The Devil Wears Black
She wore a patterned outfit, head to toe.
Her black heels had little white cross prints, her dress was flowery, and she had a checkered headband. She’d done that thing I fucking loved with her hair. Her bangs were iron straight, but the rest of her short hair was messily wavy and falling over her face and neck like a waterfall.
Her style reminded me of her apartment. A crowded, color-clashing mess that looked like a piñata full of secondhand furniture and bad decisions had exploded inside. I wouldn’t call her a hoarder per se, but her apartment didn’t look pretty. It was possible Madison Goldbloom was the most sentimental person on planet Earth. She collected everything, including—but not limited to—flowerpots, fabrics, sketches, postcards, wedding invitations, hair elastics, touristy knickknacks, a poodle-shaped mannequin made solely from wine bottle caps, and even a Prince-shaped Chia Pet.
Clutter. Clutter. Clutter.
I had no idea what I found appealing about this girl, other than her talent to offend any pair of working eyes in a two-hundred-mile radius. She designed wedding dresses for an exclusive bridal company that didn’t suck. I knew that for a fact—their designs sold like hotcakes; that was why we were in partnership with them. Sven said she was his most valuable employee. I did not question that at the time we were dating.
I should have.
Mad descended the stairway while the rest of us were seated in the dining room. The staff sprang into action, serving the food as soon as she slipped into the seat next to me, smiling at everyone and waving hello. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were waiting.”
Madison had the ability to be a shy wallflower to the world and a little nymph in the bedroom. I used my foot to pull her chair closer to me so our arms and legs were touching. It dragged along the marble floor noisily, making everyone in the room chuckle.
“He already misses you. That’s so sweet.” Katie put her hand to her chest, her voice hoarse with emotion. Madison let out a hysterical, nervous laugh. I gritted my teeth silently.
Don’t screw it up, Goldbloom.
“Caja-China-roasted Mecox farm pig, bacon cake, buttermilk coleslaw, scallion on a bed of pretzel rods,” one of the hostesses explained to Madison, pointing at the different dishes on the table. As far as ten o’clock snack went, this was a full-blown feast. My parents couldn’t help themselves. It irked me that I’d have to break it to my mother and Katie that Madison and I weren’t together. Although I wouldn’t have to deal with it until after Dad . . . after Dad.
I couldn’t get past that sentence.
My father was dying, and there was nothing within my power to help him. I’d grown so accustomed to throwing money at my problems; the idea I was defenseless against something so profound, that would alter my life in such a radical way, made me irrationally angry.
Madison smiled and nodded dutifully where appropriate. She leaned forward at the long table, addressing my father, who sat at the head, looking smaller than he had before we’d found out. “Thank you so much for inviting me, Mr. Black.”
“Well, I didn’t really know how much time I’d have to get to know you.” He awarded her one of his rare real smiles. Her throat worked. “Chase and you must’ve really taken to one another. Marriage is an important decision after less than a year together, and with your busy work schedules, that didn’t allow us to get to know you.”
I was beginning to feel marginally sorry for Madison. My family had a way of cross-examining her, and everybody seemed to be playing the bad cop.
“May I just say how sorry I am that you’re . . . well, that you . . . ,” Mad started.
“Are dying?” He finished the sentence for her, his tone dry. “Yes, sweetheart, I am not too happy about that either.”
She blushed, looking down at her lap. “I’m sorry. Words fail me at times like these.”
“Not your fault.” He took a sip of his whiskey, his movements slow and measured. He was an older version of me, with a headful of white hair, a tall frame, and arctic eyes. “I doubt anyone is good at talking to a dying person about their state. At least I know Chase has someone to lean on. He is not as tough as he always seems, you know.” He arched an eyebrow.
“He is also right fucking here”—I pointed at my own head, knowing he’d find my annoyance amusing—“and a part of this conversation.”
“Trust me, I know Chase has a fragile side.” Madison patted my shoulder, still smiling at my father. An obvious dig at me. One–zero to the away team.
“Fragile is a bit of a stretch.” I smiled good-naturedly.
“Delicate, then?” She whipped her head around, blinking at me with a bright grin.
Two–zero.
“Touchy is the word you are looking for.” Julian clucked his tongue, his Cheshire cat grin on full display, at the same time that Mom snort-laughed. “Nice to meet you. I’m Julian.”
He extended his hand over the table. Mad shook it. A sudden urge to flip the table upside down struck me.
“Touchy.” Mad tasted the word on her tongue, smiling at my cousin. “I like that. He is like a porcupine on Shark Week.”
That made Katie, Mom, Dad, Julian, and Amber burst into laughter. It was such a normal family moment that I wasn’t even overtly annoyed with Madison for making fun of me or with Julian for existing. It was the first we’d had since we’d found out about Dad and the first time I’d seen Julian looking pleased in years.
Everyone began to dig into their food. Other than Amber, but skipping meals in favor of alcohol was just another Tuesday for her. Mad shrank into her seat, downing her glass of champagne like it was water. At first, I didn’t pay much attention to what she was doing. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. But when ten minutes had passed and her plate was still empty, I felt my teeth gritting in annoyance.
“What’s wrong?” I hissed sideways at her.
The food was fine. More than fine. A Michelin-star culinary phenomenon had cooked it, not some asshole sous-chef who’d made his way from Brooklyn to make a fast weekend buck.
“Nothing,” she said, just as her stomach began to growl. It wasn’t a feminine rumble either. It sounded like her intestines were trying to pick a fight with the rest of her body.
I leaned toward her, brushing my lips along the shell of her ear so it appeared that we were sharing an intimate conversation, one that didn’t include the subject of her stomach making Freddy Krueger sounds. “You’re a terrible liar, and I’m an impatient bastard. Spill it, Madison.”