Page 81 of State of Ruin

“Doesn’t make it okay. Nowhere near.” But he shoves it on his head and marches off down the corridor. Vanessa winks at me.

“So you’re Vanessa’s new Helen of Troy,” he says to me when we’ve stepped into a beautiful, light-filled room that’s entirely white. We’re high enough to catch the sun.

“Uh…” I say, not sure how to respond to that.

“Feast your eyes and weep,” Vanessa says, which seems excessive, but he does. He looks me over thoughtfully, tipping his cap up a little and walking back and forth in front of me. I stand still and tilt my face this way and that so he can see all my angles.

“Well?” Vanessa barks. She’s terrifying, but having her by my side is kind of like having a guard dog who hates everyone but you. So, pretty cool. I wish I could have an emotional-support Vanessa for all my casting calls.

Jordan lets out a huge sigh. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t look away from me. “I think… that if my grandma’s organs weren’t so totally pickled from gin, I would harvest every last one of them from her living body for a chance to sign you.”

I gasp. I can’t help it. Now that is even more excessive—but it’s also such a crazily generous and validating thing to say that my eyes prick a little.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Vanessa murmurs. “Right, though?”

Jordan puts his hands on my shoulders and looks deep into my eyes. “You are fucking ravishing. Sinclair Voss is the biggest fucking idiot alive—that stupid, gorgeous man-child—and he is going to rue the day he let you slip through his fingers. Bellamy is going to make you a household face, and you are going to make us a lot of money. A lot.”

I can’t help it. I lose it entirely. My chin quivers, and my eyes fill, and I screw up my nose, but to no avail.

“Oh honey,” Jordan croons. “Don’t cry. Though you even cry prettily. It’s disgusting.” I give a little sob-laugh at that, and he releases me, grabbing a tissue from the (white) box on the table and thrusting it at me. “Here, dry those beautiful eyes.” He turns to Vanessa. “I’ll need to run some test shoots, but I saw the Voss ones, and I have no concerns.”

“He means the videos Olivia shot on the High Line,” Vanessa tells me.

“I want you for LANE,” Jordan says, and I nearly faint.

“For LANE?”

He gives me a lovely smile. “Yes, my little golden goose. Why did you think you were here?”

“I dunno, I…” I look to Vanessa for guidance, but she’s just grinning at me. “I thought you were just meeting me as a—favor to Vanessa.”

“I don’t do favors,” he says. “I’m selfish, selfish, selfish. Now, can you hang around for a while so we can take a few shots?”

I thought I was over selfish men—until last night, anyway. But if Jordan’s brand of selfishness involves wanting to lift me up rather than hiding me away, then sure. I can hang around for a while.

CHAPTER 42

Sinclair

December 17

My darling Elyse,

The pie was delicious. Thank you for your grace. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me to receive it, and it makes the following even harder to write.

I can’t fathom telling you this, but I can’t fathom omitting this particular sin when I’ve faced up to my others. If this is the point where I lose you for good, then so be it.

Here goes.

When I was fifteen, I was riding my mountain bike home from a tennis tournament at our country club in Locust Valley. It was almost dark, and I remember I was pretty psyched. I’d just won my game.

Anyway, the roads between the club and Glen Cove don’t have any street lighting, and they’re pretty dark with all the tree cover. It’s not an excuse, just context. I went careening around a bend on a downward slope—I didn’t even ring my bell—and, next thing I knew, I was clipping another cyclist with my handlebar. I was going so fast that I didn’t come off at all. I just wobbled and rode it out. But then I heard a woman’s cry of terror and a crashing sound and then the most awful thud. I remember I got up out of my saddle and looked around, and I could just make out this human-shaped lump, right in the street, with a bike on top of it. And she was screaming in pain now, shouting, “Hey, hey! Come back! Help!”

This is the hardest part to write.

I saw her. I heard her. I knew she was in pain and in danger, lying there on that dark road, and still I turned around and cycled away. I remember shouting back at her that I was going to get help, which I did, but the truth of it is that I was too fucking terrified to face up to having injured someone, probably badly. I just wanted to get the hell away from her.

I got home a few minutes later and screamed for my parents.