Chapter Ten | Pretty Boy

♫ Pretty Boy by the Neighbourhood

I'm babysitting Olivia's breakfast as she gets me a glass of orange juice, perfectly balanced between her fingers as she returns to our table.

It's actually the first time she and I have done something like this together (have done anything together that isn't attending a party with Milo in the introduction week). We both woke up late and discovered we planned Fridays as our free days, and now we're here, well-rested in the dining hall.

"So, how are you doing? I feel like every time we talk, it's about me."

Olivia and I are on pretty good terms, considering the fact we've known each other for such a short period of time and we often only see each other at night, and she's very supportive. I just never want to be the type of friend to demand all the attention and then turn away before she can talk about her stuff. I've been meaning to ask since we woke up this morning.

"That's an exaggeration," she responds, sliding my glass of orange juice across the table top. She shifts in her seat. "But, I guess I've been hanging in there. I didn't think I'd have such a hard time being away from my parents because I've been their most independent child forever, but maybe it's all just now catching up to me. Like, how far away they are and how much I actually need them." She keeps her eyes trained on her breakfast, picking at the crust of her toast.

"What was your homelife like?"

She perks up. "Well, I have a little sister, Jane. She's a pain in the ass but also kind of my best friend in the world. And there's my parents, who both work from home. I wasn't home much because if I wasn't at school I was at cheerleader practice or at my friend's ranch or just like, in Waco doing community service for my college applications. Always on the move, keeping busy. I've just always been kind of scared of leading this... small kind of life, you know?"

"Yeah. Every day being the same, that sort of thing?" It's something I experienced back home, too. I can only guess it's what attracts so many people to New York.

Olivia nods her head, resting her chin in her palm. She's not looking directly at me, rather glancing around us at the dining hall and the girls a few seats over, claw clips in their hair and perfect messy buns. "I was always so unhappy, or ungrateful. I romanticized the shit out of colleges far away because the life my parents led just seemed so suffocating. Every day they woke up, made breakfast and got to work until dinner, and then they watched tv, went to bed, and did it all over again. For years." She finally looks at me. "I think I kind of despised them for it, too. How can they just be okay with being such simpletons? They just kept assuring me I'd understand when I got a job that made me happy, and a partner that made me happy, blah blah. Whatever."

"And now?"

"Now I miss it. I feel like I'm in a dream, and it's not in this cute way but in a kind of scary way. Like you're waiting to wake up but it never comes and everything just feels off and wrong and uncomfortable... You probably weren't as unhinged, huh?"

"I don't know. I think I've kind of lived my life as a bot, or something. This city has shaken me awake."

"So, I'm perpetually asleep and you're as awake as you've ever been?"

"I suppose so."

My mother called me an empath from a very early age, because I felt everything so deeply. I didn't really have friends but I was always a safe bet— people would sit with me at school when they were in a fight with their friends, confide in me and then never speak to me again. Even online I seemed to attract people in need of advice and here, sitting across from Olivia, she tumbles right into her deepest fears and feelings. Not that I don't want her to, it's just interesting how fast people trust me with things.

But I carry it with me, too. It's not something I think people realize very often. Like the whole thing with Milo, I haven't been able to stop thinking about what he told me about his father. Or Logan, who's calling me later today (finally). I feel everything. For everyone.

Claire was the only one I really talked to about it, mainly because I didn't want my parents to take away my phone when they realized what I was doing and also because for some reason I thought it was very embarrassing to admit that two weeks ago, my dad's uncle (who I'd never met) passed away and I still cried about it at night for no one in particular.

Claire was definitely not an empath, and I think for me that was a good thing. While she tried to understand, so did I. Where did my need to help everyone come from? She decided I was a control freak (maybe not in those exact words).

"Do you help people so much because you're so selfless?" She asked, but I could tell from her tone of voice that she was trying to avoid sounding like she insinuated anything, or like she was being accusive. If anyone else had asked I would've gotten defensive, but it was never like that with Claire.

"I think so," I'd answered. I didn't want to sound self-congratulating.

"Or, it's about purpose," she'd said. "You've subconsciously decided what role you want to play in people's lives before they have a chance to assign one to you. One that specifically highlights how different you are, how you don't fit in at all, how they might look at you negatively or like a child they have to care for rather than a friend they can come to."

"That's not it." I shook my head. "It's not that deep. I just like helping people. I like giving advice."

"But you're fifteen, Nova. You shouldn't be trying to—"

"I can handle it." It was the first time I'd interrupted her, but I was growing agitated. I never meant for her to talk me out of it. I was fifteen years old on the internet and I was bound to run into messed up things, but I was proud of the way I managed it. My empathy was a strength. Wasn't it?

"I don't doubt it. You've handled worse."

I didn't understand what she was trying to say. Or maybe I did. She was psycho-analyzing me. I told her how I helped people and felt for people and somehow, she turned it into a disability-thing again. This had nothing to do with being disabled. Why couldn't I have traits that were not about how fucked up I was?

"I think it's great what you're doing," Claire reassured me. I watched as she leaned forward in her annoyingly big, blue loveseat with her red lipstick that, like usual, clung to her front teeth. "And I think you're strong enough to do it. I'm just saying you don't have to. I'm saying you're a kid. Just because you can withstand anything, doesn't mean you don't feel the weight of it."

It was the first time I hated Claire, I think. I thought that I hated her. But I deleted my Tumblr blog and deactivated my Instagram the next day and I didn't let anyone sit with me at school when they fought with their friends again, because I knew that she was right. I didn't have to do it all. I tried not to care about what role I played in people's lives, but that's never been something I could just turn off. And I liked giving advice. I just became more mindful of who I gave it to, and why.

"Nova?"

I look up, refocusing my eyes on Olivia's face. Her fork is dangling out of the corner of her mouth.

"Your phone," she says, nodding to the device that's buzzing on the tabletop.

I mutter a half-distracted 'oh' and pick it up to hold in both of my hands, seeing Atlas Wilder's name on the top half of the screen. I don't know how long the phone has been ringing so I swipe quickly, turning away from Olivia so she doesn't see me tremble.

"Hello?"

There's a shuffle on the other side of the line and a short crackle, and then his voice, "Hey, Carter." It still throws me off how smooth his voice is sometimes. I always thought it was so cringy when authors used words like 'honey' or 'smooth butter' to describe a voice, but maybe that's just because I hadn't heard one before him. It kind of makes me want to melt.

"Hi Atlas." Olivia, who recognizes that name from the business card I still have in my wallet, leans forward with her eyebrows raised. I fight a small smile. "What's up?"

"Have you been to Central Park before?"

"No, I haven't. Why?"

"I'm watching my sister Rosie, and she's on a quest to find fairies. We've been there a million times, but I figured you'd might want to tag along."

"I-I..." I stammer, meeting Olivia's eyes. She nods frantically. "Uh, sure."

"Cool. We're almost there. I'll wait for you here near the zoo."

"Alright, I'll leave for the sub straight away," I promise, standing up.

"Don't, I've sent a car. He'll be at Weinstein Hall in two minutes."

"Oh— okay." For a second I forgot Atlas is filthy rich.

"And Nova?" I stay quiet. "Thank you." The line goes dead.

I turn to the table. Olivia's pulled out her phone in the meantime but still looks up at me curiously. "He asked out?"

I feel the heat rush to my face and enclose two hands around my orange juice, ungraciously gulping it all down. "He asked me if I wanted to see Central Park with him and his little sister," I tell her as I wipe my mouth, pulling my coat from the back of my chair.

"Oh, so you're meeting the family. You move fast."

I laugh and wrap my scarf around my neck. "See ya, Olivia." She throws up a peace sign as she watches me go.

Only then do I realize that while I've been aware that I hang out with ridiculously rich people, I've never actually been to their probably ridiculously lavish penthouses or mansions. Atlas said he'd send a car my way, for God's sake. I don't even know what that means. Will it be an older man in a suit, standing in front of a Rolls Royce, holding a card with my name printed on the front?

No, they wouldn't have had the time to print out my name on a card. But then again, if you have enough money, you can do anything.

By the time I get outside and stand on the sidewalk in front of Weinstein Hall, nervously pressing the pad of my thumb against the back of my hand, a man in a suit (not old at all— but I got the suit right) approaches me. "Nova Carter?" He asks. I nod. "Right this way." He even opens the car door to the back seat for me and everything.

I click in my seatbelt as the driver rounds the car and enters himself. He adjusts the mirror and smiles at me through it. "I'm Michael, Michael Madden. I've been driving Atlas around for maybe two years now. Not that he calls me that often."

He's making friendly conversation, which I can appreciate. Maybe he sees how anxious I am, or how uncoordinated. Either way, it's completely plausible he feels sorry for me.

Or he's just nice.

"So, uh, how old are you?" I ask, hoping it doesn't sound rude as he puts the car in drive and starts down the road.

"I'm twenty-two."

I smile. "It's just... When Atlas said he'd sent a car, I expected someone a little more..."

"Of age?" Michael jokes. "No. Atlas hired me himself. I was in a tough spot, desperately needed money and generally didn't know what I was doing. When he offered me the job and housing in one of his father's buildings, I couldn't say no. I'm applying to a few colleges this year, finally. I wouldn't be able to without this job. Not to mention it's infinitely better than working in the garage I spent my days at during that time."

"You've been around cars for a long time, then?" I try to steer the conversation away from philanthrope Atlas Wilder, because I really don't need this crush of mine to develop right before I meet him.

"Yes, since I was eleven, I think. My uncle, who I lived with at the time, was a big car guy, and I kind of got sucked into it." He pauses. "I know it sounds pathetic, but this? Driving around in an expensive car, seeing the city, having plenty of free time... I think this is kind of my dream job."

He can see me shaking my head through the rearview mirror. "It's not pathetic," I say. "I think it's great."

–

Rosie Wilder  has pink, glittery fairy wings on her back as she holds Atlas by the hand, skipping and jumping her way through Central Park. I've never seen a six-year-old look so focused. She's really adamant on finding this fairy Atlas told me about.

The day has cleared up, lucky for us. It's no longer as foggy as it was in the morning, and it's prompted the entire city to go out. Even if it hadn't, Central Park is the brewing hotspot to tourists (right after the Statue of Liberty and Times' Square). I'm glad Atlas won't let go of Rosie's tiny hand, she'd be swallowed by the people here within seconds.

"So, do you work? I heard you do stuff for your Dad," I ask, keeping my hands curled up in my pockets. The day might've cleared up, but it's still early October and insanely cold.

"I mostly observe. I mean, I've been around at the office for as long as I can remember, and I've been interning since I was twelve. First at the design department, because I thought I liked art. Then I moved onto the finance department, then engineering, then marketing. Now I just kind of shadow my Dad, right at the top."

"What exactly does your Dad even do?" I realize the question sounds snarky right as it comes out, and quickly add, "I mean, I know he's a philanthropist. He donates a lot, he funds a lot for the state, but what is Wilder Enterprises? How'd he get where he is?"

Judging by Atlas' smile I can tell he finds it a valid question.

"It's a multinational technology company," he explains. "He started with digital streaming right after Blockbusters died. Then as that grew, the company kind of swallowed up smaller ones, and the divisions came to be. E-commerce, cloud-computing, AI. My Dad's at the head of all that. As founder and CEO, he manages overall operations, makes major corporate decisions, and so on."

"And owns real estate," I add.

Atlas glances at me, eyebrows raised. "How'd you know that?"

"Your driver, Michael. He said when you hired him you set him up in one of 'your Dad's buildings.'" I put air quotes around the last three words. "And your last name was engraved in the gold of your elevator."

Atlas nods at that. "Real estate has been a recent project of his. The apartment I live in is located in one of his first purchases. He was going to live there with me when I got into college, but decided he wanted a real house with a backyard for Rosie."

At the mention of her name Rosie turns her eyes (previously busy scanning the perimeter) to us. "What, Lass?" She asks, tugging on Atlas' hand.

He smiles down at her. "Nothing. Just that we should be able to spot the fairy any minute now."

Hearing those words snap her back into focus, and she excitedly waves her wand through the air as we continue down the dwindling pathway.

"Is Lass her nickname for you? It's cute."

Atlas chuckles to himself. "Yeah. When she was a toddler she had trouble pronouncing Atlas. My Dad and I would enunciate the tones for her, like, At-Lass. She just resorted to Lass, stubbornly, and it stuck." He's still looking at her as she hums to herself. "She's the only one in the entire world who calls me Lass, and I wouldn't have it any other way."

A short silence commences. Atlas inhales sharply and continues. "Anyway. My Dad's ever the philanthropist. He didn't grow up in great circumstances, so I guess he's extra sensitive to giving back what he earns. Obviously he wants Rosie and I to be... comfortable, but it's not like a fortune will be waiting whenever he dies. He doesn't really believe in hereditary wealth."

"But do you think you'll take over Wilder Enterprises someday? That's kind of the same, right?" I ask him.

He ponders that for a minute and then tips his chin upwards. "When I was younger I always wanted to do what he did. Start something good, build it up... It's not about the money for me, I mean, maybe partly, but it's mainly him. I think continuing what he created would be an honor." He turns to me. "What about you? Are you the kind of person who has their entire life planned out?"

I shake my head. "No, I still don't have plans. Half of me thinks I'll figure out what I want to major in as I go and that I'll stick to it for life, but I feel like I have so many things to be and do. Travel the world on my own and live in the heart of the city and build a house in the mountains, and be an architect and a web developer and an artist and an author." I kick at a pebble in my path, swallowing. It's always confronting to think about the fact that I'm in college and I have no idea what I want. It makes me feel less collected than everyone else— and in a way less deserving of being here, too.

"Who ever decided that your one life couldn't be a collection of smaller ones?"

Atlas shrugs. "God, probably."

"I'll fight God for that," I say. He can laugh at that, but doesn't hear me mutter, "No, I won't. Forgive me." Because I won't take any risks when it comes to higher powers.

"If it makes you feel any better," he says. "Times are changing. You can major in one thing and do a minor about something completely different and travel and then go back to school. I get that when you're just out of high school, everyone's pushing you to do everything as soon as possible and to be fast and to stick to the status quo, but creativity isn't limited to the arts. If you don't like the path you're on..." Atlas looks straight at me, eyes flashing with something unfamiliar. "You create a new one."

I look away from him, my cheeks warm. It's not often that I talk to people about things like this, or that I'm the one being offered advice or 'wise words' (unless I'm in my therapists office). And here I go, exposing my insecurities to the boy I have a pathetic little crush on. I don't want him to see me as a younger, naïve girl in need of guidance. I don't want him to see me as a second little sister.

"I saw something!"

Rosie's been so quiet, I forgot she was here.

Atlas allows her to pull him to the side of the path, where she stands on the very tips of her toes to peer over the bushes.

"And?" He asks softly, crouching down beside her.

Rosie pouts. "She's gone."

"Maybe she just wanted to say hi really quick before she had to go again," Atlas suggests.

Rosie glances back at the bushes, shoulders sagging. "But I don't want her to go. I love fairies, I want to take her home."

"Fairies aren't meant to go home with humans. Sometimes, the best thing we can do for those we love is let them go." He pulls her into a hug and fake-grunts as he lifts her up into his arms. "I'm sorry, Rosie."

She doesn't respond to him but instead rests her head on his shoulder, defeated. Atlas falls back into step next to me, rubbing her back over the straps of her fairy wings. We walk along the path, towards the exit in silence. It's getting closer to lunchtime and the 'fairy' was really the only reason we came. I'm glad he doesn't insist on seeing the entire park, because the muscles in my legs are already tensing. It's harder to walk because of it, as if the length of my leg— hip to ankle— is one big metal bar that I'm unable to bend. Michael's waiting at the curb across the street and straps a sleepy Rosie into her car seat.

"Hey, before I forget," says Atlas as I'm about to enter the car. He hands me an envelope, my name engraved on the front in golden calligraphy. "There's an event in the Chrysler building in a few weeks. It's an unveiling of a project my Dad did with Sergei Macarevich, but it's also a gala. The mayor and state governor are attending and everything." His eyes flicker from my face to the envelope. "I thought it'd be a nice way to get your mind off of things. I get how scary new beginnings are and... things like this remind usually me that there are bigger, and better things out there. Maybe it'll do the same for you. I'd love to go with—"

I realize that I'm not breathing when the noise of my phone ringing interrupts him. I blink at him and he blinks back as I scramble to fish the device from my purse, cursing whoever's calling, and then taking it back when I see it's Milo.

Atlas notices his name. "You can pick up," he says, clearing his throat. "I mean, none of us have spoken to him since the fiasco. You should pick up." He slips into the car. The moment's over and gone.

I inhale and exhale as I press the answer button. Either I am absolutely batshit crazy, or Atlas Wilder was just about to ask me if he could take me to a million-dollar gala in one of the most famous buildings in one of the most famous cities in the world.

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