Page 53 of Fake Dark Vows

He leans on me for support as we follow the raised wooden path back. We walk in silence. Comfortable silence to begin with, but the closer we get to the sprawling white house, the tenser we both become, like driving into standstill traffic knowing there’s no alternative route.

What happens next proceeds at lightning speed and slow motion all at once, the situation blurring into a hazy movie scene.

Ron is sitting on the porch swing seat cradling a crystal brandy glass in his hands. He rises when he spots us approaching, eyes narrowed like we’re some kind of apparition emerging from the soil of the island.

“What happened?” He inspects the back of Brandon’s head, holds his shoulders still, and peers into his eyes as if he knows the vital signs to look for.

“I-I found him on Swimming Beach,” I say. “He was in the water. Unconscious.”

Ron stands back and slides his cellphone from his pocket. “I’m calling the paramedics.”

“Paramedics?” I should’ve done that when I found him on the beach. Only I didn’t have my phone with me, and I stupidly thought that he was well enough to… What have I done?

Ron dials nine-one-one. He fixates on Brandon’s head wound as he speaks to the advisor on the other end of the phone, his eyes sliding across to my unbuttoned shirt.

I pull it across my chest and help Brandon to sit down on the edge of the porch.

“Police?” Ron raises his eyebrows at me, and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s asking.

I shake my head. “He was drunk.” I should’ve brought the empty bottle back as evidence. Yet another error to add to a whole list of errors I’ve made on Ruby Island.

“They’re on their way.” Ron crouches in front of Brandon. “Do you remember what happened?”

Brandon doesn’t move. He’s still shivering uncontrollably, and I dash inside the house to fetch a blanket to keep him warm while we wait.

When I come back, Ruby is there, an elegant shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a silver silk scarf covering her hair. She takes in my disheveled state, the ruined shirt, my damp pants, and looks away as if she finally understands that she made a mistake in hiring me.

“Go clean yourself up,” she says. “We’ll take over from here.”

That’s it. No ‘thank you’, no interrogation over what happened or how I knew where to find him. She doesn’t even ask if I’m okay.

That’s all that plays through my mind when I go back to my guest room and pack my bag. They didn’t ask if I was okay. They didn’t ask how Brandon hit his head, or how my uniform got ruined, or even what we were both doing out on the beach in the middle of the night. Their priority was Brandon—I get it, they’ll avoid a scandal at all costs—but it was more than that.

I wasn’t a priority because I’m not one of them.

I ruined everything.

I curl up on the couch with a coffee, New Girl playing on the TV with the volume turned down. It’s one of my favorite shows, but I barely even register the characters moving across the screen. Dad wanted to stay home with me, but I told him I wouldn’t be good company today, so he went to work begrudgingly, and has already texted three times asking if I’m all right.

I haven’t told him what happened yet. He’ll be disappointed that I didn’t stay till the end of the celebrations, and I don’t want him stressing over whether it will reflect on him when Brandon is back in the office.

I love New York. I’ve lived here my whole life, but for the first time ever, I wish we could move away, somewhere quiet, where people like Brandon Weiss don’t exist. Like an island in the Florida Keys for example.

The doorbell rings. I put the coffee cup down on the floor and unfurl my legs. I made sure Dad remembered his lunch, and Jess is at work. If it’s a cold caller, I’ll get rid of them firmly but politely, the way Dad does, instead of getting sucked into a conversation I have no interest in.

I open the door and freeze. For a beat. Then my heart starts galloping like a racehorse when I realize that Brandon Weiss is standing on my porch.

“Can I come in?” He’s wearing a suit and tie; his face is still pale, and there are dark smudges under his eyes, but his chin is stubble-free, and I can smell his cologne.

“Sure.” I stand aside and open the door wide. “Coffee?” I ask, when we’re within touching distance of each other in the living room.

“I can’t stay.” He looks awkward in this setting without the trappings of wealth and technology to hide behind.

I feel awkward too. It’s as if the rest of my life hinges on this moment, on what he is about to say, and I still have no clue which way it will go.

“You can sit down.” I gesture to the couch, wishing I’d plumped up the cushions before I opened the door.

I glimpse the room through his eyes and am inexplicably embarrassed about welcoming him into our home. My safe place. The home I’ve loved until the Weiss family opened my eyes to so much more. As if I’ve dipped my toes in warmer water and realized how cold the water was back home.