The Towering Sky

“Avery, stop! It’s the reporter,” her mom admonished, with a disappointed shake of her head. “And put your shoes back on.”

Right, because god forbid anyone find out that we walk around our home barefoot. “It isn’t the reporter; it’s Max,” Avery argued, though she dutifully pulled on the low-slung heels her mom had picked out. They matched her plum-colored dress, with a narrow waistline and cap sleeves. Which her mom had also picked out.

“You invited Max?” Elizabeth heaved a loud sigh. “Avery, this was supposed to be an intimate family brunch. With a photo shoot.”

Avery felt a stab of resentment. She knew exactly why her mom didn’t want Max here. Her parents genuinely liked him, but they had done their best to keep him away from anything election-related. Because Max, with his shaggy hair and mismatched clothes and dry sense of humor, didn’t fit the image Avery’s parents were trying to construct of their perfect all-American family.

“Yes, I invited Max,” Avery said curtly. She had been dreading this meal all week and wasn’t about to face it without Max.

Their brunch guest was a reporter from Modern Life, one of the most followed news sources on the feeds. He was currently writing a profile about Avery’s dad, one of those cozy at-home pieces about what the newly elected mayor of New York was like “behind the scenes.” It would be posted to the feeds later today, just in time for the inauguration ball.

Avery knew she was expected to sit there and smile like the well-behaved, photogenic daughter everyone thought she was. To tell a charming story that helped cast her dad in a relatable light. To act elegant but approachable.

She strode quickly down the entry hall, her multiplied reflections floating in the mirrors alongside her. Her footsteps echoed on the newly polished floors. Their housekeeper, Sarah, was preparing a “home-cooked” meal of omelets and pancakes, and Avery’s mom had deliberately left the kitchen door open, so everything smelled lightly of sugar and domesticity.

“Hey, there,” she exclaimed as she opened the front door for Max. She had offered several times to put him on the approved-entry list, but he unerringly refused. And deny myself the pleasure of seeing your beautiful face each time you let me in? he’d asked, to which Avery had no response except a smile.

He stood there now in a button-down shirt and khakis, his dark hair slightly less mussed than usual, a bouquet of fresh lilies in his outstretched fist. When Avery started to reach for them, Max laughingly shook his head.

“These aren’t for you; they’re for your mom,” he said. How typically thoughtful of him.

“You didn’t bring anything for me?” Avery teased.

“Just this.” Max leaned forward to kiss her, sending shivers down the length of Avery’s body.

“Thanks. I needed that.”

“Remember,” he murmured into her ear as they walked through the apartment with fingers laced. “You won’t have to deal with any of this stuff next year. You’ll get to run away with me to Oxford and leave it all behind.”

“I know,” Avery said, but her statement lacked its usual conviction. It wasn’t Max’s fault, she assured herself. Just that she was young and still entitled to change her mind about things . . . to live in the dorms, for instance. . . .

“Max!” Her father strode into the living room, closely followed by Avery’s mom, who gave a tight, mincing smile. Atlas was already sprawled on the couch, a coffee in hand. He stood up to greet Max, not quite meeting Avery’s eyes.

“Mr. Fuller. Thank you so much for inviting me this afternoon,” Max said politely, and held out the bouquet of lilies. “These are for you, Mrs. Fuller.”

“Thank you, Max. We’re thrilled that you could make it,” Avery’s mom told him, and Avery wondered once again at what a good liar her mom was, because even she—who’d heard her mom complaining about Max a mere two minutes earlier—almost believed it. Elizabeth handed the lilies to Sarah, who whisked them off to deposit them on a table somewhere.

The doorbell sounded again. “That will be the reporter,” Avery’s dad said, looking around at each of them in turn like a general surveying his troops before a grand parade. “This is the biggest coverage of our family so far. Let’s make sure it’s positive, okay?”

The reporter’s name was Neil Landry. He was only in his late twenties, with slick dark hair and an eager smile. Very charming and personable, exactly what you would expect from someone whose career consisted of constantly making and uploading vids.

“Mr. Landry. Thank you for joining us on such an important, exciting day.” Avery’s dad shook the reporter’s hand with characteristic gusto.

“Please, call me Neil.” His smile was almost as blinding as Avery’s dad’s.

“Only if you’ll call me Pierson.”

Avery’s dad stepped behind the enormous bar, which was made of a slab of Carrara marble that, to his delight, had come from the twentieth-century headquarters of the New York Prohibition Agency. He opened a bottle of champagne for mimosas. “We’re celebrating!” he exclaimed in an ebullient mood.

Avery smiled and nodded and tried to follow along. Everyone else seemed to be doing just fine, even Max, who was clearly making a valiant effort for Avery’s sake. They all laughed, they flattered the reporter, they lobbed harmless jokes at Avery’s dad. It was all a perfectly choreographed dance, and Avery knew her part. She just wasn’t performing it.