“Hey, did you hear about this?”
I look up from the cold-call email I’ve been drafting to a management company and glance over at the other end of the couch. Andi’s got her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her, her eyes glued to the screen.
“Aren’t you from there?”
I frown as I scooch over and let my eyes trace over the headline at the top of the article. My heart jumps into my throat.
Hamptons Rocked By Massive Fraud Scheme.
Holy shit.
Andi turns the laptop my way as I skim through the article, my mouth open.
Apparently, Dylan Forbes wasn’t wrong about Brent.
My eyes fly over the words as I try and process what I’m reading: Scam, forged signatures, hidden bank accounts, fake tax returns, padded expenses - all of it. The Times article is calling Brent “the Bernie Madoff of private Hamptons’ wealth.”
Except Bernie Madoff got caught. Brent, along with all of the money he stole, is already out of the country.
I might not know all the people mentioned as victims in the article, but I recognize the names, seeing as I went to school with most of them or their kids. The DiVollos, the Brannigans, the Parsons, both of Stephanie Seyfried’s divorced parents. My brow goes up at Tyler Van Der Haus’s mother’s name, but it’s not until I skip to the next paragraph that my hand flies to my mouth, a small gasp on my lips as the words leap from the screen:
“Attempted murder.”
“Near overdose.”
“Crown Estate.”
I push the laptop back into Andi’s hands in a daze, standing and reaching for my phone.
She frowns with worry. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I—”
No, it’s not.
Because somehow, despite everything he did to me, reading about Bastian almost dying in a news article sends something icy through my heart. It makes me hate myself a little, but it’s something I can’t ignore as I reach for my phone.
“Heck, I was just thinking about calling you—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
My dad – still in Austin – goes quiet on the other end of the line.
“He’s okay, honey.”
“Well, I know that from reading it in the news article someone had to show me before I found out about it.”
Dad sighs. “Wasn’t sure you wanted to know much about that boy.”
“I don’t, I just…” I close my eyes, pushing my fingers through my hair. “Just tell me what happened, okay?”
“He got screwed, is what happened. I’ve talked to Carl and Emily a few times since I heard myself,” he whistles. “Sebastian had a close call. That Carmichael kid drugged him with something, so they’re saying. Had Sebastian sign over the whole damn trust to him.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “All to his uncle?”
Dad makes a tsking sound. “See, that’s the damnedest part. The uncle apparently had nothing to do with this. Heck, the man owns a vineyard in Tuscany and keeps to himself. Hasn’t seen Sebastian since the funeral, and didn’t even know there was a trust. This was all Brent Carmichael.” My dad makes a hissing sound. “Little bastard cleaned half the damn town out.”
“So I read.”
I grab my own laptop and open it, easily pulling up fifty more pieces of news about what happened. Shell companies, forged documents - Brent was thorough in his screwing of the town he grew up in.
“So where’s Brent? Do they even know?”
“Thailand or something, I guess.”
I nod, mulling over my next question - almost afraid to even ask it out loud, as if asking it might mean I care.
“He’s okay, if you’re wondering,” Dad says quietly, answering it for me before I have to ask.
“Sebastian I mean. He could have died, but he’s okay. Whatever Brent gave him was a strong damn dose and it didn’t mix with liquor much. If Emily hadn’t almost broken his door down, he might not have made it.”
Those words haunt me long after I say my goodbyes and hang up. They linger over my shoulder all night, and they hound my steps and my thoughts all the next day.
And I hate that I care, but I do.
I really, really care that he didn’t die.
I call Mrs. Tottingham, who gives me a much more vivid account of breaking down the door to Bastian’s quarters and finding him a shade of blue and barely breathing. And I think about calling him too - only for a second, but it’s there. I know I can’t, but it’s one more thing that lingers longer than it should.
I don’t call.
A few days later, miracle-of-miracles, Jack emails.
So, here’s the deal. I’m going to be in LA in three days, and we’re meeting. Or at least, I hope we are. If not, that’s fine, but it also means maybe you’re right. Maybe this thing we have has gone it’s course. Either way, I’ve had a great time not being in your band, and I hope by this point, you can see why it is Cyndi Lauper is awful.
Let’s meet, and we can laugh at all the things we lied to each other about over the years.
Take a leap of faith, Jill.
Say yes.
-Jack.
I do note the absence of “love” at the end, but I push that stupid thought away. I re-read the email about ten times, analyzing every stupid line, and every damn punctuation until it’s been a full day since I got it.
It’s then that I sit down, take a deep breath, and hit “reply.”
Time to take a leap of faith.
Three days. 10 pm, The Knot, on Wilshire. There’s something you should see.
Xoxo,
Jill.