“Rhys, darling, are you okay?” Lady Sterling popped her head into Rhys’s room on Saturday afternoon. With her ramrod-straight posture, elegantly white hair, and unlined face, she looked like a wig-wearing Nicole Kidman.
“Yep,” Rhys murmured. In truth, he’d woken up an hour ago and wished more than anything he could fall back asleep. In times like this, most other kids would head straight to their parents’ supply of Ambien. But most other kids didn’t have a mom like Lady Sterling, the hyper-energetic hostess of the hit manners and culture show Tea with Lady Sterling. Cheerfulness and making the best of things were her personal religion.
“Are you sure?” Lady Sterling lifted her nose in the air like a German shepherd sniffing out trouble. Rhys glanced up unenthusiastically. Sitting up required way too much energy. His flat-screen TV in the corner was tuned to a baseball game, the Yankees versus the Red Sox. Not like Rhys gave a fuck who won.
Because on Channel Rhys, it’s all Sterling versus Carlyle, all the time.
“Yeah, fine.” Rhys pushed himself off his bed and brushed wordlessly past his mom. He sat down at his messy, book-strewn desk and turned on his Mac Air. Maybe his mom would think he was doing homework and leave him alone. “I might be getting a cold or something. I’m probably contagious,” he lied.
“Rhys, darling, you’re not fine. Anyone can see you’re in crisis. You quit the swim team.”
Rhys sighed and shook his head, wishing for the millionth time he could have parents like Hugh’s, who spent most of their time at the opera or at their country house in Provence. Instead, his mom enjoyed prying into every single aspect of his life, eager to uncover some type of trend that she could break on her show, usually with him as a guest star. In the past, it had been tolerable because Kelsey would often join him in the segments. For one show they’d tried out trapeze lessons on the West Side, and in another, he’d demonstrated helpful lifesaving techniques in the Sterlings’ basement pool. But now the only segments he could film were “How to Be a Loser” or “How to Not Notice When Your Best Friend Is Hooking Up with Your Girlfriend.”
“Your father and I were talking,” Lady Sterling continued, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. “You need something to revive you after the recent Kelsey upset. We’re heading to London next weekend for Cousin Elfie’s wedding, and maybe you should come. There will be some beautiful young ladies there.” Lady Sterling nodded, no doubt thinking of the far-flung branches of their family tree.
Isn’t that still, um, gross?
In fact, despite her accent, Lady Sterling was from Greenwich, Connecticut, and not Greenwich, UK, but everyone, including some of their more distant cousins, seemed to forget that. Most believed it was Lady Sterling herself—and not her husband, the thin, unassuming Algernon Sterling—who was directly descended from royalty. “I think your second cousin Jemimah is fifteen or sixteen. And I heard she just got her braces off, so I’m sure she looks lovely,” Lady Sterling cooed.
“What?” Rhys glanced up sharply, the thought of dating one of his cousins finally tapping his brain awake. “And wait, how do you know about Kelsey?” He squinted at his mom. He hadn’t said anything about it for precisely this reason.
“Kelsey called to tell me. But what would young love be without drama? Without intrigue, without the chase? Rhys, I can see that this is a formative moment for you.” Lady Sterling beamed as she stalked across to the windows and flung open the drawn shades. “What we need to do, darling, is sit down and figure out how to win her back.” Rhys cradled his head in his hands and sighed. So while Kelsey was sleeping with his ex–best friend, she was also buddy-buddy with his mom?
Lady Sterling perched on the edge of Rhys’s bed, picking up his English notebook from a pile on the hardwood floor. “Shall we begin brainstorming?” she asked expectantly, flipping to a blank page.
Suddenly, Rhys’s expansive bedroom felt tiny, and everything—from the framed photos on the wall of him and Kelsey kissing in Central Park to the pile of dusty swimming medals he had haphazardly strewn on his bookshelf—reminded him of who he used to be. Now he wasn’t even sure who he was.
“I’m going for… a walk,” he muttered, stuffing his black Lacroix wallet in his back pocket and grabbing his iPod. The last thing he needed was relationship advice from his mom.
“A brisk walk is good for circulation.” Lady Sterling stood up and crossed over to the door, nodding approvingly as if she’d come up with the idea herself. “Do you want me to come with you? This could be a great opener for the show. ‘How to Break Up Without Breaking Down.’ I can call David and see if the crew can get together.”
“No thanks,” Rhys said. His life was already pathetic. Seeing it play out on Tea with Lady Sterling would only make it worse.
Outside, Rhys finally felt like he could breathe. He turned and walked down Madison Avenue, not sure where he was even going. Normally he’d head down Fifth to be near the park, but he didn’t want to take a chance at running into Kelsey, who lived at Seventy-seventh and Fifth.
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his khakis. It was definitely fall. Last year, he and Kelsey used to spend hours wandering around the neighborhood, catching leaves as they fell from the trees that lined the sidewalks and stopping in the tiny cafés on Madison to share cappuccinos and napoleons. Kelsey was always impulsive and full of life. He tried to imagine his future without her. No swimming. No Kelsey. What would he do?
Please. This is Manhattan. There’s always something—or someone—to do.
Once he safely passed Seventy-seventh Street he turned west and entered the park. He sat down on a bench near the East Lawn, where a group of guys were playing Hacky Sack in the center of the grass. That was where he and Kelsey used to go on picnics in the summer, where she would spend the afternoon lying on her stomach, reading Henry James novels and sketching. Even though he’d always lugged Ulysses or Sons and Lovers or another thick book to impress Kelsey, he’d spend most of the time watching her, sometimes running his hands through her silky strawberry blond hair.
Rhys watched the guys blissfully kick the Hacky Sack up and down in the afternoon sun. What was the point? There was no competition. Hacky Sack was so dumb. It wasn’t a sport, it was a remedial activity for stoners who lacked the attention span and the muscles to play real sports. But they looked so… happy. Rhys knew he never looked happy when he swam. He looked stressed out and angry.
Suddenly, as if by silent agreement, the group wandered over to a large oak tree. Rhys saw one of the guys pull something from his pocket, light up, then pass it to the rest of the group. They were getting stoned. No one around seemed to mind, though. When they’d finished, they made their way back to their spot on the lawn. A few resumed the game, but two of them just lay down on their backs, looking up at the sky.
Rhys awkwardly plopped down from the bench onto the grass and lay back too. He knew it was sort of gay, but he wanted to see what the stoners saw. The sky was a beautiful, cerulean blue, but there was one large, gray-flecked cloud, right over him. Figured.
He stood up and brushed the grass off his Hugo Boss khakis. Just then, the Hacky Sack sailed through the air and thwacked him on the head.
“Ow!” Rhys rubbed his head. That hurt.
“Sorry, man!” one of the stoner guys yelled. “A little help?” He held up his hand, ready to accept the Hacky Sack. Rhys picked up the weird little ball of hemp. Whatever. He dropped it onto the arch of his limited edition John Varvatos Converse and kicked the ball toward the guys. As the ball sailed into the air, Rhys lost his balance and landed on his back. Hard.
He blinked his eyes. The same ominous cloud was above him, and his back fucking hurt. He cautiously pushed himself to a sitting position. At least he hadn’t broken anything. Although it might have been better if he had. Then he could lie in a hospital bed and feel miserable without anyone judging him.
“Man, are you okay? That was the worst Hacky wipeout I’ve ever seen.”
Rhys blinked. A Birkenstock-wearing guy was frowning down at him. He wore a tight yellow T-shirt with a picture of a smiling whale that read A WHALE OF A TIME IN WASHINGTON. His dirty brown hair was clumped into greasy-looking dreadlocks, and he had a silver nose ring that glinted in the sun.
“I’m fine,” Rhys snapped harshly. He felt himself turning red. The Hacky Sack wipeout was further evidence he couldn’t do anything right. He unsteadily stood up. “Bye,” he added, giving the guy a weird half handshake, half fist bump. He felt like he had won the Dumb Asshole of the Year award.
“Relax, bro!” the guy yelled behind him.
“I’m fine,” Rhys repeated as he shuffled toward the winding path out of the park. He awkwardly rubbed his head. Maybe he’d get as far as Seventy-seventh Street and collapse right under the green awning of Kelsey’s building. She’d take him in and nurse him back to health and promptly forget about that fuckwad Owen Carlyle.
Or maybe he needs to get checked for a concussion.