Page 35 of Exquisite Things
“That’s how things happen, cousin. Just like that.” He sits on his bed and throws his stricken face into his hands. “I liked him. Everyone warned me not to be fooled into thinking he was a good guy. But I really did like him. His sense of humor. His confidence. If it weren’t for him, I don’t know if I ever would have...”
“Would have what?” I ask.
“Ever been with a boy,” he confesses. “Ever explored that side of myself. Known who I am. Of course, now... Well, I’m not sure I can be grateful to him for that anymore. If only I had some boring roommate, I’d still be a student here. I’d be repressed and sad and I wouldn’t know myself at all, but I’d get my degree.”
“I despise him,” I say. “He really is a jackal.”
“Gods of the underworld,” Brendan whispers.
“What?” I ask.
“That’s what people in ancient Egypt thought jackals were.Some kind of evil spirit. I should have known better. I should have kept him at a distance.” He looks at me, his face knotted by his frenzied grief and anger. “Jack had a collection of men’s physique magazines. You know the ones—”
“I don’t,” I confess.
“They’re magazines about men’s athletics. They’re filled with articles on how to broaden your chest or build a strong back and... Well, photos too, of men wearing nearly nothing.” He pauses. I’m waiting to understand why he’s telling me this. “Jack would buy them all. I didn’t have money to spend on frivolous things. I looked at them with him, sure. I enjoyed them.” He lets out a heavy breath. “He told them they weremymagazines. He said the only reason he was even involved in any of our queer underworld is because of me. He made me out to be some kind of ringleader when it was always him egging everyone on.”
“But— But that’s evil,” I say. “And it’s a bald-faced lie.”
Suddenly, I hear his voice. Jack. The Jackal. The god of the underworld who has destroyed my cousin’s life. “Lies must be told in service of the greater good,” he says icily.
“Ignore him,” Brendan says to me.
“No worries, I’ll come back later,” Jack says. “I just needed a jacket for The Jackal.” He picks up two options. One made of brown wool, the other a navy-blue cashmere. “What do you think? Agnes and I are going to the symphony with our parents.”
“Look at you. Cyril’s dead and you’re not even grieving,” I spit out.
“We all grieve in our ways,” he declares, unbothered. “So, brown or navy for Tchaikovsky?”
“Tchaikovsky would despise you,” I seethe.
“Have you summoned his spirit?” he asks with a smile. He’senjoying this. He wants me to attack him. Treats this... Treats life like a game.
“Leave it be,” Brendan begs. “There’s nothing we can do.” Brendan sits on Jack’s bed.
“We can tell him how much we hate him!” I yell as I sit next to my cousin.
Jack approaches me calmly. He stays standing so he towers over us both. “You can hate me now. You can question my decisions. But I have plans. I’m going to run my family’s pharmaceutical company someday. And when I do, I’ll cure every illness out there. I’ll make humans indestructible. Immortal. Tchaikovsky would have loved me if I had been around back then to cure the cholera that killed him.”
“But you weren’t, and you didn’t,” I protest.
He’s unfazed by my rancor. “Someday, your life, or the life of someone you love, will be saved thanks to me. And when that happens, I want you to remember this moment. I want you to ask yourself, was it worth sacrificing your cousin’s Harvard degree to save the lives of millions?”
“Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night?” I ask.
“I sleep just fine at night,” Jack says. “Just ask my roommate. He’s the one who’s had to get me out of bed in the mornings.”
“He’s the one you betrayed!” I yell, standing up.
Jack sits next to Brendan now, taking my place. “Yes, I did. And I’m sorry I had to do it. But I had more to lose.” He looks at Brendan. “Yes, I said the magazines were yours. The parties too. I said all of it, and I freely admit it. But I did this for the good of humanity.” He puts a hand on Brendan’s knee and squeezes it. “And as I’ve already told you, I’ll help you until you get on your feet.”
“I don’t want your money or your pity,” Brendan snaps.
“All righty then,” Jack says with a carefree shrug. “Just for the record, it’s Ernie and Harry you should be upset with, not me.”
“Who’s Ernie?” I ask.
He eyes me with suspicion. “You never really were one of us, Oliver. You never even met Ernie and Harry, for God’s sake. They’re the ones who wrote the letters to Cyril that were intercepted. If it weren’t for them, there would be no investigation and we’d all be in here, drinking whiskey and raising a glass to our friend Cyril before pouring our grief into some bloke in the bathroom of the Rooster. Which is already shut down, by the way.”
