Eventually they moved into the dining room, which was situated in a corner of the apartment, to take advantage of dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. Even now the sun was honeycombing through the fluffy white clouds.
On the center of the table, where Max’s arrangement of lilies should have been, was a small bud vase containing a single red rose. An absolutely perfect rose, every line of its petals curved just so, its color deepening in precise degrees from the edges toward its center. It was the Avery Fuller of roses, the kind of rose that had been genetically designed for this sort of showmanship. The kind of rose that could never exist in nature. Avery imagined the florist placing an order for this maddeningly perfect rose, thinking smugly that it reflected reality.
She had a sudden urge to rip it apart. Or better yet, to collect dozens of misshapen, twisted, spotted roses, and arrange them in an enormous bowl for her parents, as a gift. A reminder that nothing in the world is perfect. That imperfection can be celebrated too.
As Sarah brought in the first few dishes, Avery’s mom met her eyes across the table and mimed sitting up straighter, her brows lowered in disappointment. Avery adjusted her posture. She hadn’t even realized she was slouching.
Maybe what Calliope had said the other day was starting to get to her.
She just didn’t feel up to it anymore. The constant pressure to get things right, to never make a single misstep. She twisted her superfiber napkin furiously in her lap. It was woven far too strongly to rip, so she just kept contorting it on itself, over and over.
“So, Pierson,” the reporter said, as Avery’s mom finished a story about how she and Pierson met at a church fund-raiser, which was so false that it was almost laughable. Avery knew that her parents had met through an i-Net dating site. “You said throughout the campaign that you would apply business sense to government. Is that still your approach?”
“Of course,” Avery’s dad said good-naturedly. “I want to run the city like a company. Make it efficient.”
“And who will take over your actual company while you’re helping this great city?”
“I have a very experienced board of directors in place. And my son, Atlas, is in town to help ensure that the transition goes smoothly.”
Neil’s eyes gleamed. “Atlas, you skipped college to go work for your father, didn’t you?” Before Atlas could answer, he had rounded on Avery. “What about you, Avery? Are you going to join the family business someday?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m hoping to study art history in college. We’ll see where that leads me.”
“And this is your boyfriend?” Neil added jovially, his gaze sliding to Max for the first time. “What was wrong with all the men in New York, that you had to go get one abroad?”
Avery knew he was just trying to be witty, but she couldn’t help reflexively looking at Atlas across the table, just for an instant.
“I guess I never found the right person in New York.”
“Which worked out in my favor,” Max cut in, trying to help. “I know how unbelievably lucky I am.”
“I bet New Yorkers weren’t too pleased with that!” the reporter boomed, his eyes still on Avery. Everyone at the table joined obediently in the laughter. “What do you think of what the press is calling you? The ‘princess of New York’?”
Avery’s hand closed around her water in its antique crystal glass, which was incised with a feathery, delicate design. She liked how fragile it felt in her hand. As if she could smash it against a wall and watch it fragment into a million beautiful slivers.
“It’s a little silly,” she admitted.
“Come on! What girl doesn’t want to be called a princess?” Neil persisted.
To Avery’s surprise, Atlas was the one who answered for her.
“I don’t think ‘princess’ describes Avery,” he said softly. “It implies that Avery didn’t do anything on her own, that she’s only worth knowing because of the family she comes from, while we all know Avery is remarkable in her own right. She’s brilliant, and thoughtful, and the most caring and selfless person I know.”
“What would you call her, then, if not a princess?” the reporter asked. Avery saw her dad listening, perhaps too intently.
“Unique,” Atlas said quietly. “Avery is never anyone but herself. That’s what the world loves about her.”
Avery felt tears burning at her eyes. It wasn’t lost on her that if someone was going to speak up on her behalf, it should have been her boyfriend.
The doorbell clanged, breaking the charged silence. Avery heard Sarah hurrying to answer it. There was the sound of low voices conferring and footsteps echoing down the hall. A moment later, a pair of police officers strode into the room.
Avery’s blood drummed furiously in her veins. She felt suddenly light-headed, because she knew, with a rush of nauseating certainty, that this was about her.
“Miss Fuller?” asked the older policeman, a man with a curling moustache. “We were hoping you would come down to the station and answer a few questions for us.”
“Excuse me, but what is this regarding?” her father cut in.
Avery knew that she should be afraid, but for some reason, the fear wasn’t hitting her yet. Instead she felt a curious sense of detachment, as if she were floating somewhere near the chandelier.