It is a truth universally acknowledged that Lilly Benedetto drives the crappiest, most broken-down car in Southern California, which is how she finds herself sitting on a bench next to the valet stand outside Cecconi’s in West Hollywood late Friday afternoon, waiting for her sister to come and pick her up.
“You realize there’s a dealership like three blocks from here,” June says when she cruises to a stop at the bright yellow curb, immaculate in a pair of high-waisted jeans and a tank top cropped just enough to show a sliver of tan, flat stomach. At twenty-nine, she’s older than Lilly by two full years, though you’d never know it to look at her. She’s been using a retinol serum since she was twelve. “You literally could have walked over, tossed your hair a little, and driven something new right off the lot.”
Lilly shrugs, sliding into the passenger seat of June’s cool, quiet Audi and cranking the air-conditioning, tilting the vents up so they blow against her damp, blotchy face. It’s the end of October but still close to a hundred degrees in Los Angeles, and her stretchy black tank dress is sticking to the sweaty ridges of her spine. “My credit’s bad,” is all she says.
It’s a bullshit answer, and they both know it, but it’s a testament to June’s sweet and mollifying nature—and, probably, to the fact that Lilly is the unequivocal boss of her four sisters—that she doesn’t press. Instead she waggles her fingers at a couple of scruffy-looking photographers camped across the street as she pulls out into traffic; the guys wave back as they pack up their cameras, ambling off toward their black SUVs. “Did you call them?” June asks, nodding her curly blond head toward the window.
“Rude!” Lilly whirls on her, laughing. “What, so that they could all come down here and watch me get my shitty car towed? Of course I didn’t call them.”
June grins. “I’m just asking,” she says easily. “You know Olivia tips them off every time she leaves the house.”
“Olivia would tip them off every time she got a UTI if she thought it would get her picture in Us Weekly,” Lilly counters, “but no. They were there to take pictures of Isobel. My vehicular difficulties were just a bonus.”
“Lucky them,” June says, glancing over her shoulder as they merge onto the 101 North toward Calabasas. Lilly leans her head back against the seat. She parked on the street specifically to avoid the embarrassment of the valets hiding her ancient Honda behind the restaurant with the rest of the undesirables, only to be rewarded for her foresight by a double-decker bus full of tourists gawking at the grim spectacle of the tow truck dragging it forlornly away. Isobel and the rest of her crew had left by then, thank god—not that it matters, since Lilly knows from experience that the whole debacle is probably already trending on Twitter. If there’s one thing the internet can’t get enough of, it’s a Benedetto sister having a misadventure of any kind.
“I didn’t even realize you guys were hanging out again,” June says now, pushing her oversized sunglasses up into her hair as the late-afternoon light begins to fade. “You and Isobel, I mean.”
“Oh, we’re not,” Lilly corrects. “It was just a brunch to launch her line of ugly purses, that’s all. She only invited me like twenty minutes before it started, which means somebody must have gotten mouth herpes or something and she needed a seat filler.”
June shakes her head, full lips twisting. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“That’s very loving of you, Junie,” Lilly says, sliding her sandals off and propping her feet up on the dashboard. “Unfortunately, your optimism is undermined by the fact that my complimentary belt bag party favor was monogrammed for Addison Rae.”
By the time they make it back to Pemberly Grove it’s almost dusk, the sun slanting warm and pink and golden over the hills. They wave to Edgar, the octogenarian gate attendant, then follow the winding streets of the development past the long-shuttered clubhouse and the algae-covered pond before finally pulling into the long, curving driveway of their parents’ sprawling faux colonial.
“You and your hobo wagon are already on the Sinclair,” Olivia reports when Lilly and June muscle open the rusting gate into the backyard, fishing her phone out of her cleavage and waving it accusingly in Lilly’s direction. She and Kit are draped across an enormous unicorn inflatable in the middle of the bean-shaped pool, the two of them wearing matching Valentino sunglasses and sky-high Louboutins. Their gangly, moribund friend Tony, who does all their photography—in exchange, so far as Lilly can tell, for the pleasure of their company rather than monetary compensation of any kind—snaps busily away. “Photos and everything.”
Lilly bites back a grimace. That was fast, even for Hollywood’s most notoriously salacious gossip blog; she supposes you’ve gotta be quick these days if you don’t want to get scooped by a thirteen-year-old with an iPhone and a window seat on the star tour. “Just another day of breathless, fawning coverage, I’m sure.”
“Shockingly, no.” Kit reaches out with one intricately tattooed arm and plucks the phone from Olivia’s hand, squinting down at the post. Of the five of them, Olivia and Kit are the two youngest and the ones with the most social media cachet, perpetually toasting each other with cronut-flavored vodka or filming cheery videos about how much they love their knockoff Vitamix. If their nascent careers as influencers haven’t yet proven to be terribly lucrative in terms of actual American dollars, at the very least neither one of them will ever need to purchase their own flat-tummy tea ever again. “‘Did Somebody Call for an Uber?’” Kit reads now, her plump, painted lips curling in dark amusement. “‘Lilly B’s Busted Beater Breaks Down Again.’”
“That’s . . . alliterative.” Lilly winces. “Sorry,” she says, more to June than anyone else. She stopped caring what the Sinclair or anyone else had to say about her or the Honda a long time ago. Still, she doesn’t like to embarrass her sisters.
“Don’t worry about it.” June sits down on one of the wobbly lounge chairs lined up on the patio. Then, suddenly realizing it’s covered with a creeping fur of neon-green mildew, she sits on another one instead. “Could be worse.”
“Could be better!” Olivia counters indignantly. “What is that, like, the third time in the last two months? Can you please just nut up and get a new car already? People are going to think we don’t have the money to replace it.”
“I mean, we don’t have the money to replace it,” Lilly reminds her. “Just ask Dad.”
“It’s not funny!” Olivia protests, though Lilly wasn’t actually kidding. “Your whole”—she waves a hand in Lilly’s direction—“situation is really dragging us down.”
“Are you sure that’s not the staggering weight of your fake eyelashes?” Kit posits sweetly. Olivia flips her the bird in reply.
“Dinner’s here,” Marianne announces then, sliding the patio door open and poking her pale, sullen face outside. At twenty-four she’s the middleborn Benedetto, floating ominously at the center of their family like a haunted island in the middle of the sea. A couple of months ago she turned up in a supporting role in some random Lena Dunham mumblecore project none of the rest of them had the foggiest idea she was doing; if it turned out she was also breeding heritage pigs or running a high-stakes poker game out of the pool house, Lilly would not be the slightest bit surprised. “Mom says come inside if you want to eat.”
Olivia sighs, dropping her head back so it’s nestled in the crook of the unicorn’s graceful white neck. She’s got the same dark, wavy hair as Lilly, long enough that the ends of it are wet from trailing through the bleachy blue water. “Somebody needs to tow us in,” she announces imperiously.
Lilly frowns as Tony sets his camera down and shuffles over to the skimmer, casting it into the pool like a fishing line so Olivia can grab hold. “What are you guys even advertising?” Lilly asks, holding her hand out to pull Junie to her feet.
“Nothing,” Olivia replies, boosting herself neatly up onto the pool deck, heels and all. “We just look particularly good today, don’t you think?”
They say their goodbyes to Tony and head inside the house, where their mother is standing at the kitchen island dressed head to toe in snow-white athleisure, pulling various Chinese food containers from a massive paper bag. “No, really, don’t bother helping,” she says, holding one manicured hand up dramatically. “I’m all set here.”
“Sorry,” Olivia says, leaning over to kiss her on one round cheek. “Were you slaving away over a hot stove all day long?”
Lilly nudges her mother gently out of the way, opening up the tubs and boxes. June rummages through the untidy cupboards, setting out plates and napkins as their father strides in from the pool house, where, following a massive heart attack a couple of years ago, he now spends the better part of his days listening to the This Is: Billy Joel playlist on Spotify and pedaling his recumbent bicycle. Whenever he comes upon all five of his daughters in the wild there’s always a moment when his expression is the slightest bit befuddled, like they sautéed his vegetables in butter instead of olive oil at Spago and he’s trying to recalculate the macros in his head.
Now he looks from the take-out cartons to Lilly’s mother, then back again, frown lines furrowing his crispy forehead. “I thought you were going to cook.”
Cinta shrugs. “I thought I was going to marry Mark Harmon,” she tells him, thrusting a container of noodles into his hands and shooing him away from the island. “Looks like we were both wrong.”
Her father catches Lilly’s eye across the kitchen, raising his voluminous brows in exaggerated forbearance. Lilly winks at him in reply before grabbing a can of seltzer out of the fridge and following June into the dining room. They literally never ate together before the show started filming, when the network mandated a once-weekly family dinner in an attempt to maximize every available opportunity to get all seven of them in the shot—and, presumably, for somebody to say or do something inflammatory or offensive, though that was never explicitly mentioned in the production notes. In the end, the ritual outlasted the three seasons that Meet the Benedettos ran on cable, and they still wind up gathered around the table almost every Friday night.
“I’m serious, Cinta,” their father says now, the light from the reproduction art deco chandelier bouncing off his head at the far end of the table. A few months ago he fired their housekeeper as a cost-cutting measure and signed them up for a meal delivery service instead, only he didn’t realize it was the kind where you had to cook the food yourself, and since then the insulated cardboard boxes have begun to pile up in the pantry like a cursed tower of Pisa while their mother happily patronizes every take-out establishment in Los Angeles County, and a couple in San Bernardino besides. “We can’t just be ordering dinner for seven people every night of the goddamn we—”
“It’s rice, Dominic.” Their mother waves him off. “I know that to hear you talk about it we’re one order of General Tso’s away from a life of penury on Skid Row, but I certainly think we can afford ri—”
“It’s not just the rice,” Dominic interrupts. “You know that. It’s the rice, the house, the clothes—”
“On top of which, if you want someone to cook those damn meal kits so badly—”
“—not to mention the spa trips to Malibu—”
“—I seem to recall that there’s someone in this family who loves to talk about how he went to culinary school—”
“—and the collagen injections—”
“—though I don’t know that the certificate program at DeVry University is precisely what Escoffier had in mind—”
“Hey!” Lilly interrupts brightly, plucking a dumpling from its white paper carton as June casts her a grateful look across the table. “Here’s a hard conversational swerve. Did you guys see somebody moved in next door to the Lucases?”
“About time,” their mother sniffs. There are probably a dozen vacant properties in Pemberly Grove these days. The one on Netherfield Place has been empty for over a year, before which it was occupied by a couple of thirtysomething guys with slick haircuts who Cinta was convinced were using it as a set for adult films. “How do you know what the sets for adult films look like, exactly?” Olivia asked her once; Cinta’s eyes narrowed before she huffed off to the aesthetician without condescending to reply.
“Not just somebody,” Kit says now, reaching for the kung pao with the self-satisfied smile of a person who knows something. “It’s Charlie Bingley.”
Right away, everyone except their father whirls to look at her. “Charlie Bingley?” Olivia’s eyes are wide.
“Like, Charlie Bingley Charlie Bingley?” Lilly is intrigued in spite of herself. In the last couple of years Charlie Bingley has transitioned seemingly effortlessly from second banana in a series of teenage gross-out flicks to a bona fide A-lister, the muscly star of a forthcoming comic book trilogy called Major Fantastic that promises to be both extremely loud and incredibly lucrative. People magazine recently declared him the nicest guy in Hollywood—a former high school football star turned Juilliard grad whose devotion to his mom back in Chicago is eclipsed only by how much he loves his rescue dog. Lilly has lived in LA long enough to know it’s probably only a matter of time until he’s unmasked as a pervert or a cannibal or, worst of all, a Scientologist. Still, it’s not like she’d turn her nose up at the opportunity to get a gander at him washing his car in the driveway. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Excuse me,” their mother counters immediately, the threat implicit in her voice. “This is a very exclusive neighborhood.”
“Is it, though?” Kit tilts her head to the side.
“You’re welcome to move out anytime, Katrina,” their father reminds her, barely glancing up from the mountain of steamed vegetables heaped onto his plate. “Encouraged, even.”
“There’s another guy living there, too,” Mari informs them, reaching for the carton of chicken and broccoli. “I saw him the other night.”
“Through your telescope?” Kit asks immediately.
“What do you mean, another guy?” Their mother’s eyes narrow. “A boyfriend?”
“If Charlie Bingley is gay I will literally fling myself into the ocean,” Olivia announces.
“You should ring his doorbell and tell him that,” Lilly advises, helping herself to another dumpling. “I’m sure he’d be happy to stop dating men for you.”
“You should ring his doorbell regardless!” Cinta exclaims. “Honestly, I can’t believe none of you have invited him over already. He’s going to think we’re all a bunch of low-rent inconsequentials with no manners.”
“Oh,” Marianne replies, “I’m sure we can all agree he probably thinks that already.”
Their mother shoots her a murderous look, and Lilly ducks her head to hide a grin. After all, it’s not like Mari is wrong: their family is steeped in the kind of cultural notoriety normally reserved for disgraced politicians or the emcees of beloved children’s shows who later get caught masturbating in movie theaters. Lilly’s father made a not-insignificant fortune a decade ago, rising to a campy sort of local celebrity with commercials for his small chain of red-sauce Italian restaurants, the Meatball King. They still run, occasionally—every once in a while Lilly will be flipping channels late at night and catch sight of her dad mugging like Luigi from Mario Kart in front of an enormous brick oven, crowing the King’s iconic slogan: “You won’t believe the balls on us!”
The business grew; they moved from a modest house in the Valley to Pemberly Grove when Lilly was sixteen. Cinta enrolled them all in a tony private school, where Lilly took AP Literature and Composition and also wrote the occasional paper for Isobel DesRoche, the famous hotelier’s fashion model daughter. Isobel took her out to the clubs on Hollywood and Sunset; Lilly brought June, who caught the attention of the second-most-handsome member of a screamingly popular boy band, and suddenly there they were in their party dresses on the blogs and in the magazines, photographers snapping pictures while they drank their iced lattes at Starbucks and a camera crew running cables through their living room for the first season of Meet the Benedettos. Cinta hired a ghostwriter to pen a glossy paperback about parenting socialite daughters. Kit and Olivia launched a juniors’ line at Kohl’s. Their father licensed the Meatball King as a franchise, and if, all these years later, neither the restaurants nor their family’s alleged celebrity—not to mention Lilly’s friendship with Isobel—are exactly what one might call thriving, their mother still carries herself like a deposed queen stubbornly awaiting her golden jubilee.
Now Cinta sighs and reaches for her wineglass, visibly bored with all of them. “You’re not the only one with exciting news,” she tells Lilly. “Guess who I had lunch with today?”
“Lil Wayne,” Kit fires back immediately.
“The Broadway Across America cast of Jesus Christ Superstar,” Lilly tries.
“That lady astronaut who drove across the country in a diaper to confront her romantic rival,” June puts in.
“I think she died,” Mari says. “Didn’t she die?”
Their mother rolls her eyes. “Oh, you all are hilarious. No.” She pauses dramatically. “Joaquin Shannon.”
Olivia frowns, plucking a noodle delicately from her bowl with two fingers. “None of us know who that is.”
Cinta sighs impatiently. “The interior designer,” she informs them. “Come on, girls. He just did Jennifer Aniston’s art barn. If we’re going to be hosting guests like Charlie Bingley and his friends—”
“Do you imagine we’re going to be hosting guests like Charlie Bingley and his friends?” Lilly asks her, but before her mother can answer her dad puts down his fork.
“Cinta,” he says, “we talked about this. And we agreed that now was not the time to undertake another reno—”
“We didn’t agree on anything,” Lilly’s mom says crisply, then turns back to the rest of them. “Joaquin had some great ideas for blowing out the back of the kitchen—”
“Cinta—”
“—something really natural and organic—”
“Cinta—”
“—fully encased in glass—”
Lilly’s father slams two meaty hands on the table with a startling thump. “Damn it, Cinta. What part of being ninety days from foreclosure don’t you understand?”
All at once, the room gets very, very quiet. “Hang on,” Lilly says, trying to keep her voice level. “Ninety days from what, exactly?”
“It’s nothing,” her mother says quickly, waving a paper towel like a hanky. “A paperwork snafu, that’s all. Dominic, I already told you this isn’t something the girls need to be worrying about.”
“The girls are grown women, Cinta!” her father counters. “Look around, will you? They’re certainly old enough to understand this family’s extremely precarious financial situation. Who knows, maybe it’ll light a fire under them to contribute before all seven of us wind up living in the basement of my mother’s house back in Newark and selling zeppole out of a truck at the Saint Agrippina Festival!”
“We contribute,” Olivia protests, looking wounded.
“I know you do, sweetheart,” their father says. “But I am sorry to report the bank does not take loan repayment in the form of a lifetime supply of essential oils, no matter how compelling the health benefits might be.”
Lilly swallows hard. The development was brand-new when they moved in eleven years ago, freshly constructed luxury homes nestled into the hills on the outskirts of Calabasas. She remembers sliding down the empty hallways, socks slipping on the gleaming hardwood floors. She thought this place was a palace—the biggest, grandest, most beautiful house anyone had ever lived in, with a copse of citrus and avocado trees in the backyard and enough bedrooms for each of them to have their own. It started falling apart more or less as soon as they unpacked their boxes, the sinks leaking and the doors coming off their hinges and the dining room chandelier crashing down into the cake at Marianne’s fourteenth birthday party. Now, more than a decade later, it bears the scars of at least a dozen half-baked renovations her mother has undertaken and then lost interest in partway through, including a nonfunctional sensory deprivation chamber in the primary bathroom and a custom fresco in the entryway that looks for all the world like it belongs on the ceiling of the Cheesecake Factory at the Paramus Park mall.
Still, Lilly thinks, looking around at her sisters’ lovely, stricken faces: it’s their house.
“Well!” she says, clapping her hands together with practiced eldest-daughter authority, even though she’s technically second in line. “Lucky for you all, I know an opportunity when I see one. Clearly the only option is to kidnap Charlie Bingley and hold him for ransom in the pool house until the producers of Major Fantastic roll over and agree to pay off the rest of the mortgage in exchange for his safe return.”
“Or,” her father counters pointedly, “you could all go out and look for jobs.”
The five Benedetto sisters consider that for a moment: heads tilted in quiet contemplation, fingertips tapping their pink, glossy mouths. “Kidnapping,” they decide unanimously, the clatter of their raucous laughter filling the dining room and drifting out the windows into the hot, breezeless yard.
* * *
After dinner Lilly takes her laptop out onto the second-floor terrace and props her feet up on the railing, the fan whirring softly like the purr of a well-behaved cat. Lilly’s been writing her whole life, little plays for her sisters to put on and the overwrought short stories she used to post to her long-defunct LiveJournal. She actually got accepted into the creative writing program at USC back before the show got picked up, though she deferred at Cinta’s urging—“College isn’t going anywhere, is it? Your youth, on the other hand . . .”—and never actually enrolled. She thinks about what it might have been like sometimes, the workshops and the lectures, studying in the library late at night. She would have been bored, probably, would have missed the clubs and the parties and the vacations at Isobel’s father’s resorts.
Then again: maybe not.
Lilly tilts her head back, remembering a trip they took to the Maldives right after they wrapped the show’s second season—the sea glittering endlessly down below them, the sky extravagantly, wastefully blue. She and Joe were newly engaged that winter, the diamond huge and heavy on the fourth finger of her left hand: Lilly remembers pulling it off to admire the tiny tan line underneath it, the mark it had already left on her body feeling almost more significant than the ring itself.
He found her on the uppermost deck their second night out on the water: “There you are,” he said, sliding one familiar hand around her waist and pulling her back against him, his heart tapping hard and thready against her spine. Lilly glanced over her shoulder, frowning a little. It was still mostly party drugs at that point—at least, she was pretty sure it was still mostly party drugs—but his mother polished the pews at church on Saturday mornings. He wasn’t built for the DesRoche family yacht.
Also, and even then Lilly hated the part of herself that thought this way: he was turning into a press liability.
“Here I am,” she agreed anyway, dropping her head back onto his shoulder and tilting her chin up to watch the stars. He smelled like this afternoon’s sunscreen and Lever 2000, cheap and slightly astringent: no matter how many fancy body washes she bought him, he always used the bars from CVS. “Everybody having fun in there?”
“Olivia just locked herself in the bathroom crying because Anwar Hadid blocked her on Instagram,” Joe reported, sliding his palms down over her stomach, “so probably that will require your attention at some point. Otherwise, I think everybody’s doing good.”
Lilly laughed, or started to: it turned into a gasp as his hands wandered lower, slipping up underneath her dress. “There are literally two dozen people right inside,” she reminded him softly, nodding in the direction of the cabin. She could see June through the plate glass window, tall and luminous. She could hear Isobel calling for more champagne.
“So? What do they care?” Joe’s smile was brilliant in the moonlight, nimble fingers sliding inside the elastic of her underwear. “We’re getting married.”
Lilly thinks there was always a part of her that knew what was coming. She thinks there was always a part of her that knew it couldn’t last.
Now she fusses with some dialogue, deleting a couple of words and putting them back again five minutes later. The last few months she’s been noodling on a screenplay about a lady vampire destined to outlive her one true love; she entered it into a blind contest over the summer and got to the very last round, but when she came in for the finalist meeting the team took one look at her, sent her out into the hallway for ten minutes, then brought her back in and explained as delicately as possible that having her name attached to a project made it virtually unsalable. “I read online that it’s actually one of the few things both Republicans and Democrats agree on in national polling,” one of the executives mused admiringly.
Lilly blinked. “How much they don’t like me and my family?”
“Well.” He had the decency to seem embarrassed. “Pretty much.”
Eventually Lilly’s eyes start to glaze over, so she gives up and closes the computer with a tidy click. After all, the problem isn’t that she hasn’t revised the damn thing. The problem is just . . . her. “If you ever wanted to develop something a little more on-brand,” the guy offered as she was leaving, an assistant all but yanking her from the room with a shepherd’s crook like something out of vaudeville. “A dating competition, maybe? Something with fun challenges! We could get your sisters in on the act.”
Inside the cool, quiet house June’s bedroom door is still open, the faint smell of gardenias and night cream hanging in the air. “Were you writing?” June calls, leaning back on her elbows and peering out into the hallway. She’s already in her pajamas, one of the crisp matching sets that are all she sleeps in, like she’s the sweet, plucky heroine in a Nora Ephron movie.
Lilly shakes her head. “Searching Craigslist for an honest living,” she jokes. “Thinking about getting a job as a naked sushi girl.”
“Do you think he was serious?” June asks, brow furrowing. “About the house?”
Lilly does, actually, but it’s her job in this family to make it so her sisters don’t worry, so instead she just shrugs. “Dad’s scrappy,” she promises, which is also what she said back when he was in the hospital undergoing an emergency triple bypass, the rest of them huddled in the waiting room at Cedars in their fuzzy slippers and robes. “He’ll figure it out.”
June nods, apparently satisfied. “You just missed Kit and Liv,” she says, scooting over to make room for Lilly on the bed. “They were going to some tequila thing at Soho House, but they wanted to pick a theme for Rebecca’s party.”
“Pirates,” Lilly says immediately. “The Bauhaus movement. That alphabet poem by Edward Gorey about all the kids dying in unusual and gruesome ways.”
June smirks. “I think they meant, like, jewel tones.”
“Well, Junie, there’s a real lack of imagination in this house, if you want my opinion.” Lilly flops back against the pillows. “Is Rebecca’s thing this weekend already?” Rebecca Barnes has the biggest, most over-the-top house in the entire development. She was a Hollywood sexpot back in the eighties and still dresses like it, is perpetually tottering down to the mailbox in a full face of makeup and three-inch heels, the morning sun glinting off her impeccably preserved décolletage. Every fall she throws herself an extravagant birthday party featuring acrobats or live emus or the entire cast of Hamilton; Isobel DesRoche would sooner be photographed perusing the clearance rack at Old Navy, but Lilly’s mother has always believed the whole affair to be the very height of glamour, and lord knows none of her sisters have ever forgone an opportunity to increase their number of search results on Getty Images. “I swear that woman has like four birthdays a year.”
“We could always skip it,” June reminds her, but Lilly just hums noncommittally. After all, it’s not like her social calendar is exactly groaning at the seams. She doesn’t want to be remembered for all eternity as the straight man on Meet the Benedettos, maybe. But that doesn’t necessarily mean she never wants to be remembered at all.
She says good night to June and pads through the bathroom they share, shutting the door behind her. She knows it’s strange that they all still live here, five grown women all crammed into their parents’ McMansion. She actually did move out for a while—she and Joe rented a place in a high-rise downtown right after the show got canceled, what was supposed to be a fresh start for them both—but after everything that happened there was no way she could stay there, all alone with their sleek, modern furniture, the city sprawling endlessly down below. Two years back home and Lilly barely even talks about leaving: “The rest of us would kill each other,” her father said last time she mentioned it, “and I’d hope to be murdered first.”
It’s after midnight but already Lilly knows there’s no way she’s going to fall asleep anytime soon, so instead she slips on her sneakers and creeps out of the house through the mudroom, the blue night air cool on the back of her neck. She started doing this after she moved back to Pemberly Grove, wandering in loops through the mostly empty neighborhood—a way to spend her nights other than crying or staring blankly into the middle distance, trying to convince herself she wasn’t about to fly off the face of the Earth. It’s quiet out here, just the owls and the jacarandas and the soft, steady thud of her own two feet on the pavement. It’s peaceful.
She’s not consciously heading for Charlie Bingley’s but she’s also not completely surprised when she looks up and finds herself there, the house itself a faux-Mediterranean villa with arched doorways and a red tiled roof. There’s a warm yellow light glowing in an upstairs window and a Land Rover parked in the drive; on the lawn a single tennis ball glows neon in the moonlight, presumably abandoned after a wholesome and healthful game of fetch.
Lilly thinks about her Honda sitting busted at the mechanic’s. She wonders where her family will go if they have to leave Pemberly Grove. She imagines the last days of Rome, everyone washing their hair and pitting their peaches and falling in love while an empire fell all around them. Then she turns around and walks back home.