"Charing Cross Bridge" by Claude Monet (1903), stolen 2012, never to be recovered (thief's mother is believed to have burned the painting in a fireplace along with six other works) - value unknown

Chapter Twenty-One

There were advantages to living near a metropolis.

The advantages were bright, glossy perks that could make it easy to overlook everything else if they were just shiny enough. Of course, any rock could gleam with the right tools and some of us were more equipped than others. But even as alluring as said advantages could be in the right light, it would be misleading to say there weren't a few drawbacks, too. The upsides valiantly combat the steep downsides in an ever-waging war of pros versus cons. Sure, traffic was horrible. And yes, it could be said everyone either had too much money, or none at all—but damn...

California had some good food.

If one could find the small, hole-in-the-wall places like Simon could, they'd discover it was possible to eat like a king without shelling out any big bucks. Those authentic mom-and-pop shops never disappointed. They couldn't; generational wisdom was the main ingredient. Mediocrity was left at the door, banned from the premises, and never to be seen at the humble locations.

Simon had led me down a series of streets not yet touched by the botoxed fingers of gentrification. They'd reach eventually, as the beating heart of capitalistic growth demanded, but for now restaurants like the one we sat in could afford rent. It was a good thing, too, because the place deserved a lot more than the few patrons scattered about. It certainly deserved more than to be closed or replaced with a chain. Although, if I was honest, I was selfishly glad it wasn't packed. Because we could sit in the back, cloaked by the dim aesthetic of the shop, and enjoy our food in peace. I could stabilize without prying eyes; recalibrate without inquisitive tracing of my rough edges, try to pull myself together without keen scrutiny.

Other than Simon's, of course.

"Better?"

I didn't answer at first. I was too busy carving out a sizeable chunk of guacamole with my chip. I chewed slowly, knowing I'd have to answer him when I was done. Or worse, I'd have to look at him.

The horror.

"How'd you know about this place?" I eventually asked, sullen when the chip offered no more reprieve.

"I realized we weren't too far from here," Simon said. "I used to come here all the time with my friend Reed. He used to work at Greystone, but he left before we became Riverwide."

I nodded, brushing chip crumbs off my shirt. "Right. Reed Sterling. I read about him online. I remember it said he left the company, but I thought it was strange it didn't say why."

"It's cheesy."

"Cheesy scandalous or just cheesy?"

"Just cheesy," Simon assured. "He left for love."

Then he shoved a huge bite of fish taco into his mouth. I was left staring at him; I wasn't sure I'd heard correctly.

"He gave up a CEO position for love?"

Simon swallowed and shrugged. His answer was too nonchalant. "Well, according to him, he says he left because he wants to be a lawyer one day. To be fair, he did get a great job offer in D.C., but everyone knows there was more to it. Either way, it worked out well for him. Avery moved to D.C., and he followed. He got the job, the girl, the dog. All he needs now is a picket fence and a mortgage. That'll probably take a little longer, though, you know how the housing market is."

I scowled down at my plate as Simon continued eating. It almost always made sense to take a better job offer, especially if a ship was going down, but to give up being CEO for love? If the story was to be believed, then it wasn't all for love, but at least part of it was. And I thought that was... well, I thought it was romantic and awful and sweet and stupid. It reminded me of Geraldine and her late husband, Artie. Which made me think of the painting. Which made me think of the museum. Which made me think of the gallery we'd just gotten ourselves kicked out of, and how I was once again making my own awful decision.

What happened to the plan? You had a plan. Follow the plan. Why is that so hard of a concept to understand?

I should've stuck to my guns. I should've left Simon at the gallery and ran. I wasn't doing him any favors by having dinner with him.

"Look, I appreciate you bringing me here. It's great and all, but we shouldn't be doing this," I sighed. I guiltily picked at what remained of my tostadas, feeling like I was kicking a puppy only trying to say hello.

"I don't see why not. Are you feeling any better?"

"Sure. It's hard to be upset when the food's this good."

Then I sighed again, because I needed to be upset. It wasn't like our impromptu dinner was a date. Simon had only brought me there to quell my anger like one would give a raging toddler a handful of Goldfish. He would probably ask if I needed some sleep next.

"When's the last time you went out in public and had fun?" Simon asked plainly. "You're acting like someone's going to jump out and get you."

"Well, it's hard to have fun when people see you as a criminal mastermind. It tends to spoil the joy."

"I don't see you as a criminal mastermind," he stated.

I searched his gaze, but his eyes were truthful, and so were his words. I didn't understand his honesty or his presence. I didn't understand his kindness, and I really didn't understand Simon Gatz.

"Maybe you should," I finally murmured. "You're risking a lot being out with me."

"What kind of risk are we talking about? That you won't share the chips?"

"No, that ship sailed. I didn't know you wanted any," I gloomily replied. Then I shook my head, diverting him back to my original concern. "I'm getting off point. Forget the chips. My point was your company is trying to recover from a scandal, and the museum is, too. As the new security contractor, and with how many reputation issues Riverwide's already faced, you shouldn't be having dinner with me."

"No, probably not," Simon agreed.

"I'm sorry. I never should've invited you. Like I said, I'll send you the list of other galleries and museums around here. The ones with different approaches to security, at least. I don't necessarily think you need the help, but like you said it might be good to see the differences. Some of them are awful at security, but a few are decent."

Simon's eyes were showing a warmth that made me squirm, a spark of amusement dancing about in uninhibited show. It was becoming easier to identify. The longer I fluttered about him, a moth drawn to his beckoning brightness, the more I could narrow his broad strokes. I could look at how his Widow's peak bowed when he frowned, how his jaw extended when thinking, how his fingers were stiff by his side when tense. How his joy was frequently smothered, how his shoulders bore too many burdens, how his strength seemed unrelenting under the tribulations thrust upon him. How his eyes followed me, how his hands fit on my hips, how he'd pressed so tightly—

I cleared my throat and continued. "Regardless, I shouldn't have brought you, and you never should have agreed to go with me."

"Maybe not."

I was staring again. Simon didn't seem all that concerned as he tucked into his third fish taco. "Are you even listening?"

"Yes. You have a list of places we should visit with different types of security. What's next on the list? Do we have enough time tonight before they close?" He reached for a lone surviving chip, his expression squinted and thoughtful. "I have to be at the museum first thing tomorrow to check on some things, but I'm free after that."

"So that's a no, then. You weren't listening."

Simon sighed and wiped his fingers and mouth with a napkin. He threw it on the table before looking up. Sternness was blooming under that widow's peak of his; it was like a constant reminder of what'd been lost.

I readied myself for a blistering lecture.

"Look, Eleanor, I care about the museum like anyone else. No, I don't understand art. I don't see why it's so expensive half the time. All of the abstract pieces I've seen are random shapes, or smears of paint my niece could do better. Of course, I think some of the regular works are pretty. Some show talent. But even though I don't get art the way I'm supposed to, that doesn't mean it's not worth protecting."

I pursed my lips, but Simon wasn't done. He leaned back in his chair, a curious expression settling on his fine features. "I think you know a lot about art. I also think you know a lot about this city. You seem to know sides of it I don't even think about. But most important of all, you know the museum. I'd be naive to think you don't know Whitehill top to bottom, both the building and the family."

Oh.

Simon took a breath. His jaw was shifting, and his fingers flexed on the table before us. "I also thought about what you said the first day we met. You're right, I should know what we're protecting and why, beyond the price tag. I don't need it to do the job, but it won't hurt. Besides, maybe I'll learn something. Wasn't that your suggestion?"

A smile was playing on his lips at his last tease, and embarrassment struck at the reminder of my previous conversations with him.

Simon sipped his drink as he waited for my response, but I wasn't really sure what that should be. I was a little gobsmacked. On one hand, I was thrilled he wanted to delve deeper into a passion of mine. Art was a glorious thing; it should be revered and celebrated as the cultural staple it was. It should be worshiped as a bloodline of connection, something to be tended so as not to suffer. Hearing he didn't know anything about its importance, but wanted to learn, was spectacular. Still, I couldn't ignore the gnawing voice of reason that snarled its defiance in my ear. There were plenty of reasons to stand from the table and leave. Plenty of reasons to never look back. Plenty of reasons to see puppies as beginnings to beasts.

"People will talk if we're seen together," I warned.

I was never good at listening to my own warnings.

"Call me crazy, but I think they'll talk regardless." He smiled again, and there was something brilliant about his smile. "Might be related to that big reputation of yours."

"You're sure about this?"

"Well, you're pulling my leg here, but yes, I'll look at art with you," he scoffed, voice curling humor. "If we must."

A tiny thrill was skating down my spine. I couldn't fight the feeling of elation. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't prune it down or beat it back. Simon was smiling. He was joking, and laughing, and I was getting the feeling we had something in common: we'd both had a very hard couple of months. But despite our weary battles, he was opening up to me; he was allowing me in. He wasn't embracing cynicism like he'd so staunchly done at the beginning.

Maybe I should've been suspicious, but the draw of his demeanor was sinking its teeth into my tender, gullible heart. I'd suspected from the beginning Simon wasn't really who he'd appeared to be the first day we met—but I'd truthfully never expected the person sat before me.

I didn't know what I'd said or done to earn his kindness. I didn't know why he was willing to be there when we'd only met a few weeks before. Our meeting had occurred at the lowest point of my life, and no one would've blamed him for sidelining himself. He could've watched from afar as the museum cast me out, could've witnessed the mighty laid fallen from grace, and walked away without a second glance. Why didn't he?

I didn't know why he was seeing something in me I'd never see myself. Why he held out a hand when the bus I'd been thrown under had left me behind.

But I knew it wouldn't last.

It couldn't last... but maybe I'd keep letting myself be selfish for as long as he let me. If I was as awful as they said I was, as misguided as I knew myself to be, then why did it matter if I did this to Simon? He agreed to it. He wanted it. I wanted it, too. If he didn't care about my reputation, then neither would I. I knew I could enjoy the presence of someone like him.

"Okay. Tomorrow we'll go to the next place," I relented.

"Great! What do you have to lose, anyway?"

A lot. I have a lot to lose. I have everything I have left.

But he was right. I didn't have a job, and there wasn't anywhere I could go while the FBI was investigating me. I was stuck in a city that hated me, drowning in the choices I'd made, and stranded in shark-infested waters. What was one more selfish, wicked decision? He was attractive, intelligent, and willing to play the game. The wins and losses of the dangerous bet wouldn't matter until they did.

"I'm curious, though," Simon started. "What was all that back there? I got the sense you aren't the biggest fan of the Pontings, and rightly so, but that was... surprising. He was—"

"A pompous ass?"

"Sure." Simon nodded. "It seemed like he was purposefully trying to upset you. Those were some pretty bold statements to toss out in public like that. Not what I'd expect from someone you knew in school, even if it ended on bad terms."

I sighed, fiddling with the straw of my drink. I took a long sip as I stewed. I'd asked those same questions, because while I'd never been friends with the Pontings, Daniel's coarseness had been extreme. Or maybe it was me. Maybe what would've only left bruises before was now fatally amplified, because I was already covered in open wounds.

"I agree. I think he was trying to piss me off. But, look, we might be giving the guy too much credit. He wasn't that great even in high school. He's always wanted to be top dog. It's probably why he mentioned August. The Pontings are rich, but they have nothing on the Whitehills. He's always been insecure about it. Daniel's just an ass."

"August wasn't there. That was anger towards you, and it seemed like it was one hell of an issue."

"Well, maybe I am the issue. But I agree his tantrum was pretty extreme." I cracked a wry smile. That was the story of my life. "Would you believe me if I told you he asked me out once?"

Simon's brow lifted as he balled up the foil his tacos had arrived in.

"August or Daniel?"

"Daniel. The summer before senior year. We were both theatre kids, believe it or not. I think he was just doing it because he liked the attention. He was awful at it. But, anyway, theatre kids know how to throw some, uh, interesting parties," I admitted. "I once got a little tipsy on Malibu and mixers at one. It was fun until it wasn't."

"Right."

"We hung out, he asked me out, I said no because he was an asshole, and he became even more of an asshole after that. It got bad. He thought it was because I was in love with August."

"Are you?" Simon asked.

I met his eyes, my tone serious. "Are you in love with Beck?"

Simon laughed. It was getting incredibly hot in the restaurant, and I couldn't figure out why. "Romantically? No. But his girlfriend says Beck and I share a brain cell sometimes, so I guess you could say we're close."

"Asking if I'm in love with August is like asking if you're in love with Beck. Yes, there's a closeness, but that doesn't mean it checks all the boxes. "

"Got a lot of boxes, then?"

"Don't you?"

I was steaming in my seat under Simon's gaze. Simon was acting so laid back, so open, and it itched the spot of curiosity I had about him. But before Simon could respond, I stood up.

Baby steps.

"I should go. It's getting late."

Like a magnet, Simon's blankness settled again. He recognized my retreat and graced me with his own.

"I'll walk you to your car."

Déjà vu.

Everyone had secrets. Whether they languished in their silence or reveled in their cleverness, everyone held at least one secret.

I had secrets.

I had more than I liked.

That I'd lost one of Carrie's favorite pearl earrings when I was thirteen, and had lied to save face. That I'd hit my dad's car pulling out of our driveway when I was sixteen, but had told him the scratch must've been from an earlier day. That I'd hung up on my mom's brother once, but never told her he called, because he'd missed my ninth birthday party, and I was a brat on a good day.

That I was inherently selfish, self-serving, and self-obsessed—but also painfully selfless. That I'd take the last slice of cake without a second thought, yet would carve bones out of my living body for someone I loved. That I'd fight for what I wanted, yet take myself out of the race if my empathetic naivety swung too far.

I had secrets.

And I'd made Simon Gatz one of them.

When August called that night, way past even the moon's peak, I didn't tell him of my run-in with Simon. I especially didn't tell him of our run-in with the Ponting brothers. Instead, I focused our conversation on the museum, and on Geraldine.

"You went to see her today?"

August sounded stunned. I didn't blame him; I'd avoided Damar and Geraldine since the loss of the Widow, and even more doggedly so since my ostracism. Even to me, my earlier visit was surprising.

"Yes."

"How was she?"

Every potential response felt too prickly as it reached my tongue, too dipped in half-truths and veiled hopes. Was it that Geraldine was okay, or that I hoped she would be? Was it that Damar was the same as always, or that I knew it wasn't? Was it that I was wrong, or that I wasn't yet ready to feel those realizations settle in my soul?

"I don't know, August," I said truthfully. "I really don't."

The line was silent, and I laid on my bed, sprawled across the duvet. It was cold. The chill crept across my floorboards and twisted long fingers around exposed ankles. It didn't matter; I was in the mood of self-sacrifice. Of self-punishment and self-loathing. I was in the mood where emotions caused a tight, flushed chest, and my body ached at the cold sizzling against it.

"I know, El," August eventually murmured.

His voice was sad. I could never be sure how else to describe it. I could elaborate with metaphorical trenches, dive into streams of sorrow and wretched gloom, and fish out his exact shade of scaly woe, but it wouldn't do any good. August was sad. The word meant so much, but never enough, just like our assurances to the other.

"Camila told me I was an idiot today," I admitted. I was hoping to break the hardened shell we'd trapped ourselves in, and it worked, as August laughed. It was a breathy laugh, trickling through the speaker like blessed water over jagged rocks.

"If we had a dollar for every time," he joked.

"Maybe that's where the Whitehill money is actually from. A dollar for every time your dad got reprimanded back then, just like we were."

"I was reprimanded back then," August corrected. "Not you."

"Yes, I was! She caught both of us. It's not my fault you were always so slow."

"You're right, it wasn't. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, I guess."

He chuckled, a little less superficial than before, but still only the surface of the August he used to be. It wasn't his fault... nor was it his fault he'd often taken the blame for me back then, either.

"What else did she say?" August continued.

Exhaustion spiraled in his heavy words; I couldn't imagine why he was still awake. Of the two of us, he was the one with a job and a place to be in the morning.

"Camila said Geraldine visits your grandfather almost every day, often for hours. She also said what you already told me. Geraldine's been cancelling family dinners, turning family away, and even disbanded her book club."

"I don't know what to do, El. My parents don't either." His breathing was sharp, labored in its truth. "Something's off about her lately. More than just the theft. I hope to hell I'm wrong. I'm praying it's just stress and she'll be fine when they find the painting."

Oh, Gus.

"Hopefully the fundraiser will help, if all goes well," he finished.

My heart flinched at the mention of the fundraiser. The sting was severe, but I wouldn't tell him about it. I wouldn't tell him how I wanted to cry when I thought of how much I'd miss, or how I felt like a dirty mistress thrown out of pearly gates to watch from afar. Or how much I missed him. How I missed the museum, my friends, my job. How I missed when my largest problems in life were my parents, my bank account, and my humdrum wash-and-repeat daily existence.

"You'll have to give me the details after."

Bittersweet desire was shoved down as deep as it could go, but it still tinged my words as I continued, "You and Lena should come over the next day so you can fill me in. Don't worry, I'll have hangover recoveries on hand."

The pause was heavy. August's voice was tight when he finally spoke. "El, what are you talking about?"

"The fundraiser."

"Why are you talking about it like you're not going?"

"Because I'm not. I wasn't invited."

"You planned the damn thing!"

"Not all of it," I sighed. August was clearly still in denial, and in a way I was, too. "I planned parts of it, which is why I know invitations should've already been sent out. I didn't get one."

Silence.

"And I don't expect one, either," I added.

It was true, how could I expect an invitation to the museum's biggest night of the year? The plain audacity of the request would be ludicrous. Even if the invitation's absence was a twisted knife in the gut, I'd have to be content with the two years I'd already attended. The dress I'd once planned to wear still sat in my closet, taunting me with the discarded, nonexistent need for it. I'd found it months ago with Carrie on a random shopping spree; it hurt to think I wouldn't get to wear it.

"Eleanor," August suddenly said. "I'm only going to say this once. Are you listening?"

I took the phone off my ear and squinted at the screen. It was past three a.m., and August sounded far too serious. "Yes."

"You're going to the fundraiser, and I don't give a flying Louboutin about any missing invitations. Got it?"

On the surface there was no give, but in its depths he'd engrained an inside joke to ease his order. August wasn't capable of fully removing the safety gloves when it came to me. His reminder made me smile; I'd once nailed him in the head with a Louboutin heel. As the victim of unfortunate timing, he'd entered my room at the same time I'd chucked shoes at the closet. Even years later, he still hadn't let it go.

His words were a reminder—he knew me far too well, and we had been through far too much, to abandon me at sea.

"No one will want me there."

"That's awfully dramatic of you," he drawled. "I just invited you, didn't I?"

"I won't go."

God, how I want to go.

"You will."

God, how I'm scared of going.

"It's a bad idea, August."

God, how I wish I could tell you everything.

"You're going. Lena and I will be there for you."

I was silent as I mulled the new crossroads that'd presented itself, the thousandth of the day. What a day it'd been; I could hardly breathe under the weight of my choices. "We'll see. Talk to your family first."

"We'll go out after, too. Maybe try the new speakeasy on Hamilton. Drinks will be on me, of course, since..."

His voice trailed off, awkward and embarrassed. I knew what he'd meant—since my assets were frozen. My fingers flexed and popped where they gripped the silky fabric of my shirt, mulberry material bunched across my stomach and sides. Then I relaxed, and sunk further into the bed, smoothing my shirt.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow. I'm meeting the lawyers at two."

"Call me after so you can tell me how it goes," he requested. I could hear his weariness, and I knew it was time for bed. It was time for my own restless sleep, too; time for a skillful use of isolation to deconstruct my day.

"I will. Goodnight, August."

"Goodnight, Eleanor."

I hung up, feeling the cold's grip on my ankles tighten to yank me under. The heat of secrets wasn't enough to rescue me from the icy chill of penitence. Hell had frozen over; it had no intentions of relinquishing its damned soldiers. I'd bear my chains forever. I had so many secrets.

The least of which were my petty crimes against August in childhood, but I worried those would be the salt sprinkled on top.

Gosh, she's so dramatic. And this chapter's so long!

- H