Page 27 of Eye Candy

As bad as I felt, a small part of me was relieved I wouldn’t have to spend future evenings making terrariums. It had sounded fine at first, but I’d quickly realized I had no desire to know any more than I currently did about terrariums.

When people finally sat down to dinner (delayed because there was no host), I hoped to get a seat near Teddy. I wanted to bring up her chess loss and poke holes in her story, even though it was a bit futile without Joe here, and if she leaned in and put herlips near my ear to whisper things over the dessert course, I’d forget my purpose anyway.

Unfortunately, whoever laid out the place cards had other ideas, and I was seated to the left of Sonya with Fake Teddy across and two down.

Greta sat at the head of the table, her boyfriend Francis at the other end. Francis owned this bar, and he and Greta had met here—there’d been a mix-up with the hired entertainment and Francis had made a spectacle of himself by stripping to save Greta from public embarrassment. It was not clear to me how he thought taking his shirt off would make less of a spectacle, not more, but the pair of them had been more or less inseparable since that night.

This murder mystery dinner was ostensibly for Greta’s birthday, but really, she was trying to introduce Francis to her friends in small doses. Fine by me. Greta was a very good friend but a social butterfly, and I didn’t want to be invited to anything she would consider a large dose.

Over dinner, I studied the pink-haired trouble-maker who had so neatly driven my little brother away from me. She was listening attentively as Antony Fischer told one of his famously pointless stories. Antony was a good man but not a humorous one. As I watched, he tipped his head back and roared with laughter—I didn’t know he could laugh. The short imposter tipped her head back and laughed too, her pink hair bouncing.

Earlier, I’d said her hair made me think of candy floss, which wasn’t a very self-possessed thing to verbalize, nor was it on the long list of things I should have been saying—for instance, ‘leave Joe alone or I’ll take out a restraining order’—but the comparison fit. She was walking candy floss. At any moment, she could disappear, like spun sugar when water is poured over it.

There was no denying my fixation with her now. I’d accepted it as a natural product of having my very ordered, routine, sparsely populated life invaded by someone like her. But it was more than just her extroversion. She wasn’t shy in crowds, andshe clearly never had people suffer through conversations with her. Even just being in proximity to that kind of confidence made me relax, because who would give a shit about what I said—or more specifically, didn’t—when they could be listening to her instead? And she was so fucking sexy…

I should have been excusing myself and going home to write an unflinching account of my moral hypocrisy, but I stayed where I was and ate my pear-and-walnut salad and eavesdropped.

Things turned quickly. Like the weather on a tropical island.

Fiona had been deep in conversation with Floss, but suddenly turned to me. “Chase, I thought you and Joe would never be on speaking terms again, after what happened with Austin’s will. Do you remember?”

Do I remember the reading of my father’s will, when Joe stopped talking to me and swore he never wanted anything to do with another Sanford ever again?

Yes. I remembered.

“We all know what happened, Fiona,” Antony said. “Do we need to relive it?—”

“Teddy was in Europe then!” Before anyone could stop her, Fiona launched into the story, ostensibly for Floss’s benefit, but we all knew she loved mess. “When Austin died, the reading of his will was the event of the year. People flocked from everywhere. All of Austin’s ex-wives wanted stuff, and plenty of his former girlfriends did too. People I’d never even heard of crawled out of the woodwork. The cake was cut so many times it’s amazing Chase and Joe got anything! Plus, there is the stepkid; I never remember his name. Chase is the main beneficiary of the trust, of course, and he got majority shares in the Sanford Group, plus the town house—I still can’t believe you sold it.” She shook her head sadly. “Anyway, Joe has his fitness business, and he gets his inheritance this year as long as the trustees think he’s responsible enough, which… oh.” Her voice died as she looked at Teddy. “Well, I guess hemightget it.”

All eyes flicked to the woman pretending to be Teddy.

Everything felt too hot and too cold at the same time. This discussion, even being in this fucking room, was everything I didn’t want: my brother being dragged through the mud and having people talk about Austin.

Worst of all, I could imagine what my dad would say to me right now:‘Speak up, Chase. Assert yourself. Sanfords take charge.’

“Where’s Joe tonight, Chase?” Antony asked.

“Yes, why isn’t he here?” Fiona asked. “Is he mad at you? Does he still hate you?”

The whole goddamn table was looking at us now. Every head. Was turned. To me.

It was a murder mystery party, and my dad had stilled the fucking room from the grave.

The back of my neck was damp. I rolled my shoulder, trying to think, trying to breathe through my nose and count five fucking things or whatever, but all I could really think about was the massive, crushing weight of reputation, the difference between my illustrious father and me, and the yawning depth of the chasm between Joe and I.

I caught Greta’s eye and wanted to apologize for the derailed dinner conversation. I moved my lips, but words didn’t come. I was frozen but burning, and the look of pity on my friend’s face made me feel disgusted with myself. I wanted to get up, and I tried to, but my knees wouldn’t unlock.

A loud whoop and clatter of cutlery saved me.

“This party needs spicing up!” Teddy’s impersonator shrieked. She downed her champagne, and then, before any of us could react, she tossed the flute to the floor, smashing it, and hoisted herself up onto the table.

“Wheeeee!” Whooping like she was on a girls’ trip in Vegas, Floss stepped over people’s plates, kicked a napkin at Fiona, and started waving her hands in the air, gyrating her hips. The hem of her dress swished around her legs as she swayed. Determinedly, she ignored Francis at the head of the table, who had pushed to his feet and looked thunderous. In contrast, Greta wasmurmuring soft things to the woman she thought was off her face, trying to cajole her off the table.

But she was no more drunk than I was.

She’d climbed on the table because?—

I had no idea why she’d climbed on the table. I could almost delude myself into thinking she had tried to help me. But she had no reason to do that.

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