Page 139 of Gilt

And not my father, I add silently. I’ve always loved my name but right now I’m reminded that it carries a history with it that’s not entirely my own. I can’t help but wonder which tragedy she’s recalling in her head: my alcoholic father, my parents’ divorce, or my sister’s death. All of them seem like the kind of low-hanging fruit, someone like her would take a bite from.

We continue our pleasantries until Cheryl pops her head in the door. “Frank, Leighton has some visitors. Let’s give them a moment with her.” She turns back to us. “It will give me a chance to get some food in him. He hasn’t left her side since she woke up. He’s almost as bad as her boyfriend. I should warn you that she doesn’t remember everything. The doctor says it will come back with time.”

“Her boyfriend,” Jameson repeats, zeroing in on that small aside, and I can’t help but notice how his smile tightens.

Cheryl winks at him. “She couldn’t moon after you forever.”

I shoot Jameson a meaningful look. Apparently, he’d left out some bits about his relationship to his younger sister’s bestie.

“Don’t be jealous Duchess. She was just some kid who always hung around when I was home,” he whispers as Leighton’s mother ducks into the room for her purse.

“I was just some kid hanging around,” I remind him tartly.

“Jealousy suits you,” he teases.

Before I can give him more grief about how many of my peers he’s strung along with his impish smile, we’re welcomed in to her room. There are less machines tracking her every heartbeat and breath. A dozen fresh flower arrangements take up every flat surface. No doubt well wishes from her numerous pals who sent flowers rather than interrupt their Mediterranean summer holidays. Before when I’d visited the room felt cold and sterile, but now it’s as alive as the girl sitting up in her hospital bed with a wide smile on her face. But she’s not looking at us. Instead her gaze is fixed on her boyfriend.

Hugo Roth can barely tear his eyes away from her as if she might vanish, but he nods a hello.

“We’ll leave you kids alone,” Cheryl calls, tugging her husband out the door.

Kids. The repeated use of the term annoys me. We aren’t kids anymore. Our childhood was stolen by this city and its sins. Pretending that we’re going to have some Leave It to Beaver catch-up session is as naïve as believing you could raise us kids here in the first place.

“Hey,” I say awkwardly by way of greeting as the door shuts behind them.

Leighton blinks owlishly as if her vision needs adjustment. Then she realizes she’s not seeing things. “Hi…Emma.”

“I hope you don’t mind us stopping by,” Jameson interjects himself before things can get any weirder.

Maybe I should have brought her flowers. I could have played the part of concerned friend better and she might have thought she’d forgotten our relationship. As it is, whatever Leighton can’t remember, she knows I don’t belong here.

“Of course not.” She waves him off with a tired hand. “I’m surprised. I expected to see a West today, just not…”

She trails off and I know what she’s hinting at. She didn’t expect to see Jameson. Not when she’s spent the last three years being Monroe West’s pet sidekick.

“I’m not certain my sister has heard yet,” Jameson lies smoothly.

“Ugh.” Leighton smacks the plastic, hospital mattress with an audible thwack. “My parents are being tyrants about letting me have my phone. I’ve had to use Hugo’s.”

At the mention of his name, Hugo startles out of his reverie and runs his hand over his spiky hair. “Sorry, guys. What?”

“Your girlfriend was just telling us about your chivalry,” I say dryly. As of a few months ago, Hugo’s reputation as a party boy had been intact. I’d witnessed his devotion to her firsthand the night that Nathaniel West died when he’d been surrounded by a gaggle of freshmen girls. “I didn’t know you two were dating.”

“We weren’t.” Leighton flushes. “Not really.”

“And now?” I ask pointedly. Hooking up while one party was unconscious seems like a strange way to start a relationship. But what do I know? My romance is the result of needing an alibi.

“Things are different,” Hugo says as if that settles it. I open my mouth to press the point but he shuts me up by adding, “I’m sure you both understand how quickly things change.”

That I did.

“Tell me,” Hugo continues, shirking some of the facade of respectability. “Are the rumors true?”

“Which ones?” Jameson asks with the practiced air of a tycoon’s son.

“All of them. Murder of the century is quite the accomplishment,” he says with a smirk.

So much for no one reading the tabloids. Leighton leans forward, some color returning to her usually tan face. Apparently gossip can serve to heal as much as damage. One person’s nightmare is another person’s Lifetime movie of the week.