Weston
Wednesday evening, we drove to Boston in Connor’s Hellcat, four days’ worth of luggage for three people crammed in the trunk. Autumn rode shotgun. I sat in the back with earbuds in, my music cranked up so I wouldn’t have to listen to their small talk. The sight of their twined hands on the console was unavoidable.
Connor was a wreck. Autumn did her best to comfort him, but I had to wonder if she regretted coming, instead of spending Thanksgiving with her own father.
We arrived at the Drake residence off of Dartmouth Street. Connor parked at the curb and peered up at the huge row house.
“I feel like I’m about to stand trial,” he said. “Exhibit A,” he added, with a nod at the silver Jaguar parked in front of us. “Jefferson is here.”
Autumn slipped her hand across his shoulders and into his hair. “I hate that this is so hard for you.”
Connor forced a smile. “Nah, I need to chill. My parents will love you.”
Autumn didn’t say anything, but I could almost read her thoughts in the downward curve of her lips.
It’s not me they need to love.
Connor punched in the security code on a panel at the front door and opened it.
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” he said.
The house hummed with talk and laughter. The scent of cooking hung in the air—baking bread, roasting meat, vegetables simmering in thick sauces.
“Wow, this is beautiful,” Autumn said. Her neck craned from the ruffled collar of her simple blue dress. As she turned this way and that to gaze up at the high-vaulted ceiling with its crystal chandelier, the tendrils falling from her loose bun danced around her porcelain face. She started fidgeting with her bag on her shoulder. “Now I just got nervous.”
Connor’s mother emerged from the sitting room then. “Hello, my darlings.”
Senator Victoria Drake wore an elegant, pale beige pantsuit with a string of pearls at her throat. Her hair was down instead of the severe coil she wore in D.C. She radiated refined elegance with an underlying mom warmth, but her eyes were sharp. A woman who wrote laws for a living, for Massachusetts and the Drake household.
“Hi, Mom,” Connor said.
Victoria embraced him and held his face in her palms a moment, then turned to me.
“Wonderful to see you, Wes,” she said. “You look handsome as ever.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Drake.” I gave her a light peck on the cheek and was suffused with perfume, and the chalky smell of her makeup.
“And you must be Autumn.” Victoria offered her hand for a brisk shake. “So lovely to meet you.”
“Wonderful to meet you too, Mrs. Drake,” Autumn said, then bit her lip. “Or…Senator…?”
“Please. Call me Victoria.”
I smirked. Mrs. Drake had been asking me to call her by her first name for years, and it was impossible. Connor’s mother exuded the aura of a famous person—one step removed from mere flesh and blood like the rest of us. She was far warmer than Mr. Drake, but still intimidating. If Autumn ever felt comfortable enough to call her Victoria, I’d eat my shorts.
“Connor tells me you’ve petitioned Harvard to create your own major?” Mrs. Drake asked.
“I will be,” Autumn said. “I’m still putting the project together.”
“Connor’s older brother, Jefferson, is set to graduate Harvard Business School with Honors this spring.”
“I heard,” Autumn said, her gaze flickering to Connor for a moment, her smile stiffening. “What an amazing accomplishment.”
“We’re very proud.” Mrs. Drake beckoned us deeper into the house. “Come. Everyone’s here except for your mother and sisters, Wes. Miranda called and said they’re all driving up tomorrow.”
“The Wahlberg show will have to wait,” I muttered to Autumn.
She grinned. “Whatta pissah.”
I barely contained the laugh that threatened to bust out of me.
God, this girl.
We adjourned to the lavish sitting room of polished mahogany and glass tables. A fire burned in the fireplace. Mr. Drake and Connor’s older brother sat with a tall blonde woman dressed impeccably in slacks, and a cashmere sweater. Jefferson’s fiancée, I presumed. Perfectly put together, not a hair out of place. A dystopian film director’s wet dream of the perfect woman.
I glanced down at Autumn—small and delicate, but holding her own in this intimidating space, a genuine smile on her full lips.
She’s fucking perfect.
The Drake men exchanged handshakes and greetings. “Dad, this is my girlfriend, Autumn Caldwell,” Connor said.
Alan Drake nodded curtly at Autumn. “A pleasure.”
“Thank you for having me, Mr. Drake,” Autumn said.
“Hey, Wes,” Jefferson called, walking over and shaking my hand with a grip a tad stronger than necessary. “Good to see you again. This is my fiancée, Cassandra Malloy.”
Through the introductions, Mrs. Drake motioned over a caterer in a white blouse and apron, holding a tray of small dessert tarts. “We’ve had dinner, but you’re just in time for these and please, help yourself to any drink.”
“Autumn, can I get you anything?” Connor asked.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Wes?”
“I’m good,” I said. Something told me not to leave Autumn’s side as Jefferson indicated she should sit with him and Cassandra.
I clapped Connor’s shoulder as he headed to a glass table covered in bottles of expensive liquor. Autumn sank into one of the high-backed chairs by the fireplace and I leaned on its arm. Casual on the outside, but holding a machine gun on the inside.
The senator left the room to take a call. Mr. Drake stood at the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantle, grim-faced and quiet, as usual.
“Tell me, Autumn,” Cassandra said. “Victoria said you’re applying to Harvard for grad school?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s your area of study?”
“Social anthropology,” she replied.
“I wasn’t aware that Harvard had a social anthropology department,” Jefferson said, putting one ankle on the other knee.
“It doesn’t,” Autumn said. “I’m petitioning the Anthropology department with an application that includes a project focused on an area of socially-conscious reform in order to create a special degree for me.”
Jefferson pursed his lips as if reluctantly—and condescendingly—impressed. “And what area do you feel is in dire need of reform?”
Autumn folded her hands in her lap as Connor returned with a glass of, at least three fingers of Scotch. I reluctantly relinquished my post to him.
“I’m still working that out,” Autumn said. “Several areas I’m leaning toward. Population impact on the environment, the effects of racism at different economic levels, or the rights of the disabled and urban planning.”
“So, we have a social justice warrior in our midst.” Jefferson surveyed his audience to see if we shared his amusement.
My teeth clenched at the patronizing tone, but loosened as Autumn replied, “Yes, you do.” Her voice was cool and steady, her gaze unblinking. “Social change on a large scale usually begins with micro-protests or rebellions. Warriors who take a stand. Rosa Parks sitting at the front of the bus is the most famous example. The Me Too movement, being a modern day parallel.”
Cassandra sipped her wine. “Broad stroke, isn’t it?”
Jefferson sniffed. “Indeed. One can’t compare the Civil Rights Movement to a hashtag on Twitter.”
“I think the argument can be made that they have important similarities,” Autumn said, her voice stiffening. “In the same way that Ms. Parks’ action was a catalyst for the Civil Rights Movement, Me Too opened the floodgates of women—and men—coming forward to tell their stories of abuse, often in environments where sexual harassment was considered an unchangeable reality. For the first time, we’re seeing real consequences for abuse of power and voices are demanding to be heard. My aim is to be one of those voices, and if that makes me a social justice warrior, then so be it.”
I rocked back on my heels.
So there, you sanctimonious pricks.
Connor’s gaze flickered nervously to his father, who was studying his cocktail. The room quieted, as if waiting for Mr. Drake to weigh in, like a judge with a final verdict.
Mr. Drake pursed his lips, thinking, then said, “Jefferson, whatever happened to your friend Reginald? He was a good man. How come we haven’t seen much of him lately?”
Jefferson answered as if the abrupt conversation shift was perfectly natural. Which of course, in the Drake household, it was; if the Lord and Master didn’t like a subject, he simply changed it.
I went over to the liquor cabinet and cracked a craft beer from the mini fridge. Autumn slipped away from the group to join me.
“Had a nice chat, did you?” I asked.
“Who doesn’t enjoy a good dose of condescension?” She nodded her head at the brandy. “Pour me one of those, will you?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked. “Two pear ciders seem to be your limit.”
“I need alcohol or I’ll never make it through the night.”
I popped a craft bottle for her and we clinked glasses.
“I like Mrs. Drake,” she said. “Can’t get a read on Mr. Drake yet.”
I nodded at Jefferson and Cassandra sitting primly at Mr. Drake’s feet. “What do you think of the Commander and Serena Joy?”
Autumn sputtered over the rim of her bottle as she was taking a sip. “Oh my God, Weston. You’re terrible.” After a moment, she leaned into me to whisper, “Their Handmaid must be waiting in the car.”
I grinned behind my beer. “Poor Ofjefferson. I hope they cracked a window.”
She let out a loud laugh, then pressed her lips together. “We’re going to hell.”
“I know,” I said. “But they’re so creepily perfect for each other. I wonder if they met on Tinder? ‘Hi, I’m Cassandra, and my hobbies include sitting on the porch at sunset with a glass of Chablis and making jewelry from the bones of small animals.’”
Autumn nudged my arm, her face straining to hold back her laughter. “Weston, shh.”
“He enjoys fishing, boating, and keeping a journal of the size and frequency of his dumps.”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
“Just think of the beautiful children their nanny is going to raise.”
Autumn buried her forehead against my shoulder, her shoulders shaking. I fought the impulse to put my arm around her.
“Time out,” she said when she caught her breath. She handed me her beer bottle and wiped her eyes on a cocktail napkin. “Thank you, I needed that.”
“Any time.”
Autumn’s hazel eyes were still shining and liquid from laugh-crying when Connor extricated himself from his family and joined us. Autumn slipped her arms around his waist.
“How are you holding up?” she asked softly. “You look tired.”
“I’m great,” Connor said, holding her close. “You were great. Wasn’t she great? I love how you stood up for yourself like that. I think my dad was impressed. Jefferson and Cassandra can be a little stiff.”
“A little,” I muttered.
“Your dad didn’t seem impressed,” Autumn said, her voice low. “He hardly looked my way.”
“How can they not love you?” Connor said, the volume rising in his voice. The scotch had loosened him up.
Victoria Drake joined us. “I’ve had Autumn’s things taken up to your room, Connor. Wes, the guestroom is made up for you.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Drake.”
She frowned at me. “You were more than welcome to bring a guest, Wes. I didn’t even think to ask if you were seeing someone…?”
“No worries.” I stuck my hands in my pockets, feeling Autumn’s eyes on me. “Nobody worthy of your company.”
Mrs. Drake made a face and swatted my arm. “Aren’t you a charmer? Good night, then. Breakfast at nine tomorrow, dinner at one.”
I watched Connor and Autumn go upstairs together, then I slipped into my own room on the first floor.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling. Above me, Connor was probably wrapped in Autumn’s arms, falling asleep to the soft cadence of her breath against his chest. Or having sex with her quietly…
Or fucking her brains out.
“You’ve no one to blame but yourself,” I muttered to the dark, and wrapped myself in cold sheets and silence.
Around one o’clock the next afternoon, the subdued Drake household was bombarded by my mother.
“This must be Connor’s girl,” Miranda said in the foyer, pulling Autumn into a hug, then holding her at arm’s length. “My gosh, she’s an angel. Look at this face.”
“Okay, Ma,” I said, my cheeks burning.
“Is it not true? She’s an angel.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Turner,” Autumn said. Her smile was a hundred times more relaxed than it was with the Drakes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ma shook her head. “An angel.” She turned to me. “Why can’t you find yourself a girl like this?” She patted Autumn’s cheek. “Beautiful. I hope Connor is treating you right.”
“I do my best,” Connor said, his gaze flicking to me and back.
It’s a group effort.
“This is Paul Winfield,” Ma said. “He treats me like gold, in case you were curious.”
“I do my best,” Paul said with a wink. “A pleasure, Autumn.”
“Where are Kim and Felicia?” I asked.
Ma crossed herself. “Don’t get me started on those two. Suddenly, we had other engagements. Suddenly, our social calendars are full and we can’t be bothered to tell our own mother.” She turned to Mrs. Drake who joined us in the foyer. “I’m so sorry, Victoria. Those girls do their own thing. Come and go. I have no say. I don’t know where they are from one minute to the next. It’s a travesty.”
“They’re grown women, free to make their own decisions,” Victoria said placidly. “I’m glad you’re here though.” She and my mother kissed cheeks. “And you must be Paul.”
Paul offered his hand. “Thank—”
“Don’t be shy, now,” Ma said. “Paul Winfield, this is Victoria Drake. She and Alan are like a second set of parents to my Wes. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them when he was a wild boy on the streets, getting into fights every other minute.”
I looked upward, as if patience could rain down on me from the ceiling.
“Wes has been the best friend Connor could hope for,” Mrs. Drake said. “We’re so happy to have you both as part of this family.”
“Here I go,” Ma said, wiping her eyes with a hanky Paul had at the ready. “All of five minutes and I’m already crying with gratitude. Paul, didn’t I tell you she was a gem?”
“I believe dinner is almost ready,” Mrs. Drake said, just as one of the cooks appeared in the hall and motioned to her. “I stand corrected. Dinner is ready.”
We gathered around the Drakes’ immense table in the formal dining room where the two place settings for Felicia and Kimberly were surreptitiously ghosted away. Mr. and Mrs. Drake sat at the heads of the table. Autumn and Connor on one side, with my mother and Paul. Jefferson, Cassandra and me, sat on the other. Mrs. Drake had us all hold hands while Mr. Drake offered up the Thanksgiving blessing.
“That was lovely, dear,” Mrs. Drake said when he finished. “Now please, everyone, enjoy.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ma said.
My stomach clenched.
“I think we all should go around the table and say something we’re thankful for. Okay, I’ll go first. No, no, I changed my mind. I want to go last. Mine’s a big one. Wes, baby, why don’t you go first?”
I inhaled and let out a slow breath, careful to keep my eyes away from Connor who was going to do his best to make me crack. My gaze landed on Autumn.
I’m thankful for that smile of hers,
Even when it’s not meant for me.
I coughed. “I’m grateful that we’re all here together, and thanks to Mr. and Mrs. Drake for having us.”
Eloquence, thy name is Wes Turner.
Ma sniffed. “You can’t do better than that? All those beautiful words you wr—”
“Hey, Connor, how about you go next?” I said. Loudly.
“Yes, yeah, sure,” Connor said, shifting in his chair. He turned to Autumn and took her hand.
“I’m grateful for being with family, and that this amazing woman is by my side. Thank you for being here with me.”
He leaned and kissed her softly.
“I’m thankful to be here with you too. And all of you.” Autumn’s gaze swept up the rest of us before finding him again. “I’m thankful you didn’t give up when I kept saying I was too busy or too heartbroken. I’m grateful for your sense of humor when I need to laugh, and for your poetry that makes me cry.”
“Poetry?” Ma said. “Since when do you write poetry, Connor baby?”
My hands tightened into fists under the table.
“It’s just something I do on the side,” Connor said.
Mr. and Mrs. Drake shared a look I couldn’t read.
“That’s what a liberal arts college will do to a man,” Jefferson said with a wink. “Do you still play baseball or is it too rough a sport for you now?”
“Connor happens to write beautiful poetry,” Autumn said, her voice hard, her back straight. “I think a lot of issues in this country would be solved if men felt free enough to express themselves, instead of being forced to suppress their emotions under the guise of masculine prowess or strength.”
“Here, here,” Paul said, raising his wine glass.
Autumn touched Connor’s cheeks with the backs of her fingers. “Don’t ever stop writing me poems.”
“I won’t,” he said, and coughed, his gaze darting everywhere but at me.
Ma blew out her cheeks. “Will wonders never cease?” she said with a shrug. She leaned over the table toward Jefferson. “What are you thankful for, honey, besides your gorgeous fiancée?”
Jefferson’s frown vanished. “I’m proud and grateful this wonderful woman has agreed to be my wife. And I’m also truly grateful to Mom and Dad for releasing my trust at the end of this year, so that she and I can start our life together. I look forward to being a part of your business, Dad. Not only to carry on the family name, but ensure it endures for generations to come.”
Mr. Drake raised his glass. “Your mother and I share the same proud gratitude for your accomplishments and commitment to this family.
Connor drew in a breath and let it out slowly and shot me a hopeful look that I read instantly. If his parents were releasing Jefferson’s trust upon graduation, they’d likely do the same for Connor. I didn’t share the same hope.
“Okay, okay, my turn, my turn,” Ma said. “I am just so, so thankful we’re all here today. For Connor, who is like a son to me. For Victoria and Alan, who took care of my family over the years. But no words can describe how grateful I am for your latest act of generosity.”
My head whipped up. I turned questioning eyes at Connor—what the hell?—but he only shook his head—I have no fucking idea.
“What are you talking about, Ma?” I asked.
“Yes, what do you mean?” Paul asked, frowning in confusion.
“I’m talking about home. Victoria and Alan have rescued me from a lifetime of worry.”
“Ma,” I said, a cold pit of unease settling in my gut.
“They bought me a house,” she cried. “Isn’t that something? That cute little number on Union Street?” she said to Paul. “Victoria tells me to take a look, tell me what you think. The next week—this was last Tuesday now—she’s handing me the keys. Can you believe it? Can you believe it, Wes?”
“No,” I said slowly. “No, I can’t.”
Ma dabbed her eyes and Paul put his arm around her stiffly. His eyes met mine and his frown deepened.
He doesn’t approve. The thought was comforting at first until bitterness drowned it. Yippee fuckin’ do, it’s not his business either.
“It was a good investment,” Mr. Drake said. “And if it helps you at the same time, then so be it.”
“It was an investment in our gratitude to you,” Mrs. Drake said. “Especially to Wes, for being such a good influence on Connor.”
“Jesus,” Connor muttered.
Autumn’s gaze went between him and me, her expression a study in confusion.
Mrs. Drake held up her fork. “Now, please, let’s eat before this feast grows cold.”
I pushed food around with my fork, humiliation coursing through my veins instead of blood. I knew Union Street. It wasn’t exactly Park Avenue. The cost of a house in that neighborhood was pocket change to the Drakes, but monumental to my mother.
The weight of everything I owed this family tripled. My mother’s final burden lifted off her shoulders and placed onto mine. I hated how insignificant I’d become. Hated my father for putting me in this position in the first place.
After the feast, I slipped out to the backyard. I didn’t bother with a jacket or coat—I literally needed to cool off. My breath plumed in the November cold as I paced. It was fucking ridiculous to be pissed at the Drakes for helping my mother, yet it felt completely correct.
Finally, I sat on the stone steps, my hands over my knees, my head hung down. Caught between my pride and my mother’s happiness.
One of the French doors opened behind me, and then Autumn sat down, her sweater wrapped tight around her.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I be? The Drakes just bought my mother a fucking house.”
“I know. I get it.”
I tossed a pebble from the steps into the grass. “I feel like I’ve been publicly castrated.”
She laughed softly and nudged my shoulder with hers. “Paul didn’t seem to like it much either. He’s cool. I get a good feeling from him.”
“You do?”
She frowned at me. “You don’t?”
I shrugged. “Most guys she hangs around are leeches.”
“Not him,” Autumn said. “He’s protective. I like them together.”
“I guess. I wish she didn’t make such an embarrassment of herself over the whole damn thing.”
“She’s just being herself. I like her, too. She’s genuine. And I like Mrs. Drake for liking your mom almost more than anything else.”
Thank you for saying that. Thank you for fucking understanding when it feels like I’m insane. Thank you for being here with me in this moment, in the moonlit cold, with your cheeks pink and your mouth parted. If only I could kiss you, I would…
“Weston?”
I blinked. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, try to think about how less stressed your mom will be. After you graduate, you’ll become a Wall Street Vulture and buy her a bigger house.” She grinned. “Or a honeymoon in Tahiti for her and Paul.”
A silence grew warm and soft between us, even in the cold crisp air of falling night. Autumn stared straight ahead over the vast expanse of the Drakes’ backyard. A coppery red tendril danced across the white porcelain of her cheek. Her hazel eyes full of thoughts of the world and the people in it.
She’s too sweet for my bitterness. Too kind for my mean streak.
Voices rose in anger from inside. Autumn and I exchanged glances and scrambled off the steps, into the small sitting room off the kitchen where Connor argued with his parents.
“… She’s a very sweet girl,” Mr. Drake was saying. “But you really see something happening long-term with her?”
Autumn froze, clutching my arm.
“So, she’s not good enough for you either?” Connor said.
“You don’t want to hear this,” I said in a low voice and tried to steer Autumn away. She shrugged out of my grasp and stood rooted to the spot.
“It’s not a matter of good enough,” Mr. Drake said. “It’s a matter of your future.”
“I’m twenty-two years old,” Connor spat back. “I have to figure out my entire future right now? Well, okay, great. I know what I want. I don’t want to work for you, Dad. I don’t want a life in politics, Mom. Why are you punishing me for wanting something different?”
“No one is punishing you,” Mrs. Drake said. “We’re preventing you from making a huge mistake.”
“You have not demonstrated responsibility enough to open your own business,” Mr. Drake said. “Using your grandparents’ money to open a sports bar does not, in our minds, constitute a responsible business decision with an eye toward the future.”
“It’s not your money.”
“It’s not yours either and it won’t be if you continue on this vein. You don’t see Wes throwing his future away by pursuing something trivial.”
Autumn’s grip tightened on the sleeve of my shirt.
“Wes has been working his ass off for years to make something of himself,” Mr. Drake said. “Without his wherewithal, I doubt you’d have been accepted into college in the first place, though a liberal arts college seems to be turning your brain to mush. Poetry? I hope your girlfriend isn’t filling your head with hippie-dippy nonsense.”
“At least she understands what I’m trying to do. To create a haven—”
“A haven for drunks? What a prestigious use of the Drake name.”
“I’m not trying to use anything. It’s what I want to do. Why can’t you get that?”
“It’s lazy and irresponsible.”
“Oh, so you need a demonstration of my responsibility,” Connor said.
“Before we summarily hand you six million dollars? I don’t think it’s an unreasonable request.”
“No, God knows you’re nothing if not reasonable.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out. To demonstrate my responsibility.”
A few moments of silence and the front door slammed shut so loudly, I felt it in my chest where my heart was already pounding.