Page 16 of On the Line

“Since he’s dead ...” I shrug.

“Oh shit, Jameson.” She slaps the table. “I was teasing. Are you serious?”

I nod and then rub my fingers across my forehead, hoping the pressure will relieve some of the tension that’s building there.

“Why don’t you seem more upset?”

“Because I like him even less now that he’s dead.”

“Jeez,” Jules says. “What the hell happened?”

I can’t possibly explain my history with Lauren. How five years ago we had dinner together and everything changed between us, but the next day my whole life was flipped upside down, and then I stupidly introduced her to Josh.

How six months later they were engaged, and I cornered her at work in the middle of her going away party to tell her how disappointed I was that she was making herself small to fit into the mold of the woman Josh wanted. How I insisted she was too fucking talented to waste her energy on becoming a Stepford Wife.

And then how it felt seeing her last weekend, a hollowed out version of herself—not because of his death, but because he’d made her that way. She’d gone from being fierce and fiery, to completely docile. And I hated myself for how I’d let him dull her spark, and even more for how I knew I’d do anything to bring it back. Even if it meant burning myself in the process.

But I can’t tell Jules any of that.

“He was skiing out of bounds and got caught up in an avalanche,” I tell Jules, even though I know that’s not the answer to the question she was asking.

She doesn’t press me to elaborate, even though I can see her curiosity written across her face. “So why is she texting you?”

“Because in addition to being his agent, I am the executor of his will and trust.”

“Is that normal? Like, do you do that for all your clients?”

“No. The fact that he didn’t have a family member or close friend that he’d ask to do this, instead of me, speaks volumes.”

I swirl the scotch around in my glass before taking a small sip. Now in the latter half of my thirties, I’m finally—sort of—learning to not hate the taste.

Another text has my phone buzzing in my hand, and I glance down to seehername on my screen again.

Lauren

It’s important.

“I need to make a call,” I say to Jules, but I’m already up and heading toward the living room.

I take a seat on the arm of the sofa farthest from my sister, and turn toward the wide glass doors leading out to the very small backyard behind our brownstone.

When Lauren answers the phone, it’s with a breathy “Hello?” that has so many memories running through my mind it’s almost hard to respond.

“You okay?” The words come out sounding rougher than I intend.

She lets out a stuttered, heaving, “No?”

The fact that her response is a question has all the alarm bells going off in my mind. I lower my voice. “What’s wrong, Lauren?” God, I hate thinking of her in that huge house in the mountains, all by herself with those babies.

“I’m fine. But I’m ... I don’t even have the words.” She’s definitely been crying, and it’s like she can’t even form a complete thought.

“Would you just tell me what’s going on?”

“I had a meeting with our financial adviser a few days ago, andoneof the things I learned is that my husband had virtually no income for the past few years since he retired.”

I already knew this, so I’m tempted to ask her whatotherthings she learned, but it’s really none of my business. “And ...?”

“And what the fuck, Jameson? You were supposed to be managing his career. What happened to his endorsements?”

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