Page 28 of The Art of Scandal

“God, this house is so empty,” she said. “There’s an echo.”

“You’re not alone. I’m here.” He could also be there if she wanted, even though he probably shouldn’t. But what was the point of playing by the rules while everyone else broke them? What would he get from standing still? “You know that, right? You can talk to me whenever you need to.”

“I do,” she said quietly. “And you can do the same.”

He wanted to. But their situations were different. Rachel’s big secret was that beneath that shiny, Instagram-ready exterior, she was chaotically sexy, smart but reckless, and viewed the world like a cynical poet. Meanwhile, scratching beneath his surface would be a disappointment. Whatever mysterious persona she’d conjured in her mind was better than the reality of how little was there. Bobbi was right. Having everything handed to you on a silver platter made it hard to know what to value. Which made it all worthless. Except his art. Money couldn’t make it easier to put his vision on paper. The starving artist was a cliché for a reason. The only time his life had meaning was when there was a risk of failing.

“You’re so quiet,” she said. “I didn’t mean to ruin your mood. Ignore me.”

“That is impossible.” He pictured her legs, smooth and bare beneath that cocktail dress. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t hang up. She also didn’t say what she should have said, that he was out of line, and whatever this was, wasn’t happening. Her silence sparked the air like a dangling live wire.

“Nate! I thought you were getting beer!”

He whirled around as Dillon clattered down the stairs. Nathan made ashut the fuck upmotion across his throat.

“You should go,” Rachel said.

He gripped the phone tighter. “Hey, no—”

“Go spend time with your friends. I think my housekeeper just drove up.”

He heard a sound on her side, the soft slam of a door closing. Rachel said goodbye and rushed off the phone.

“Sorry I ran off your supersecret mystery woman.” Dillon lifted both hands in a helpless shrug. “But youdidsay you were getting beer.”

Matt sent Rachel a message the morning of the Vasquez anniversary party, asking to meet downstairs at eight. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left town after the ambush interview for a series of solo appearances. It was clear avoidance, but Rachel liked the idea that he was afraid of her. She had learned about the focus group while he still needed her around and Matt didn’t know how she would react or what she was capable of. She wasn’t sure if she knew herself.

She was certain of one thing. Nathan wasn’t some fun distraction. Checking her phone for his messages had become a compulsion. Now there were meandering late-night calls when they should both be asleep. In every conversation, they said the same thing beneath their words.

“You alone again?”I want to see you.

“Lenora’s here.”It’s a bad idea.

“Does that woman have a hobby?”I don’t care.

“Upholding the patriarchy. And ironing sheets.”I have to care.And I don’t trust myself with you.

Rachel knew that if she were in the same room as Nathan again, she would kiss him. He wouldn’t even have to do that half smile or say something sweet, insightful, or infuriatingly wise for a guy his age. She’d just kiss him. She replayed the fantasy of his lips on hers so many times it was almost a memory. No, this wasn’t a fun distraction. There was nothing fun about being swept into an undertow when you weren’t even swimming.

Rachel stared at the navy-blue cocktail dress hanging on her closet door. It had been there since the ghostly pale woman Matilda Abbott paid to dress every member of her family had stopped by with the preapproved attire. Rachel had never actually agreed to let her mother-in-law pick out her clothes. It was more like a slow erosion of agency that she stopped resisting when the Abbotts made it clear they didn’t trust her judgment.

She used to love fashion. It tapped into that same part of her that could spend hours rearranging canvases on a gallery wall. She used to love taking risks with outfits and watching the reaction when she walked into a room. But it only took oneHot or Thot?caption in a local gossip column for her mother-in-law to suggest developing a quieter brand.

“People are cruel,” Matilda Abbott had said in her typical terse, bored tone. There was no judgment. Only disappointment that Rachel hadn’t figured it out sooner. Matt could marry a Black woman. He could have a Black daughter. He could even marry a Black woman with a Black daughter she conceived as a teenager. He couldnothave a Black wife who dressed in a way that reminded everyone that she might actually enjoy sex and wasn’t ashamed of having a child out of wedlock before she was old enough to vote.

“Who is blowing up your phone?” Keely White approached her with a bottle of leave-in conditioner and a blow-dryer. She was the only member of the Abbott-approved glamour team that Rachel had hired herself. Clothes were one thing, but she drew the line at a European waif smearing ashy makeup over her face. “Is it Faith? Tell her I got that tea tree shampoo she likes.”

Rachel hid her phone against her thigh. “I’ll let her know. So, what are we doing with my hair this time?”

Keely plugged in the blow-dryer. “Same as always? Silk press, bump the ends.” She paused. “Maybe we could add some barrel curls since it’s a party.” Her eyes brightened and she held up a finger. “Oh, I got something for you. Hold on.” She moved away and started digging through her bags again.

Watching her, Rachel realized that Keely was the only person in her life who wasn’t connected to Matt in some way. Rachel had stopped reaching out to her college friends when her father died, because watching them succeed at what she’d abandoned was too painful. She’d barely gotten to know her coworkers at the café before Matt swept her off her feet and into his exclusive social circle, people who acted as her judge and jury.

Rachel picked up her phone and put her panicked thoughts into a text.

Rachel:I don’t have real friends anymore.

---