My grandmother probably had an affair with someone important and this legacy of free college education was just the hush money.
Or not.
My mind works in mysterious ways, so I’m never sure if my intuition is true or just a byproduct of being a writer and constantly making up stories about fake people.
But sex is almost always the reason weird things happen, I do believe that much. That’s been my experience, anyway. So I’m pretty sure that’s why I got into Essex.
Because we are not poor. We’re not Arlington rich—not even close—but we were certainly not needy enough to qualify for financial aid at any other school and so, hey, if sixty-thousand-dollar-a-year Essex College wants to pay my way for free, why not, right?
Of course, I now know what the catch was. There’s a reason super-rich people keep to themselves. Create their own worlds. Live a different reality than the rest of us. And if I ever have a kid there’s no way in hell they’re gonna go to Essex because that world is pretty ugly once you get inside.
Connor brought the cold and the wind with him as he passed through the door. Snowflakes swirl around in my small living room like a whirling winter dervish, then settle at his feet as he stomps on my front mat.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. The music is still playing, but the song ends and there’s that brief interlude of static just before the next one begins. I step over to the ancient-looking Victrola and lift the arm up off the record and place it on the holder.
Connor sighs. “What is this?” he asks, rattling the paper of a white bag as he pulls out a book.
I look at it, squinting my eyes, wondering if it’s one of mine. “I dunno,” I say, taking the book from his hands and turning it over so I can see the cover.
The instant I read the title I know why he’s here. “What is this?” I ask, echoing his question.
“That’s what I’m asking you, Kiera. What the fuck did you do?”
“I didn’t write this. Who told you I wrote this?”
“You’re the… writer, who else would it be?”
I glare at him. Because I know what he almost said. You’re the dirty writer, Kiera. The one who writes filth like this.
Fuck you, Connor Arlington. Just fuck you.
I open the cover and read the inside flap out loud. “‘They said write what you know so that’s what I did. I wrote dirty. I wrote’—what the fuck is this?”
“It’s exactly what it looks like. And do you know where I fucking found it?”
“No clue,” I say, walking into the kitchen and placing it on the counter.
“The Montreal airport bookstore sitting in the number three position on the goddamned New York Times bestseller list.”
I’m filling my teapot with hot water when he finishes that sentence, my mind whirling around like the snowflakes did when they stole their way into my house. “It wasn’t me.”
“Then who the fuck was it?” His voice is loud. Commanding and very much like the voice I remember. He’s not so different now. Still wearing the same expensive watch. Still well-groomed and on his way to conquering American politics. Still one of those arrogant, privileged assholes I used to know.
I already know the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway. “Did you barge in on Sofia? Or Camille? And ask them if they wrote the stupid book?”
Silence behind me as I fit the top back on my tea pot, then turn around and place it on the stove. I glare at him as I turn the gas on high without looking and the whoosh of ignition brings a purple-blue flame to life.
He stares at it for a long moment, then tracks back to me. “They don’t write this shit.”
This shit? Oh, hell, no. He did not just say that.
I lift one eyebrow high on my forehead and make a decision not to engage. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Connor? Because I’m real busy here.”
He looks around. My little cottage isn’t messy but it’s not tidy, either. I’m wearing taupe yoga pants and an oversized tan sweater. I have knee-high shearling boots on my feet because my feet are always cold and they help me feel like I’m wearing clothes I could leave the house in, when I’m actually not. I don’t remember if I brushed my hair yesterday or the day before. But fuck it. I don’t owe him an explanation. I don’t owe him anything. I paid my debt a long time ago.
“When’s the last time you left the house?” he asks, taking off his coat.
“None of your business,” I reply. “And why are you taking off your coat? You’re not staying. In fact, I think you should probably leave right now.”