Page 5 of Nutcracker with Benefits
I look down at the photo. Clara’s wearing a bright blue dress, the slit in the skirt showing off her legs and glittering heels. She’s laughing—we both are—and sandwiched between us are Craig and Uncle D, gazing at each other adoringly.
“That was the gala for the refugee center,” I say. “Whitney, you weren’t there because you were on bed rest with Benny.”
What I don’t say is that the most memorable part of the night wasn’t the event itself, but later. Clara didn’t attend events like that one often, because she was usually in some inconvenient part of the world. But this time she’d been in Guam, a non-stop flight away from LA, and I’d offered to pay for the ticket so she could come for the weekend. Most places she travels to are three flights and long layovers, and she can’t get home as easily. The event being on the West Coast certainly helped this time.
After Craig and Uncle D had decided they’d spent enough time—and money—at the gala, they’d departed, and Clara and I waited about five minutes before making our own exit.
And then my memories are the NSFW variety—taking advantage of that slit in her dress by making her come in the elevator; hoisting Clara up against the window in my suite, the cold glass causing goosebumps to break out across her skin; my breath fogging the view as I thrust into her, a bokeh effect turning the cityscape even more magical.
Craig glances up and it’s clear as day on his face that he’s wondering about my relationship with Clara in this picture. My cheeks heat. Not only am I thinking inappropriate thoughts, but he’s probably wondering what I’m thinking about.
Clara shoots her brother and Whitney an apologetic look. That was a tough time for them; with Whitney on bedrest and the twins in their terrible twos, the rest of us had tried to figure out a way for one of us to stay to help, but both Fritz and Whitney insisted they were fine.
“God, I loved that dress,” she says, gazing at the photo. I loved it, too. “Kara always did such a great job picking out stuff for me. How is she?”
Kara is the personal stylist I’ve been using for years, ever since I started to take on a more forward-facing role at the company and I could afford it. Well, it took a gentle nudge from Uncle D to get me to cave—I hadn’t wanted to spend the money, but the press was starting to pay more attention to me, and unflattering photos were appearing in magazines, sometimes labeled as what not to wear.
They were very unforgiving about my dal-stained University of Washington sweatshirt, the one that Clara gave me for Christmas her freshman year. They called my look “Middle Eastern Frat Boy”.
“Kara is doing great, but you can ask her yourself tomorrow.”
Clara perks up next to me. “We’re going to see Kara? You’re sharing me with someone else?”
Oops. I’d let a hint slip.
“Wow.” She elongates the word, drawing it out.
“Are you two seriously still doing this?” Fritz teases.
“Yes, we are,” Clara says haughtily. “It’s fun. And tradition.”
We started this when I moved with Craig and Uncle D to New York City. Heartly’s office was moving from Dover to Manhattan, which was the catalyst for my fall out with my parents. They’d denied me an education, I’d lost Clara when she went off to school, and then I was losing the next best things in my life—Rolf and Heartly, where I was working part-time.
That first Christmas living with them, Clara came home, and I hadn’t seen her in sixteen months. We knew that her time would be precious when she was visiting, but neither of us wanted to sacrifice spending time with each other. So we agreed that, whenever we could, we’d spend an entire day together.
Sometimes it didn’t work out—Clara might be in town for less than thirty-six hours, or I might have a big meeting or conference or some such thing that couldn’t be ignored.
But the day together also gave us an excuse to be away from the rest of the family—and no one blinked an eye when Clara slept over at my apartment.
It was those days together, away from her family and the office, that led to our first time sleeping together.
“What are we doing tomorrow?” Clara asks, eyes filled with curiosity and dragging me away from an inappropriate trip down memory lane. Over the past nine years, we’ve done everything from strip monopoly in my place on a rainy day to visiting the Sex Museum on Fifth Avenue and doing some at-home experiments, from babysitting for Fritz and Whitney together to picnicking in Central Park.
It's been nine years, but I’m lucky if I get two days a year with her.
This time, though, I have a mission: a mission to show Clara that New York can be so much more than a quick stopover for her. That New York could be everything to her.
“You’ll have to wait to find out,” I say.
Clara returns to reading the article. For a few minutes, she reads in silence while the rest of us chat until Clara forcefully puts the magazine down, a finger between the pages holding her place. Her eyes dance, and I prepare myself for the incoming tease.
“Where did they get these numbers from?” She gestures with the magazine.
“What numbers?”
She picks it back up and reads it aloud. “’The company owes so much of its success to Nash that he is the third highest-paid employee, paid even more than Drosselmeyer. Darwish is on track to become a billionaire by the age of thirty.’ A billionaire!” Clara crows.
“Really?” Fritz asks from the corner.
