Page 28 of Release Me
I stroll aimlessly through SoHo, weaving between shoppers with glossy paper bags and couples lingering over pavement-side cappuccinos. The pavement glitters faintly where the winter sun catches patches of frost.
A block later, I duck into my favourite deli—the one I used to haunt after late nights at NYU. I order a toasted bagel slathered with butter, sit by the window, peel back the paper, and take a bite.
The taste is right, yet it lands flat. Like an echo of something I used to love rather than the real thing.
Maybe it isn’t the food I’ve missed all these years. Maybe it’s who I was when I used to eat it—a girl with ink on her fingers from publishing internships, a skyline out the window, and hope in her heart for happiness—true happiness.
That’s what Thanksgiving is supposed to be, isn’t it? A pause button. A moment to gather the pieces of yourself, count blessings, pretend the world isn’t as messy as it really is. When I was younger, I loved it: the parade on TV, the smell of sage in the air, the easy laughter of my parents before Scotch turned my father’s smile brittle. Now it’s more like an annual performance: dress well, arrive on time, smile acrossthe table while people ask questions they don’t really want the answers to.
I swallow the last bite, wipe my fingers, and glance at my phone. A new message lights the screen. For a split second, my heart leaps in my chest. I haven’t heard from Rian, but that hasn’t stopped me hoping I will—even though I was the one who suggested space.
I snatch it up.
Delivery update. Huh. Not what I’d been hoping for. Though I’m in no position to be hoping for anything.
The following morning, I wake to pale November light seeping through the slits of the drapes in my childhood suite. For a few seconds, I lie still, cocooned in a bed layered with starched linen and a cashmere throw. What’s Rian up to today? How different would Thanksgiving be if he was here? I shouldn’t torture myself, but I can’t help it. He’s never far from my mind. I’m even sleeping in his t-shirt. I have done every night since I stole it from him. I brought it all the way to New York, just to have something of him with me. I’ve got it bad.
With a sigh, I swing my legs out of bed and pad across the thick duck-egg coloured rug to the dressing room. I shower, dry myself with a giant fluffy towel, then pull on a silk dress the colour of champagne. It’s cinched at the waist with a slender belt, then flicks out into an A-line design that stops just below my knees. I put on my bracelet, then stare at myself long and hard in the mirror before applying a mountain of concealer, highlighter, a flick of mascara, and a nude lipstick. It’s armour really—not decoration. Let’s hope I don’t need it, but my father is liable to say anything after a few drinks.
The townhouse is already alive when I descend the curvedstaircase. The scent of sage, butter and roasting turkey drifts up from the kitchen, twinned with the faint sweetness of cinnamon and pecans.
In the formal sitting room, a fire crackles beneath an ornate marble mantel. Outside the tall sash windows, I glimpse floats from the Macy’s parade edging up Sixth Avenue, their bright colours reflected in the glass. Silver-framed photographs gleam on a grand piano—happy faces grin back at me. They’re all lies. Mom and Dad on their wedding day. Anthony and I on ours. Yuck. It turns my stomach. I’m going to need a drink or ten to get through today.
My mother rises from the sofa as I enter, elegant in a dove-grey sheath. Her warmth softens the room’s chilly perfection. She pulls me against her in a tight hug, then turns to the tray of mimosas on the table, all lined up perfectly in anticipation of the arrival of our extended family. She presses one into my hand. ‘Happy Thanksgiving, darling.’ Her smile is easy, affectionate, a quiet invitation to breathe. ‘I’m so thankful for you.’
Across the room, my father stands by the fireplace, glass of something amber in his hand. His posture is immaculate, his suit pressed to within an inch of its life—but the slight glaze in his eyes betrays an early start. He inclines his head, a greeting as carefully measured as the Scotch he cradles. ‘Happy Thanksgiving, Rebekka,’ he nods formally. ‘Shame your husband couldn’t make it.’
‘It’s not a holiday in Europe. He’s working, father.’ Though truthfully, the only thing my husband is working on is his PA. She’s lasted longer than his other mistresses. Sometimes I daydream that he’ll fall in love with her and ask me for a divorce, but I doubt I’d ever be that lucky. The only person Anthony is capable of loving is himself.
My father grunts but doesn’t press the issue.
I lift the flute to my lips, the bubbles sharp against mytongue, and settle onto the sofa, bracing myself for the day ahead.
‘You look beautiful, honey,’ my mother says, dropping into the space next to me.
I don’t feel it. I feel broken.
Beyond the sitting room, I can see the dining table through the archway—set with polished silver, autumn centrepieces, and rows of crystal waiting for the theatre of family dinner.
Once, I loved mornings like this.
Now it feels more like a play I’m required to perform in. I know my part inside out, but it’s getting harder and harder to reel off my lines with conviction.
Chapter Twelve
RIAN
Sean strolls into Elixir and heads straight to where I’m propping up the bar. I try not to overindulge in my own establishments. I learnt the hard way not to shit on my own doorstep—but after poker night listening to Anthony brag about how many ways he fucked his PA while Rebekka was in New York for Thanksgiving, I needed something to take the edge off.
‘Who pissed on your bonfire?’ My brother drops onto the high stool beside me. A frown creases his thick, dark eyebrows.
‘Don’t ask.’ The way I feel, given how much I’ve had to drink, I’m liable to tell him. The secret I’m harbouring is eating me alive. The yearning, the burning, it’s fucking killing me. I haven't seen or spoken to Rebekka since the night we kissed, but I’ve thought of her a million times a day since.
This time of year isn't helping. Everywhere I go, Christmas music is crooning about love and lust and blah blah blah. It’s getting harder and harder to maintain my mask.
And I’m ashamed to say I’ve been calling my dear friend Anthony more than usual, not because I’m particularlyinterested in his life—no—I’m more interested in his wife. Specifically, if he’s been treating her any better. If she’s okay. If she’s happy. All I’ve heard from him is how happyheis. Business is booming, apparently. His PA sucks like a hoover. And he’s on the verge of completing another ruthless takeover with a British bank.
‘Do I need to round up our brothers?’ Sean motions to the barman to pour him a whiskey, and another one for me. I don’t need any more, but it’s not like I’ve got anyone to rush home to. After Rebekka’s whispered confession in the back of the Bentley, I haven't even looked at another woman, let alone fucked one. Truth is, if I can’t have her, I don’t want anyone.
