It’s not until that night that I find Christopher alone, head bent over a thick textbook at his desk, the lamp casting shadows on his furrowed brow. It softens me more than it should, seeing him working hard when no one’s watching. “This a bad time?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
He turns to face me, his expression inscrutable. “Would it stop you if I said yes?”
I pretend to consider this. “You did save my life, but I think that only means I have to save your life back. Or maybe give you my firstborn child? They skipped this part in my etiquette class, but I’m pretty sure I don’t have to respect your time either way.”
“You took an etiquette class?”
“Standard operating procedure for any debutante.”
He shakes his head as if bewildered. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“My curtsy is literally the best curtsy, thank you very much.”
“Not that you’re a debutante. Just–” He waves a hand at the cabin, the whole yacht. “This whole thing. It’s kind of insane, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
That draws me farther into the room. I perch on the end of his bed, which is still neatly made after turndown service. “You didn’t grow up with the silver-spoon thing?”
He snorts. “The only thing silver we had was a ten-year-old Toyota Camry.”
“Then how did your mom bag my dad?” I say the question without thinking. There are too many wives in too many years for me to treat the marriages as anything sacred. Or love, for that matter. Daddy doesn’t even bother inviting me to the ceremony, though I never really know if that says more about the women or about me.
Christopher shrugs like he doesn’t take offense. “Mom came from money, but when she married my dad, they cut her off. He was a hard worker. A regular office job. A 401K. That kind of thing. Then he got cancer, and I… I don’t really begrudge her this. It’s what she wants.”
“That’s very understanding of you.”
“It’s not exactly a hardship,” he says. “Even if I do have to dive into cold water.”
“Thank you,” I say softly, meaning it more than words can convey. It’s a situation plenty of boys would have taken advantage of. The kind of boys who bring roofies to parties and get away with things because they can. The only kind of boys I’ve known until now.
He shakes his head, pushing aside my gratitude. “You wouldn’t have died. Probably.”
“I’m glad you’re good at the whole numbers business thing, because a career in motivational speaking is out of the question for you.”
He leans forward and opens his mouth, as if he’s going to say something important. And then he stops. When he finally speaks, it’s something I never would have expected. “You’re smart,” he says, and I laugh.
“What?”
“You’re smart, but you don’t want anyone to know.”
“I’m not smart, as my grades can definitely attest. We can’t all be valedictorian, can we?”
He laughs a little. “You are so full of shit.”
“Excuse me? My report cards are very clear on this issue. I am the absolute best at failing. If there were grades given for failing, I would get straight A’s.”
When I was in third grade, the teacher called my mother in for a conference and showed her my math workbook. I had used the numbers like an abstract paint-by-numbers, turning the pages into stained-glass drawings of flowers and puppies and this one grim reaper with its scythe made out of a column of fractions. It’s not that I can’t add or subtract or even do advanced derivatives. It’s that my mind will flit away like a butterfly in a meadow filled with flowers.
“Okay,” Christopher says. “But I know the truth.”
Frustration makes me huff, which is a lot safer than letting myself smile at him. “Fine, but I know the truth about you.”
One dark eyebrow rises. “What’s that?”
The insight hits me with the same clarity as I saw every page in that workbook, the possibility rising up out of the framework. “This whole thing. The insanity of the yacht and the silver spoon, you want it so bad it hurts. That’s why you study so hard. Because you want this life as bad as your mom, but you’re working for it in a different way.”
The silence descends on us, as heavy and cold as the water. His throat works. “That obvious, huh?”
My brain, usually good at comebacks, falls suddenly silent. There are things I could say to ease the moment: I didn’t mean it, I’m sure it’s not true. But those would be lies. We’re sitting in the cabin with only nakedness between us, the same way we were last night. “It doesn’t mean anything bad about you.” At least that much is true.
He laughs without humor. “It doesn’t mean I’m a greedy asshole?”
“Oh, for sure, you’re definitely a greedy asshole. Who isn’t? Everyone wants money. Very few are willing to work as hard as you to earn it.”
“Listen,” he says, seeming uncertain for once. “What you said about that guy. The one who owned the job website. The one who–”
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” I say, my cheeks burning like fire. “It was a moment of weakness. Which I seem to be having around you with unfortunate frequency.”
“Maybe we should tell your dad. He could make sure that–”
“Absolutely not. No offense, but you’ve been my stepbrother for like a month. You don’t know the history in my family. That guy is gone, and the best thing to do is leave it alone.”
My parents alternately hate each other and love each other, but that isn’t what breaks us. It’s the money that fractures us into a million sharp pieces.
Like the men in my life, money is only temporary.
And if I never want either of them, I won’t be disappointed when they’re gone.