Page 64 of The Accident

Kayleigh

The first thing I notice is the smell: stale cereal and vanilla, and underneath it the faint mildew of pipes that have been running since the Nixon administration. Second thing: the way the apartment looks half-erased, like a movie set being quietly deconstructed. The hooks in the entryway are empty, the wall calendar is still stuck on May, and the only shoes by the door are my own battered canvas sneakers and a pair of Stella’s Uggs that she will literally never throw away. The shelf where Andie used to keep her French press is naked, the only artifact a ring of brown on the wood. Mary Kate’s magnetic poetry is still on the fridge but she’s cherry-picked the dirty words, so it just says DO NOT SLURP THE EEL.

But it’s okay because our two friends have moved onto better things. Andie’s now dating Stella’s dad, and Mary Kate’s with her stepfather, Kent. It’s crazy how these girls hooked up with guys who are taboo, but who am I to point fingers? I’m the one who’s already half in love with my own stepbrother.

Meanwhile, Stella’s on the couch, knees tucked up under an enormous pink sweatshirt, her blonde hair in a messy bun so unstable it quivers when she chews. There’s a purple bowl balanced on her thigh, a slow avalanche of Fruity Pebbles collapsing toward her naked knee. She looks up and grins when I come in, but there’s a question behind her eyes, because I’m carrying two gigantic blue IKEA bags, and one of them has ripped and is dripping t-shirts and a single, extremely ugly flip-flop onto the carpet.

“Don’t tell me you’re moving out too,” she says, mouth full.

“Just for a while,” I say, setting the bag down and immediately stepping on the flip-flop. It skids and I nearly eat the linoleum, but I recover and push it under the couch with my foot. “I’m going to be at Trevor’s for a bit. He needs me, so I’ll be staying at his.”

Stella snorts and makes a show of patting the couch next to her, which is already covered in an insulating layer of Target shopping bags and unfolded towels. “You’re going to be at your stepbrother’s for a bit,” she echoes. “Why do I feel like there’s a headline in there? Is he sick? Or did you finally break and murder him?”

I drop the other bag, which lands with a wet thunk that implies something inside is leaking shampoo. “Neither,” I say. “Trevor’s just really busy with work. And he wants me to help him out for a while.”

Stella chews, then swallows, which is rare. “You mean, like, personal assistant stuff?” She arches one perfect eyebrow. “Or is that a euphemism for something else?”

I roll my eyes but feel the heat crawl up my neck anyway. “Actual personal assistant stuff,” I say, careful to sound bored. “Like, real work. He’s about to take his company public, and apparently, I am the only person on Earth who knows how to run a coffee machine and not get sued for sexual harassment. So I’m going to help him not ruin his life.” It sounds plausible, especially if you don’t know me or Trevor at all.

She nods slowly, but her eyes go sly. “Is that why you quit The Fig Leaf? Andie mentioned you’d switched jobs.”

I shrug, but my arms feel loose, jellyfish-numb. “Yeah. My manager was nice about it too, but I think she’ll be better off without me accidentally over-watering all the pothos.” I glance at the trailing plant on the window ledge, its leaves still glossy and alive, a minor miracle. “She even gave me her husband’s number, in case I ever needed an ER doctor.”

Stella giggles and then, abruptly, stops. Her eyes narrow at my face. “Why though? Are you okay?” she asks, with that weird gentleness that only ever comes out in the quiet after a joke. “Because you look like you’re about to start sobbing, and I am out of tissues.”

I look at the room, which is full of afternoon light and so much dust it looks like snow in reverse. For a second, I think about telling my friend everything: the handcuff, the way Trevor makes my insides coil up like a string pulled too tight, how I’m living at his penthouse as much more than a personal assistant. But then I remember the last time I told Stella a secret and how she immediately started a group chat about it, titled ‘Kayleigh’s Shame Spiral.’ I love her, but sometimes I do not trust her with my actual insides.

So I say, “It’s just weird being here. Without MK or Andie.” I gesture to the empty wall where Andie’s Pink Floyd poster used to hang, and the gap on the TV stand where MK’s PlayStation sat, caked with Dorito dust. “I don’t know, it’s like the place is haunted by all the versions of us from the last year.”

Stella’s mouth curls up at the edge, and she sets her cereal bowl on the coffee table, where it immediately seeps a ring of milk into the wood. “Well, you’re not allowed to die tragically until at least I find someone,” she says. “Otherwise, I’m stuck paying the rent on this palace solo. Plus, who will kill all the bugs for me?”

I collapse next to her, let the exhaustion of the last 48 hours settle into my spine. The couch has a rut in it that fits my body perfectly, and for a moment I just sit there, listening to the muffled hum of the radiator and the scrape of Stella’s spoon on ceramic.

After a minute, Stella speaks, voice low and conspiratorial. “So is it weird being alone with him?” She doesn’t have to say who.

I blink and pretend confusion. “Who, Trevor? No. He barely notices I exist unless something is on fire or needs to be signed in triplicate. It’s like living with a very tall Roomba who occasionally yells at the stock market,” I fib.

Stella snorts again, then leans in. “Kay, you realize you’re basically moving in with a billionaire. Like, does he have a golden toilet? Antiques and collectibles all over the place? Will you get health insurance and dental?”

I laugh, but it sounds a little off in my own ears. “I’m not sure, honestly, because it’s all pretty new. But I assume so, in addition to, like, free meals and stuff.” It comes out sounding like a weak cover story, which, to be fair, it is.

Stella’s eyes are bright and a little wild. “And what about, you know, the rest of it? I mean, he’s not just your boss, right? He’s your stepbrother. Are you guys …?”

She lets the question hang, her eyes not leaving mine. There’s a tension in my chest, a coil of dread and anticipation. I can feel my face burning.

“God, Stella,” I say, and try to laugh it off, but the sound is tinny. “He’s my brother. You make it sound like we’re⁠—”

She doesn’t let me finish. “But you and Trevor aren’t actually related. And you’ve had a crush on him for like two years. It’s always been Trevor this, Trevor that. Don’t deny it, Kayleigh, you blab about him a lot.”

I feel my mouth go dry. The sunlight on the carpet looks like spilled lemonade. I swallow and decide, fuck it. She’s going to know eventually. Maybe she already does.

“I mean,” I say slowly, “yes, maybe I have a thing for him. But it’s not, like, a thing-thing. He’s just impossible to ignore.” I say it soft, not sure if I want her to hear.

Stella grins, then leans back, triumphant. “I knew it. You’re obsessed.”

I make a face, but it’s only half a protest. The silence grows, and then, finally, I blurt:

“We have a kind of arrangement now. I mean, he bailed me out of jail, and then he bought himself at the auction after I bid a million, and now—” I wave a hand in a circle, as if to summon the appropriate word from thin air. “Now, I guess I’m his. Or he thinks I am.”