I’mwell-groomed,mychinisclean-shaven,andmyblackhair
isslickedbackatthesidesinawayI’vebeentoldmakesmelook
dangerousbutprofessional.Mysuitsarehandmade.Iwearshoesthat
costmorethanyourrent.

Myapartment?Yeah,theoneI’minrightnow.Theshadesaredrawn,and
thefurnitureglowswithabluishhuefromthetelevision.Thetablesand
floorarelitteredwithbeerbottles,pizzaboxes,andemptyicecream
tubs.That’snotmyrealapartment.TheoneIusuallyliveinisspotless;I
haveagirlcomebytwiceaweek.Andithaseverymodernconvenience,
everybig-boytoyyoucanthinkof:surroundsound,satellitespeakers,
andabig-screenplasmathatwouldmakeanymanfallonhiskneesand
begformore.Thedecorismodern—lotsofblackandstainlesssteel—
andanyonewhoentersknowsamanlivesthere.

So,likeIsaid—whatyou’reseeingrightnowisn’ttherealme.

Ihavetheflu.Influenza.

Haveyouevernoticedsomeoftheworstsicknessesinhistoryhavea
lyricalsoundtothem?Wordslikemalaria,diarrhea,cholera.Doyouthink
theydothatonpurpose?Tomakeitanicewaytosayyoufeellike
somethingthatdroppedoutofyourdog’sass?

Influenza.

Hasaniceringtoit,ifyousayitenough.

AtleastI’mprettysurethat’swhatIhave.That’swhyI’vebeenholedup

inmyapartmentthelastsevendays.That’swhyIturnedmyphoneoff,
whyI’vegottenoffthecouchonlytousethebathroomortobringinthe
foodIorderfromthedeliveryguy.

Howlongdoestheflulastanyway?Tendays?Amonth?

Minestartedaweekago.Myalarmwentoffatfivea.m.,likealways.But
insteadofrisingfromthebedtogototheofficewhereI’mastar,Ithrew
theclockacrosstheroom,smashingittokingdomcome.

Itwasannoyinganyway.Stupidclock.Stupidbeep-beep-beeping.

Irolledoverandwentbacktosleep.WhenIdideventuallydragmyass
outofbed,Ifeltweakandnauseous.Mychestached;myheadhurt.

See—theflu,right?

Icouldn’tsleepanymore,soIplantedmyselfhere,onmytrustycouch.It
wassocomfortableIdecidedtostayrighthere.Allweek.WatchingWill
Ferrell’sgreatesthitsontheplasma.Anchorman:TheLegendofRon
Burgundy’sonrightnow.

I’vewatcheditthreetimestoday,butIhaven’tlaughedyet.Notonce.
Maybethefourthtime’sthecharm,huh?

Nowthere’sapoundingatmydoor.

Friggingdoorman.Whatthehellisheherefor?He’sgoingtobesorry
whenhegetsmyChristmastipthisyear,youcanbetyourass.

Iignorethepounding,thoughitcomesagain.

Andagain.

“Drew!Drew,Iknowyou’reinthere!Openthegoddamndoor!”

Ohno.It’sTheBitch.Otherwiseknownasmysister,Alexandra.

WhenIsaythewordbitchImeanitinthemostaffectionatewaypossible,
Iswear.Butit’swhatsheis.Demanding,opinionated,relentless.I’mgoing
tokillmydoorman.

“Ifyoudon’topenthisdoor,Drew,I’mcallingthepolicetobreakitdown,I
sweartoGod!”

SeewhatImean?

Igraspthepillowthat’sbeenrestingonmylapsincetheflustarted.I
pushmyfaceintoitandinhaledeeply.Itsmellslikevanillaandlavender.
Crispandcleanandaddictive.

“Drew!Doyouhearme?”

Ipullthepillowovermyhead.Notbecauseitsmellslike...her...butto
blockoutthepoundingthatcontinuesatmydoor.

“I’mtakingoutmyphone!I’mdialing!”

Alexandra’svoiceiswhinywithwarning,andIknowshe’snotscrewing
around.Isighdeeplyandforcemyselftogetupfromthecouch.Thewalk
tothedoortakestime;eachstepofmystiff,achinglegsisaneffort.

Friggingflu.

IopenthedoorandbracemyselfforthewrathofTheBitch.She’sholding
thelatestiPhoneuptoherearwithoneperfectlymanicuredhand.Her
blondhairispulledbackinasimplebutelegantknot,andadarkgreen
pursethesameshadeasherskirthangsfromhershoulder—Lexi’sall
aboutthematching.Behindher,lookingappropriatelycontriteinawrinkled
navysuit,ismybestfriendandcoworker,MatthewFisher.

Iforgiveyou,Doorman.It’sMatthewwhomustdie.

“JesusChrist!”Alexandrayellsinhorror.“Whatthehellhappenedtoyou?”

Itoldyouthisisn’ttherealme.

Idon’tanswerher.Idon’thavetheenergy.

Ijustleavethedooropenandfallface-firstontomycouch.It’ssoftand
warm,butfirm.Iloveyou,couch—haveIevertoldyouthat?Well,I’m
tellingyounow.

Thoughmyeyesareburiedinthepillow,IsenseAlexandraandMatthew
walkingslowlyintotheapartment.Iimaginetheshockontheirfacesatits
condition.Ipeekoutfrommycocoonandseethatmymind’seyewas
spot-on.

“Drew?”

Ihearherask,butthistimethere’sconcernwoventhroughouttheone
shortsyllable.Thenshe’spissedagain.“ForGod’ssake,Matthew,why
didn’tyoucallmesooner?Howcouldyouletthishappen?”

“Ihaven’tseenhim,Lex!”Matthewsaysquickly.

See—he’safraidofTheBitchtoo.

“Icameeveryday.Hewouldn’topenthedoorforme.”

Isensethecouchdipasshesitsbesideme.“Drew?”shesayssoftly.I
feelherhandrungentlythroughthebackofmyhair.“Honey?”

Hervoiceissoachinglyworried,sheremindsmeofmymother.WhenI
wasaboyandsickathome,Momwouldcomeintomyroomwithhot
chocolateandsouponatray.Shewouldkissmyforeheadtoseeifitstill
burnedwithfever.Shealwaysmademefeelbetter.

ThememoryandAlexandra’ssimilaractionsbringmoisturetomyclosed

eyes.

AmIamessorwhat?

“I’mfine,Alexandra,”Itellher,thoughI’mnotsureifshehearsme.My
voiceislostinthesweet-scentedpillow.

“Ihavetheflu.”

Iheartheopeningofapizzaboxandagroanasthestenchofrotting
cheeseandsausagedriftsfromthecontainer.“Notexactlythedietof
someonewiththeflu,LittleBrother.”

Ihearfurthershufflingofbeerbottlesandgarbage,andIknowshe’s
startingtostraightenthemessup.I’mnottheonlyneatfreakinmyfamily.

“Oh,that’sjustwrong!”Sheinhalessharply,and,judgingbythestinkthat
joinstheputridpizzaaroma,I’mthinkingshejustopenedathree-day-old
icecreamcontainerthatwasn’tasemptyasI’dthought.

“Drew.”Sheshakesmyshouldersgently.

Igiveinandsitup,rubbingtheexhaustionfrommyeyesasIdo.

“Talktome,”shebegs.“What’sgoingon?Whathappened?”

AsIlookatthetroubledexpressionofmybigbitchofasister,I’mthrown
twenty-twoyearsbackintime.I’msixyearsoldandmyhamster,Mr.
Wuzzles,hasjustdied.Andjustlikeonthatday,thepainfultruthisripped
frommylungs.

“Itfinallyhappened.”

“Whathappened?”

“Whatyou’vebeenwishingonmealltheseyears,”Iwhisper.“Ifellin

love.”

Ilookuptoseethesmileform.It’swhatshe’salwayswantedforme.
She’sbeenmarriedtoStevenforever,hasbeeninlovewithhimforeven
longer.Soshe’sneveragreedwiththewayIlivemylifeandcan’twaitfor
metosettledown.Tofindsomeonetotakecareofme,thewayshe
takescareofSteven.Thewayourmotherstilltakescareofourdad.

ButItoldheritwouldneverhappen—itwasn’twhatIwanted.Whybring
abooktothelibrary?Whybringsandtothebeach?Whybuythecow
whenyougetthemilkforfree?

Areyoustartingtoseethepicturehere?

SoIseeherbeginningtosmile,when,inasmallvoicethatIdon’teven
recognize,Isay,“She’smarryingsomeoneelse.Shedidn’t...shedidn’t
wantme,Lex.”

Sympathyspreadsacrossmysister’sfacelikejamonbread.Andthen
determination.

BecauseAlexandraisafixer.Shecanunclogdrains,patchdentedwalls,
andremovestainsfromanyrug.Ialreadyknowwhat’sgoingthroughher
headatthismoment:Ifherbabybrotherisbusted,she’lljustputhimright
backtogetheragain.

Iwishitwerethateasy.

ButIdon’tthinkalltheKrazyGlueintheworldisgoingtopiecemyheart
backtogetheragain.

DidImentionI’mabitofapoettoo?

“Okay.Wecanfixthis,Drew.”

DoIknowmysisterorwhat?

“Yougotakealong,hotshower.I’llcleanupthisdisaster.Then,we’re
goingout.Thethreeofus.”

“Ican’tgoout.”

Hasn’tshebeenlistening?

“Ihavetheflu.”

Shesmilescompassionately.“Youneedagood,hotmeal.Youneeda
shower.You’llfeelbetterthen.”

Maybeshe’sright.GodknowswhatI’vebeendoingforthelastseven
dayshasn’tmademefeelanybetter.

Ishrugandgetuptodoasshesays.Likeafour-year-oldwithhiswooby,
Ibringmyprizedpillowwithme.

Onmywaytothebathroom,Ican’thelpbutthinkofhowitallhappened.I
hadagoodlifeonce.Aperfectlife.

Andthenitallgotshottoshit.

Oh—youwanttoknowhow?Youwanttohearmysobstory?

Okay,then.Itallstartedafewmonthsago,onanormalSaturdaynight.

Well,normalformeanyway…

SUSTAINED

WhenIpulluptoRory’saddress,thewrought-irongateopens

automatically.Theextensivedrivewayisflankedbylamppostsandcherry
treesandcurvesaroundintoahorseshoe.Thehouseisamajesticbrick
Georgian,completelyrestoredwithblackshuttersanddetailedwhite
moldingsarounditsfourteenwindows.There’sathree-carattached
garage,alargefrontcourtyardsurroundedbyanatural-stonewall,and
brightgreenshrubbery.

Ikilltheengineandstareatthehouse,thinkinghemightbetryingtopull
oneoveronme.

“Youlivehere?”

“Yeah.”

“Areyou,like,thegardener’skid?”

Roryfrownswithconfusion.“No.It’smyparents’house.”Then,softer,
underhisbreath,“Was...”

Hedoesn’telaboratebutinsteadhopsoutofthecar,backpackintow.I
takelongstridestocatchupandwestandbeforethemassiveoakdoor.I
putmyhandonthebackofhisneck,justtobereadyincasehemakesa
runforit.ThenIringthedoorbell.

Aprotractedstringofyappybarksensuesimmediatelyafter.There’sa
shufflingfrominside,thenthedoorswingsopen.Andtheairrushesoutof
mylungs.

She’sfivefive,maybefivesix,withlong,tonedlegsinsnugblack
leggings.Theoutlineofatrimwaistteasesbeneaththecottonblouse,
withbuttonsatthetopthatstraintoencasefull,firm,perfectbreasts.Her
neckiselegant,creamypale,andherface—Jesus—itputstheVictoria’s
SecretAngelstoshame.Astubbornchin;highcheekbones;plump,ripe,
gloss-freelips;animpishnose;andtwoice-blueeyesthatsparklelike
fuckingdiamondsonasunnywinterday.Multifacetedauburnhairispiled
highonherhead,withafewescapingstrandsaroundherface.Dark-

rimmed,squareglassesframethosestrikingeyes,givingasexy-
academic,sultry-librariankindofimpression.Itrytoswallow,butmy
mouthjustwentdry.

“Rory,”shebreatheswithrelief,focusingontheboybesideme.Andthen
she’spissed.“Wherehaveyoubeen?Youweresupposedtobehome
hoursago!Andwhyisn’tyourphoneon?”

Thekidpullsoutofmygrasp,walksacrosstheblack-and-white-tiled
foyer,andmarchesstraightupthestairs,notevenlookingather.

“Rory!Hey!”shecallsafterhim.

Futilely.

Herknucklesturnwhitewheretheygripthedoorframe,thensheturnsto
me.“Hello?”It’smoreofaquestionthanagreeting.

“Hi,”Irespond,juststaring.Enjoyingtheview.

Fuck,I’mhorny.

ThenIshakemyhead,snappingoutoftheidiotstuporofbeingdenied
sexfortoolong.Istartagain,extendingmyhand.“Hi.I’mJakeBecker.
I’manattorney.”

It’salwaysgoodtovolunteerthisfactbecause—aswithpoliceofficers—
there’saninstanttrustthat’saffordedtothoseofusinlegalprofessions,
evenifit’snotalwaysdeserved.“ChelseaMcQuaid.”Myhand
encapsulateshersmalloneassheshakesitwithawarm,firmgrip.

“IdroveRoryhome.”

Herheadtiltsandherlipspursewithsuspiciouscuriosity.“Really?”

“Ineedtospeakwithyouaboutyourson,Mrs.McQuaid,”Itellher,going

withthemostlogicalconnectionbetweenherandthewould-bethief.

HereyesexaminemeandIcanseethejudgingwheelsturning.Debating
whetherto,inthisdayandage,letanimposing,unknownmanintoher
house.Ihavenodoubtthatmyexpensivesuitanddarkgoodlookshelp
tipthescalesinmyfavor.

“Allright.”Shestepsback.“Pleasecomein,Mr.Becker.”

Istepoverthethreshold.“Jake,please.”

Sheclosesthedoorbehindme,reachinguptoengageachildsafetylock
atthetop.Thenatinybluroflongcaramel-and-chocolatefursurgesout
frombehindherandpouncesonmyshoes,sniffingandbarking,sticking
outitschestandsnarling.Aclearcaseofsmall-dogsyndromeifIever
sawone.

“It,stopit!”Chelseascolds.

Thecornerofmymouthquirks.“Yourdog’snameisIt?”

“Yeah.”Shesmiles.Andit’sfuckingstunning.“CousinIt.LikeTheAddams
Family?”

Itgetsmoreriled,lookinglikeamopgoneinsane.

Imeethereyes.“Aboutyourson—”

“Nephew,actually.I’mRory’saunt.”

Myearsperkup.Becausebythelookofhernakedhand,there’sagood
chanceshe’sRory’ssingleaunt.BestnewsI’veheardalldamnday.

Ababy’swailcomesfromanotherroom,piercinganddemanding.Chelsea
turnsherhead.“Couldyoucomewithme?Ihaveto...”

She’salreadywalkingandI’mrightbehindher.Wepassbythearched
entrywaysofalibraryandaconservatorywithagrandpiano,thengointo
aspaciousdenwithahugefireplaceandcathedralceiling.Thefurnishings
aretastefulandcleanbutinearthtones,warm.Dozensofframed
photographsofchildrencovereverywall.

Chelseapushesthroughadoorintothekitchen,wherethecryinggets
louder.Thekitchenisaboutthesizeofmywholeapartment.Ithas
hardwoodfloors,mahoganycabinets,andagranite-counteredcenter
islandwithasecondsink,andit’schock-fullofstainless-steelappliances.
AroundkitchentableforeightfitsinanalcovebackedbyFrenchdoors
thatopenouttoastonepatioandgarden,withacobblestonepaththat
leadstoaningroundpoolfartherback.

Aninfantseatsitsinsideameshportablecribbesidetheislandwitha
vocal,unhappypassenger.

“Hereyago,sweetie,”Chelseacoos,bendingovertopickupthepacifier
that’sfallentothebaby’sstomachandpluggingitbackintohismouth.

AtleastIthinkit’sahim—it’swearingdarkbluepantsandashirtwith
boatsonit,so,yeah,it’smale.

Shecaresseshisblond,peach-fuzzyheadandthecryingisreplacedwith
satisfiedsucking.Animmensesilverpotbubblesonthestoveandtheair
smellsofheatandbroth.

“Hi!”

Iturntomyright,whereatoddler—thisonedefinitelyagirl,withgolden
wispyhairandastainedpinkT-shirt—sitsonthefloor,surroundedby
booksandblocks.

“Hi,”Ianswer,straight-faced.

Shegetslouder.“Hi!”

Inodback.“Hey.”

Herfacescrunches,hervoicedropslower,andsheleansforwardlike
she’sabouttotellmesomethingserious.Butallthatcomesoutis,“Hiiii.”

“Istheresomethingwrongwithher?”Iask.

“No,”Chelseaanswers,soundingslightlyaffronted.“There’snothing
wrongwithRegan.She’stwo.”

AndReganisbacktosmilingatme.“Hi.”

“Doesn’tsheknowanyotherwords?”

“No.She’sonlytwo.”

“Hi,hi,hi,hi!”

Igiveupandwalkaway.

“So,howcanIreachRory’sparents?It’simportantthatItalktothem.”

Herfacegoestight.Pained.“Youcan’t.They...mybrotherandhiswife
wereinacaraccidentalmosttwomonthsago.Theypassedaway.”

Andallthepiecesfallintoplace.ThecommentsRorymade,hisunsubtle
angerattheentireworld.Butit’sthenamethatstandsoutmost—the
nameandtheaccident.Ipointathergently.“RobertMcQuaidwasyour
brother?Theenvironmentallobbyist?”

Shesmiles,smallandsad,andnodsherhead.“DidyouknowRobbie?
DC’ssuchabusycity,butI’vegottentheimpressionit’slikeasmalltown
too.Everybodyknowseverybody.”Whenitcomestopoliticalcircles,
andlegalones,it’sexactlylikethat.

“No,Ididn’tknowhim.But...Iheardgoodthings.Thathewashonest,

sincere.That’sararethingaroundhere.”

Andsuddenlysheseemsyoungersomehow.Smallerandmore...
delicate.Issheonherowninthishugehousewiththekids?Justher,
Rory,OneWord,andBabyBoy?

Chelsealooksupfromherhands.“I’mRory’sguardian,sowhateveryou
weregoingtosaytomybrotherandhiswife,youcansaytome.”

Inod,refocusing.“Right.IdroveRoryhomebecause—”

ButIdon’tgetthechancetofinishthesentence.Becausetherumbleof
feet,likeastampedeofrhinos,boomsoverourheads,cuttingmeoff.
ChelseaandIeyetheceiling—likeit’sabouttofalldownonus—asthe
soundtravels,gettingcloser.Andthere’sscreaming.Theatom-splitting,
banshees-from-hellkindofscreaming.

“I’mgonnakillyou!”

“Ididn’tdoit!”

“Getbackhere!”

“Itwasn’tme!”

Eventhetwo-year-oldlooksconcerned.

Theracketreverberatesdownthesecondstaircaseandspillsoutintothe
kitchen,andthetwoscreeching,runningkidswhoaremakingitdolaps
aroundtheislandlikeafucked-upHungerGamesversionofring-around-
the-rosy.

“Itoldyoutostayoutofmyroom!”oneofthem,atallgirl,yells.She’sa
curly-brown-hairedpredator,readytopounce.

“Ididn’tdoit!”theshorteronesqueals,armsoutstretched,searchingfor

cover.

JesusChrist,whatkindofmadhouseisthis?

Chelseastepsbetweenthem,grabbingthembothbytheirarmsand
keepingthemseparated.“That’senough!”

Andnowthey’reyellingather,pleadingtheircasesatthesametime,
eachtryingtobelouderthantheother.Ican’tmakeoutwhatthey’re
saying;itjustsoundslike:hiss,blah,she,hiss,squeak.Buttheaunt
appearstospeakthenativetongue.

“Isaidenough!”

Sheholdsupherhands,bringinginstantblessedsilence.It’simpressive.
Therearesittingfederaljudgeswhocan’trallythatmuchrespectintheir
owncourtrooms.

“Oneatatime.”Sheturnstothetallergirl.“Riley,youfirst.”

Riley’sfingerslashestheairlikeasaber.“ShewentinmyroomwhenI’ve
toldherathousandtimesnotto!Andshewentthroughmymakeupand
ruinedmyfavoritelipstick!”Chelsea’sheadturnstothesmallerone,
who,nowthatshe’snotascreaminglunatic,remindsmeofablond
ShirleyTemple.

“Rosaleen,go.”

OneWordandIwatcheagerly,waitingfortherebuttal...butallshe
comesoutwithis:“Ididn’tdoit.”

Which,inmyprofessionalopinion,wouldn’tbeabaddefense...ifher
mouthandchinweren’tcompletelycoveredwiththick,blazingpink,like
she’sRonaldMcDonald’sillegitimatedaughter.

“Youaresucha—”Rileystartstoyell.

ButChelsea’sraisedhandstopshercold.“Tut,tut—shush.”

Shescoopsthelittleone—Rosaleen—upunderherarmsandperches
heronthecounter.“AndI’dalmostbelieveyou,”Chelseatellsher,
pluckingtwobabywipesfromatubnexttothesink,wipingthegirl’schin,
andshowingherthepink-stainedcloth,“exceptfortheevidenceallover
yourface.”

Greatmindsthinkalike.

Thelittlegirlstaresattheclothwithquarter-sizedblueeyes.Then,like
anydefendantwhoknowsshe’snailed,shedoestheonlythingshecan—
throwsherselfonthemercyofthecourt.

“I’msorry,Riley.”

Rileyisunmoved.“Thatwon’tgivememylipstickback,youlittlebrat!”

“Icouldn’thelpmyself!”shepleads.

AndIunconsciouslynod.That’sit,kid—gowithinsanity.It’sallyou’vegot
left.

“Thelipstickwasinthere,callingtome...”

Voices.Voicesaregood.Alwaysaneasysell.

Herhandsdelveintoherblondcurls,rufflingandtuggingatthem,until
they’rewildandcrazed.“Itmademenuts!It’ssopinkandpretty,Ihadto
touchit!”

Chelseacloseshereyesandbreathesdeep,makingthosefabuloustits
pressagainstherblouseevenmore.Ienjoytheshow,prayingforabutton
topoporforthesinktospontaneouslyspurtwateralloverthatwhite
shirt.

Aguycandream.

“Riley,whatareyourchoresthisweek?”

“Ihavetosetthetablefordinner.”

Hervoiceiskindbutfirm.“Okay.Rosaleen,you’lldoyoursister’schores
fortherestoftheweek.AndwhenyougetyourallowanceonSunday,
you’lluseittoreplacethelipstickyouruined.Understood?”

“Okay.Sorry,Riley.”

ChelsearunsatenderhandthroughRosaleen’smessycurls.“Now,go
upstairsandwashyourface,thencomesetthetable.”

Withanod,shehopsoffthecounterandskipspastmeupthesteps.

Hersistervehementlyobjects.“That’sit?That’sallyou’redoingtoher?”

Chelseasighs,alittleannoyed.“She’sseven,Riley.Whatdoyouwantme
todo—beatherwithastick?”

“It’snotfair!”shebellows.Somuchfuckinglouderthannecessary.

“Sometimeslifeisn’t.Thesooneryouunderstandthat,thebetteroffyou’ll
be.”

Rileysmacksthecounter.“Ihatethisfamily!”

Inawhirlofbrownhairandfury,shestompsupthestairs,glaringatme
alongtheway.LikeIruinedherfuckinglipstick.

“Sweetgirl,”ItellChelseadryly.

“She’sfourteen.It’satoughage.”Shelookswistfullyupthesteps.“She’ll
behumanagain...eventually.”