"Except it's not the middle of nowhere, is it? It's a one-hour plane ride, thanks to your and Dad's interference."
Mom doesn't bother to look guilty. "Olivia, honey. You wouldn't have lasted a day in El Salvador or wherever it was you were going to go build houses. There are plenty of people right here at home that need help. And we're so proud of you for doing this."
I give her a look. "Uh-huh. Is that why you guys didn't speak to me for a week when I first told you about it?"
"We were in shock," Mom says, unruffled. "Your father and I had no idea you weren't happy in business school, and of course we'd always envisioned you taking over the company . . ."
It's times like these that I wish my parents were really old money instead of second-generation money. Each of my friends is richer than the next, but most of their families' wealth goes back to some 1800s railroad or some industry whose income is pretty much self-generating by now. Not in my case.
My grandfather had the whole American-dream syndrome going on and changed his midwestern middle-class destiny, building a highly respected advertising firm instead. Dad's only built on his father's success, and it's fully expected to remain a family affair.
And I'm an only child. No pressure.
"I might still take over the company, Mom. I just need to get away from all this, you know? The only time I leave Manhattan is to go to the Hamptons in the summer or Saint-Tropez in January. I mean, you've always said you don't want me to be one of those girls-"
Mom shakes her head to interrupt me. "I know. Believe me, as much as I play the New York society game, I do want you to know that there's a big world out there, Olivia. But are you sure you don't want to stay a little closer to home? There's a facility out in Queens, and-"
"I'm already committed, Mom," I say gently. "Mr. Langdon's already sent a check to cover my travel expenses and I'm expected next Friday."
Mom sighs. "Can't a grown man arrange for his own care? Something's weird about his father having to do all the planning."
"You're the one who connected me with the Langdons in the first place. They're legit. Plus Paul's an invalid. If he could arrange for his own care, he probably wouldn't need care." I say this as patiently as possible. It's a clear indication of just how small my mom's world is, despite her good intentions. She doesn't know anyone who's actually gone to war, much less been injured.
Not that I do, for that matter. Park Avenue isn't exactly swarming with members of the U.S. armed forces.
"Well," Mom says, taking a deep breath and pushing my long hair over my shoulder affectionately, "it's lucky he has a pretty girl like you to take care of him."
I smile wanly. I've been hearing this refrain all evening, and it makes me slightly ill. Not only because it's condescending to the poor guy I'll be caring for, but because it makes me into some sort of sweet, saintly figure.
Only two other people in this house know the truth about me. My mother isn't one of them.
"Hurry back down," Mom says. "The Austens said they hadn't had a chance to talk to you yet."
Probably because I've been dodging them. Annamarie Austen is the catty kind of gossip I've avoided like the plague in recent months, and Jeff Austen stares too long at my boobs.
"I'll be fast," I say before fleeing up the winding staircase to fetch my imaginary Band-Aid. My feet are far too used to being pinched in high heels to be plagued by blisters. I just want-need-five minutes to myself. A chance to be away from everyone's misplaced fawning and the crushing pressure in my chest every time I look at Ethan.
But my bedroom isn't quite the solitary sanctuary I imagined. Far from it.
I jump in surprise, but a part of me isn't surprised at all to see him in here. Him being the iceberg that destroyed my life. It's only appropriate that he also be around to watch me sink.
Now there are three people in the house who know the truth about me.
"Michael," I say, keeping my voice calm. Polite. I'm always polite.
"Liv."
Michael St. Claire is one of those amiable, good-looking guys who attracts friends-and girls-like a magnet. He gets his dark brown hair perfectly styled at a salon that costs just about as much as my own, and his lightly golden skin is the gift of great Italian genes on his mother's side. He's been one of my best friends for as long as I can remember.
The Middletons, St. Claires, and Prices have been a tight-knit clique at the top of New York society for over twenty years. My mother and Michael's mom were best friends in college, and they met Ethan's mother when they all showed up, little kids in tow, for orientation at the rich-kids preschool.
The occasional dinner party with their respective spouses followed, and by the time I was eight, we were spending more holidays with the St. Claires and Prices than we were with my grandparents.
Our parents' friendship ensured that Ethan, Michael, and I went to the same prep school, but by the time college came around, the three of us were so tightly entwined with each other's lives that our joint NYU enrollment had been our own choice. It ensured we could stay close to home and close to each other.
But now?
Now the three of us in the same house feels almost unbearable.
"What are you doing here?"
Michael sets aside the picture of the three of us on Ethan's parents' boat the summer after our freshman year of college. "What do you think? I came to ask what the fuck is going on."
I move toward my vanity to reapply lip gloss so I don't have to look at him. "I'm sure you saw it on the invitation. I'm going to spend a few months volunteering."
He moves closer, his golden eyes both skeptical and concerned, as if he has the right to be worried about me.
"You're running away," he says in a low voice.
I spin to face him, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the vanity. "Of course I'm running away. Don't you want to?"
"No," he says, his voice going hard and angry. "I don't want to tuck my tail between my legs and scamper off so I don't have to deal with anything."
"So what's your plan then, Michael? You want to keep trying to pretend everything's like it was? Even my dad knows something's up, and he's not exactly Mr. Observant."
"We don't need to hide it, Liv."
"There is no it."
There's a flash of pain on his face, and the part of me that used to be best friends with this guy wants to hug the hurt away. But we're not friends anymore. And the last hug that we shared . . . I can't even go there. Not with a hundred people downstairs.
"You need to get out of here," I say.
"So that's how it's going to be? I'm the one that gets kicked out of the group? I get to be the bad guy?"
I want to shout at him that he is the bad guy. I want to blame it all on him. But deep down, I know I can't.
"I just don't want to be in the same bedroom as you," I say through gritted teeth. "That didn't work out so well for us last time."
Michael moves even closer, leaning in so his face is just inches from mine. "Yeah? Seems to me that it worked out really well last time."
I close my eyes to push away the mental image, and when that doesn't succeed, I reach out and literally push him away. His nearness brings back the very memories that are driving me to my self-imposed exile in the first place.
My push is only strong enough to rock him back on his heels, and his eyes search my face before his features go closed and hard.
He begins to walk away, his expression full of disgust. "I know what this bullshit Maine excursion is really about, Olivia. It won't give you what you're looking for."
My stomach clenches. "You don't know anything," I say.
"You're looking for forgiveness," he says, turning back in the doorway. "So am I. But it's not in Bar Harbor, Maine. You'll come find me when you realize that."
Our gazes hold for several more seconds, and for a moment I think it might be longing that I feel, but deep down I know it's only regret. I'll never be able to give him what he thinks he wants.
But whether or not we're right for each other, Michael does know me. He knows that the reason I'm fleeing New York has nothing to do with the goodness of my heart and everything to do with the wretchedness of it.
Carrying for a war veteran isn't about philanthropy.
It's about penance.
CHAPTER TWO
Paul
Those who think 11:14 a.m. is too early in the day to start drinking haven't met my father.
Hell, those who think any time of day is too early to start drinking haven't met me.
"Adding alcoholic to our resume, are we?" Dad asks, glaring at the tumbler of bourbon in my hand with disdain.
I rattle the ice in my glass at him without bothering to move from my slumped position in the leather club chair. It's an effort, making my body go all careless and don't-give-a-shit, but I've learned it's a necessity around my father. If he sees the real me-the version of me that's always thirty seconds away from punching something-he'll have me locked up. "Relax," I sneer. "At least there's an ice cube in there. When I start drinking it neat, then we'll have a problem."