The Field is crowded, loud, and perfect. None of these strangers know me or care one wit for my turbulent narrative. Oliver, Lillian, and I occupy a booth near the front window. There’s a half-eaten plate of potato skins on the table, as well as a slew of empty glasses.

I’ve just told my brother about the night of the birthday party.

“And mom just walked out of the room?” he asks, shaking his head slowly.

“Like her panties were on fire,” confirms Lillian.

He scowls. “She’s such a piece of work.”

I fiddle with a cocktail napkin. “You really had no idea?” I ask.

“What the fuck, Thea?” he asks, eyes wide and hurt. “Do you really think I would keep something like that from you?”

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Tabitha made it seem like everyone had figured it out but me.”

Oliver rubs his hands over his face. “This is surreal. I wish you’d told me when it happened. I would have flown down last week.”

“Thea, asking for help?” quips Lillian. “That would be a new one.”

I ignore her. “I’m sorry, Ollie. You know my telephone skills are lacking.”

He reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I need you to know I’m always here for you.”

“I do, big brother. Thanks.”

He leans back and takes a sip of beer. “So… I saw you on TV.”

I groan. “We’re not talking about it.”

“That’s fine,” he says quickly. “I just want to know if I have to kill Damien Young.”

Lillian giggles. “Ollie, you’re kind of hot when you act tough.”

“Ew, Lil,” I admonish.

Oliver smirks at Lillian, who’s obviously three sheets to the wind. “Still the same little Harris Heiress. Zero filter.”

She sticks out her tongue, which he tries to grab.

“Guys,” I say, laughing, “Stop regressing.”

Oliver tweaks Lillian’s nose, then relaxes back. “Fair enough. Have you talked to dad?”

I squirm. “No.”

“Are you going to?”

“I found out less than a week ago,” I hedge, “and besides, mother hasn’t actually admitted anything.”

Oliver’s eyes narrow. “Do you have a picture of him?”

I reach in my purse and pull out an envelope stuffed with photographs. Oliver takes it and begins flipping through the images, looking more resigned with every one.

“You freaking look just like him,” he breathes, rubbing a hand over his hair. He passes me the photos, scowling. “Dad had to know. I can’t believe they kept this secret for almost thirty years, telling us some bullshit line about how you looked like the grandfather we never knew.”

I swirl my pint glass, watching the foam crest against it walls. “For what it’s worth, I think mother is pretty torn up about it.”

He grunts. “I wish I’d seen her slap Tabitha.”

Lillian perks up. “Oh, Ollie, it was glorious! And then after, Thea was cool as a cucumber, and Alex told her she was amazing.”

I wince as Oliver’s eyes narrow. Before he can ask, I say, “It’s over.”

“It’s on pause,” chirps Lillian. “They’re madly in love but are both too proud to admit it.”

I close my eyes and count to ten.

Oliver asks softly, “Are you in love, little sis?”

“I don’t know anymore,” I say, and finish my beer.

Because he’s the best brother in the world, he lets it drop and asks, “Do I get an invite to this restaurant opening? When it is?”

“Of course,” I assure him, then do some fuzzy math. “Um, a little over three weeks away. May first.”

Lillian sits suddenly straight. “Shit, only three weeks?”

Until he’s gone. “Yes,” I say with strain, and her eyes immediately tear up with compassion. I look quickly at Oliver. “Time to get her home.”

He peers at Lillian’s running mascara. “Ah, the waterworks begin.”

“Hate you,” she pouts.

He grins and dabs her face with a cocktail napkin. The sight makes me smile and remember simpler times. But many years have since passed, and the Greek Heraclitus said it best: Nothing endures but change.

Heading to the bar, I settle our tab.

* * *

I wake up too late on Saturday for my usual run, not to mention too hungover. With an hour before I have to meet Oliver for breakfast, I make coffee and take a long shower. I stay under the hot water until the nightmares have faded, then throw on faded jeans and a t-shirt.

The Mission on J Street has been a favorite of Oliver’s and mine since we were kids. It’s a bit of a hike from the condo but I embrace the excuse for exercise. I’m hoping by the time I arrive, the worst of my emotional thorns will have lost their poison.

When I finally reach the charming white house, my half-dry hair is a tangled mess down my back and I’m flushed with exertion. I bound up the steps and into the restaurant, knowing Oliver’s likely waiting. (He’s a firm believer in the adage, On time is late.) I scan the crowded, cozy interior, sucking in a bouquet of coffee, syrup, and butter.

I finally see Oliver, but he isn’t alone. I stop breathing. My head goes fuzzy and light from lack of oxygen and I blink hard, but I’m not hallucinating. Alex and Lucy are sitting and chatting amiably with my brother.

I step back fast but it’s too late—Alex looks up and straight at me. Oliver, seated across from him, swivels around, waving when he sees me. “Thea!” He’s grinning like a loon, knowing full well I want to murder him.

With conscious effort, I maintain even breathing as I approach the table. Staring fixedly at Oliver, I say, “I didn’t know you two knew each other.” But what I’m really asking is, How the fuck did this happen?

The men look at each other, then at me. Oliver says blithely, “We’ve run into each other a few times over the years. The wait was enormous, but Alex and Lucy were already near the top of the list. Did you know he’s friends with the owners?”

“No.”

I hate you, I tell him with my eyes. Unfazed, he points at the open seat—beside Alex, of course. “Sit down, sis. You’re making me nervous.”

Alex moves to pull back my chair. I glare at him until he lifts his hands in surrender, then yank out the chair myself and sit heavily.

Lucy, at least, looks pained. “Hey, Thea.”

“Hi,” I snap.

Oliver laughs. “What’s gotten into you?”

I didn’t run this morning and my thorns are dripping poison. I have just enough restraint to keep the words to myself. I stare at the menu, trying to find equilibrium.

Alex. Alex. Alex.

I stand up fast, my chair screeching. “Alex, I need to talk to you outside. Now.”

He tosses his napkin on the table and rises. Unsmiling, he gestures for me to precede him. I stalk through the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, then keep walking. Spying an unoccupied alley, I veer into it.

“Thea, stop.”

I spin around. “I don’t want an audience. What the hell is your game?”

Sighing in frustration, he drags hands through his hair. The tattoos on his arms tease my vision. His grey t-shirt rides up over the waistband of his jeans, giving me a glimpse of hipbones.

I close my eyes. One… two… three…

“It’s not like I arranged running into you. Do you think I want to see you? It’s fucking torture.”

Pain lances through my chest. I open my eyes. “Tell Oliver to call me when he’s done eating,” I say, and shove past him.

Alex gently seizes my bicep—his touch turns me boneless. He pulls me around and steps forward, guiding me back until my spine grazes the brick wall. At the look in his eyes, heat explodes through my limbs.

“This is a train wreck,” I whisper.

His fingers tangle in my hair. “Maybe,” he says, and kisses me hard. My mouth opens under the assault, a flower touched by sunlight. I hold on, drink him down, breathe him in. The kiss isn’t sweet or loving—not what I want. But it’s exactly what I need.

“I want you,” he hisses, “God, I want you right now.”

Reaching between us, I stroke him through his jeans until his breath catches and he thrusts forward. Startled—and suddenly aware of where we are—I try to jerk away.

Oh God, what am I doing?

Alex pulls me flush to his body. His lips trail over my mouth, my jaw, and up to my ear. “This is ending one way. Right now, in this alley, or tonight in a bed. Your choice.”

“You wouldn’t,” I gasp.

“Do you really want to test me?” he growls. I whimper, my hips twitching instinctively. “Don’t think I don’t know how wet you are.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” I gasp.

His teeth sink into my neck, wringing a moan from my throat. He licks the offended spot and whispers, “Let me give you what you need.”

Oh.

A dark thrill sings through me.

He murmurs, “All that strict discipline of yours, all your careful composure. I don’t have to tie you up, Thea. I don’t need to. You’ll surrender just to my voice.”

“I don’t—”

His head lifts, startling me silent. “Do you feel safe with me?” he asks roughly.

My body or my heart? But I don’t ask. I’m falling into his midnight eyes, struggling to keep sight of the sky. Longing and anger clash like titans in my soul. I’ve been existing on discipline—living on counted breaths—for longer than I can remember. And I’m tired, so tired. I want surrender. Want him.

I will always want him.

“Yes, tonight.”

The tension melts from his frame. He kisses my nose, my forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you this week. Forgive me.”

My heart squeezes. I don’t want to think of Candace’s words but can’t help it. I don’t think my brother’s been in love before.

“‘O, that way lies madness,’” I whisper.

His fingers wrap around my neck and slide up to cradle my head. Lips graze over mine, curved in a smile. “King Lear, really?”

I shrug. “Sometimes it’s easier to repeat the words of others than find my own.”

Alex laughs; I memorize the sound. “Only you, Thea,” he says, kissing me softly. “Your brother probably thinks I’ve kidnapped you. Let’s go eat.”

“I’m not really hungry.” Ocean sunrise eyes narrow dangerously. I lift my hands. “Okay, okay. I’ll eat.”

His smiles. “Good girl.”

* * *

That afternoon, Oliver and I drive to La Jolla to visit our mother. We sit in the sunny solarium, drinking white wine and discussing everything but the elephant stomping holes in the floor. I mostly listen, watch my mother, and entertain memories.

At eight and ten years old, respectively, Tabitha and I asked her why she plucked her eyebrows. We were fascinated with the process, a seemingly painful enterprise that she willingly underwent nearly every morning. Katherine, deciding our curiosity denoted readiness, sat us together on the cushioned stool before the vanity in her bedroom. Instead of explaining, she demonstrated, plucking the thickest hairs from the most sensitive spots above our eyelids.

We screamed and cried.

“Beauty is pain,” she told us. “Embrace it.”

The mantra was repeated often in the coming years. After falling off my horse. After spraining an ankle in gymnastics. Over blistered fingers from fruitless attempts to learn the harp. I wouldn’t be surprised if the words were uttered in infancy whilst teething.

Beauty is pain. Beauty is pain.

One Christmas, I even considered gifting her stationary monogrammed with the phrase, but Oliver talked me out of it.

“I think it’s time, mom.” My brother’s voice is soft but stern. “Tell us about Robert White.”

Katherine doesn’t look at either of us. She carefully sets her wine on a vintage plant stand too expensive to be used for its intended purpose. Her hands flutter in her lap, plucking nonexistent fluff from her pink pantsuit.

After a minute or so, her gaze lifts sightlessly toward the windows. “He was kind,” she says softly.

He was kind.

The words resonate and are sucked into the aching space in my heart.

Oliver asks, “Does dad know?”

Katherine says stiffly, “These matters shouldn’t be discussed with children.”

My brother snaps, “We’re not children anymore, and Thea deserves the truth. You owe her that much, don’t you think?”

Her eyes flash to me and away; her hands clench. “Yes, your father knows. When it happened, I’d just found out he was having an affair. I slept with Robert for revenge.”

I flinch and Oliver hisses, “Jesus. Why have you never told us? Told Thea?”

Her head whips toward us, eyes stark and wide. “Because I didn’t know how!” she cries. “It was a scandal that would have changed how people looked at us. I couldn’t risk it!”

I don’t speak. Oliver does it for me, standing with rage spilling from every line. “You selfish bitch,” he growls. “What’s the matter with you, that you care more about your social status than your own child?”

Katherine’s face drains of color save two spots of red on her cheeks. “How dare you speak to me that way! I’m your mother!”

“Thea,” he snaps, “Let’s go.”

Standing, I set down my wine glass. Katherine stares at me, her eyes glassy with tears. My only thought is that it must be so exhausting to be her. I say mutedly, “I don’t know if I can forgive you. But thank you for not standing in the way when Margaret became a part of my life.”

“Althea,” she whispers brokenly. “I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to protect the family.”

There’s so much wrong, twisted in her, that I feel a spike of sympathy. “You did the best you could,” I say, and ignore Oliver’s angry grunt. “Now give me space.”

“And put a leash on Tabitha,” Oliver snarls. “She’s out of control.”

Katherine nods and swipes manicured fingers beneath her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers. “I’ll try.”

Oliver stalks from the room. I follow, but pause on the threshold and look back. “You said he was kind?” I ask softly.

She glances up, takes a short breath, and nods. “And brilliant. Introverted, but so charming. There was something of a light about him. A depth in his eyes. Just like you.”

“What happened that night?” I ask.

She closes her eyes. Tears track down her face and drip from her chin. “I was so angry with your father—with Steven, that is. I’d just discovered the affair. I felt… out of control. Robert was there, and alone. He… he wasn’t much of a drinker. But that night, he had more than usual. I seduced him, not the other way around. He was inconsolable, after. I… I think it was why he was so reckless on the mountain the next morning. He couldn’t stand that he’d betrayed Margaret.”

Tears pool in my unblinking eyes. “I believe you,” I whisper. “I only wish Margaret had known.”

Katherine shudders, then sobs loudly. “I know, I know, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry…”

Oliver’s hand cups my shoulder. I turn toward him and we walk out of the room.

Away.