Page 85 of State of Ruin

“You think he’ll actually go see her? His victim?”

“The letter was dated yesterday,” I say. “So I guess he already has.”

She looks down at the date. “Huh. I wonder how it went down. Boy, would I like to have been a fly on the wall in that room.”

I laugh despite myself. My sister is a piece of work. Then I hesitate. “I think I’d like to give him another chance.”

Her head jerks up. “Are you being serious?”

“Yeah. Let me show you the last one.” Before she can reply, I duck into our room and grab the previous letter. The one that makes me think he’s gained a little wisdom and a lot of perspective since he betrayed me over that campaign. Sylvie takes it with an unimpressed twist of her mouth and begins to read. As she reads, her face softens.

“Okay, he’s smooth. Clearly, Yale was good for something. Hang on—I was honestly just pissed that I hadn’t gotten away with it? That’s hilarious. He seriously has zero fucks left to give, right?”

“I think, at this point, he’s making the call that the truth can’t be any worse than all the lying. And I think he’s also deep in emotional purging territory. Like, he hasn’t even asked me to forgive him—not at any point. He’s just trying to lay it all out there.”

“It all reads like he’s one Voss family celebration away from joining an ashram,” Sylvie says, and I snort.

“Totally.”

She reads the rest of the letter and lays it down. “I mean, no one can accuse him of not owning his shit. I’m surprised he hasn’t called up NBC.”

“But this is why I’d like to try again,” I say, leaning forward. “In the same way that we can’t judge him for how he acted when he was fifteen, can we really judge him for acting the way his parents have taught him to act his entire life? Like, here’s an Amex and here’s the fixer’s number, and you’ll be fine as long as you have both of those?” I recall what his therapist said about his being afraid of having an “unpriced transaction” with me. Seems like the guy has been transacting his whole life.

“I think he’s very well educated and very compelling.” I raise my eyebrows, like Come on, and she sighs. “But yeah, either he’s a total sociopath or he legit understands how badly he fucked up. So if you think the guy underneath all the Yale bullshit and the Mob-style parenting is worth getting to know properly, then you should give him another chance.”

“I don’t know what that looks like,” I say. “Do I unblock him? Text him? Ask him to go for, I dunno, a drink?”

Her face turns mischievous. Uh-oh. With one fingertip, she slides a particularly glittery réveillon invitation over to me. “Baptism of fire, baby. If he truly wants to make amends, invite him for Christmas Eve. He wants you, he comes to Jersey.”

I hesitate. He probably has fancy rich-person celebrations planned at Fairwater, involving classy Ralph Lauren holiday sweaters and a tree from the family’s estate.

“I can’t invite him without checking with Dad,” I say nervously. The réveillon is a big deal to him, a core memory with Mom.

“Ask him in the morning. I think he’ll be thrilled for you.” She taps the invitation. “Seriously. It’s a good litmus test. You’d be doing Sinclair a favor, getting him away from those psychos. Besides, I need the Maria tea. Do you still have A.J.’s number? This reply should go on the Vosses’ tab.”

CHAPTER 44

Sinclair

I’ve been sending Elyse almost-daily missives for the past month, penned on Voss-headed notepaper and stamped with our century-old seal. In the end, forgiveness comes in the shape of a five-year-old’s glittery handiwork. It’s the most precious thing I’ve ever owned, made more precious by the dress code in capitals—CHRISTMAS SWEATERS MANDATORY—and the fact that Elyse has written along the bottom:

RSVP - I’ve unblocked you. Please come (don’t bring anything) x

Obviously, I RSVPed with indecent haste, pulling up her number and texting her:

Thank you. I would love to come xx

I then promptly informed my parents that I wouldn’t be available to attend Senator and Mrs. Thorne’s Christmas Eve drinks, at which holiday sweaters would most definitely be frowned upon. I’ve been in a state of panicked excitement ever since, staring at the invitation propped up against my bedside lamp by night and shopping desperately for appropriate gifts by day. What do you buy the woman who doesn’t want your money and the family that probably despises you takes holiday gift-giving etiquette to new levels of complexity, especially when she’s told you not to bring gifts? In the end, Fleur was the easiest to buy for, if you worked on the basic assumption that she was easily impressed and nonjudgmental. For the adults, I played it safe and opted for nice wine and a nice candle—the kinds of hostess gifts you’d bring, wherever you were invited. I don’t want to embarrass anyone.

Now here I am, standing outside the Wards’ home once again, my car parked on the sidewalk. It looks far more festive than on my last visit, with a jaunty wreath on the door knocker and colorful lights twinkling on the tree that stands inside the front window.

It’s six o’clock on the dot when I walk up the ramp and ring the doorbell, prompting some excited barking. As I wait, I pray hard that it’s Elyse who answers and not Sylvie.

It’s Elyse.

She stands there in the light like a mirage that a man as parched as myself might conjure up from nothing but his own desperate imagination. Her hair is loose, she’s wearing skinny jeans and a scarlet-colored holiday sweater with jingly bells hanging from it, and her face is the loveliest thing I have ever seen or will ever see until I lay myself down to rest. Best of all, she’s smiling at me, and it’s shy, and hopeful, and—I think—pleased?

“Merry Christmas,” she says, taking a step toward me, even though it’s freezing out here.