Page 15 of Vows in Sin
I know Magda specifically said teens in that meeting. I look from her to Clark. Could the great Magda Nowak be gaslighting me right now? And if so, do I call her out? Tell everyone in this room that it was her mistake, not mine?
I glance at my shiny, colorful boards, holding back tears for the hours of painstaking work I put in, the hope I held for the launch, the promise of success I held so tightly. What do I do? Ilet my gaze dance over the table of professionals now staring at me with either anger, laughter, or pity.
I reach Magda’s face.
A shiver runs down my spine from the ice queen’s glare. The hatred in her eyes tells me one thing.
This must be my mistake.
“I’m sorry.” With shaky hands, I grab my portfolio carrier. “So sorry. I’m so sorry.” Tossing the empty bag over my shoulder, I make for the door like there’s a fire behind me.
My fingers wrap around the door handle when I hear Magda call out, “Please. Take those with you. We have no need for them.”
This feels like a bad dream.
“O—kay.” All their eyes are on me as I turn back around. “Right.”
Pressing on a tight smile, I hold back tears, avoiding their gazes as I stagger toward the easels. Of course, I drop the first board I pick up. Uncomfortable giggles fill the tense air behind me. No one comes to help.
“We don’t need any of this,” she says, again, as if I missed it the first time she said it. She waves her hand through the air as if she wishes the gesture would make me and all my work go away.
Trust me, Magda, no one wishes I could disappear right now more than I do.
Humiliation haunts me as I take down the images one by one, slipping them into the black portfolio. I suck. I royally fucked up. I’m a disaster.
I zip up the portfolio carrier, throw the strap over my shoulder, and run for the door.
When I reach the street, there’s no black town car pulled up to the curb waiting to take me home.
I head for the subway station.
6
Reign
Mud squelches under the thick soles of my boots as I move through the clearing. What’s left of the grass is sparse, worn foot paths are trampled over the field. I kick away a rusty can with my toe. It lands by the frame of what was once a sofa.
There’s a group of us Bachmans who like to get rowdy from time to time, putting our posh status on pause for a night. We’re in the Bronx in the muddy clearing where the locals dumped their brush and old furniture.
Our monthly bonfire. A throwback to another time. One for remembering our roots.
The family’s gotten used to my late entrances and early exits from their fancy social events—basically anything that calls for a suit jacket—but this, this is my kind of thing.
I’m right on time.
The younger brothers are carousing as if it were summer and we’re invincible. A thick blanket of smoke hangs in the air. The bonfire crackles and sways, its glow flickering across our faces.
Brothers whoop as they drink beer, the younger ones even doing keg stands, sloshing the cheap brew down the fronts of their hundred-dollar t-shirts, while the others cheer them on.
We older men stick to our whiskey, except in Rockland’s case. He’s recently hit the big five-oh and is currently imbibing a flavored seltzer water. His loving, redhead teetotaler wife Tess sent him with a cooler full, insisting he take care of his liver, and after a round of good-natured ribbing and laughter, he confesses he’s grateful to her.
He was once the leader of the Village but has since retired, turning the place over to Cash, a man younger than us with power, vision, and a hint of ruthlessness.
Cash is on vacation with his family, and Rockland is standing in. He fits right in at our bonfire. He prefers driving a beat-up monster truck over a Ferrari and feels more comfortable in ripped jeans than tailored suits.
Blaze, our primary connection to the Morrettis, stands next to me, lean and quiet, his eyes steady and sharp like a hawk. If I’m going to lay any more traps, I’m going to need all the inside information I can get.
Blaze grew up here, where we party. On the other side of the field, if you cross the road, you’ll find the brick buildings of government-subsidized housing that he called home. He was more than happy when he found out his trip coincided with the bonfire. The bonds of poverty and desperation tie this community tightly together. One of the Moretti boys ran with hiscrowd, and he and Blaze stayed close while the rest of us turned on each other.
