Everything on Billionaires' Row glitters.
On West Fifty-Seventh Street, sleek glassy buildings mix with elegant brownstones and old-fashioned golden architecture. Windows wear gold and metallic silver tints, and the glass of pencil towers reflects crystalline blue sky and fellow skyscrapers. Hotel flags flap in the calm autumn breeze, and even the air smells expensive, like an old socialite's perfume or fifty-year-old wine. The glistening sidewalks are perfectly paved, and lustrous black town cars park along the shoulders of the street.
Billionaires' Row is two blocks south of Central Park. It's home to ultra-tall high rises made of glass and wealth, and only the richest of the rich in Manhattan can afford its penthouses. For God's sake, the penthouses on this street put the Upper East Side to shame with their sweeping views of the city.
"So. Brunch. You must really be climbing up in the world now, Mare Bear."
Shade, clad in a pair of washed blue jeans and a crew sweater, grins at me. Trying to hide my nerves, I smile back in my own pair of plain jeans and a black sweatshirt.
It's a casual affair.
As I expected, Maven and Cal approached me at the barre yesterday morning and invited me to brunch. They told me that I could wear whatever I wanted and bring a friend or family member. Apparently, according to Maven, Mister Calore and Elara want to get to know their son's girlfriend, though that sounds like an excuse to me. Elara sees me on a regular basis, and Mister Calore, if the photos on his desk were any indication, has no interest in his younger son's love life.
He'll want to talk to me about my contract. So will Cal.
In the highest penthouse on Billionaires' Row, Mister Calore, Elara, Anabel, Maven, and Cal wait for me.
There's something so illustrious about Fifty-Seventh Street that I feel like I should've been accompanied by Maven to make the turn from Broadway. There should've been palace guards down the sidewalks and grand gates at the intersections.
"Yes," I return, my tone tighter than I'd like. "We've never eaten brunch before. Do you think I'll do okay?"
"With your appetite? I'm sure you'll do fine. With the eating part, at least."
I've decided to kill two birds with one stone.
Tyton gave me one week. Just to piss him off, I'll tell Shade about my secret boyfriend before even two of my seven days are up.
It's a casual affair.
Or it was, anyway.
I've decided to have Shade be my plus-one to the Calores' brunch.
The good news is that he isn't pulling any Scarlet Street Fighter-related shenanigans while we're here. He's just coming to brunch as my brother. My annoying big brother, who undoubtedly has plans to tell embarrassing stories about me and spend the better part of brunch sympathizing with Cal about my lying and manipulation.
In a lapse of traffic, Shade and I cut between a parked yellow taxi and a Rolls-Royce.
We approach a particularly imposing building. Somewhere around one-thousand feet tall, it has to be one of the tallest buildings in the city. Dark and light glass makes vertical stripes and manipulates the steadily-growing sunlight of the late morning. Arches and setbacks in the architecture of the building make for a shimmering masterpiece that seems to stretch and bleed into the autumn air.
Mister Calore owns the building. I know that much. Then again, he seems to own half of Manhattan.
In no time at all, we're approaching marvelous doors made of shining glass in bronze metal framing. Polished onyx stone creates walls around the doors, and One 57 is etched in gold atop of the onyx. An avant-garde rippled canopy perches above us, and twin bonsai trees, each standing a little taller than me, guard the doors like sentries in their bronze pots. If royalty ever existed in Manhattan, it would be right here.
"Mare Barrow and Shade Barrow. Greetings."
Standing at the doors' side waits Lucas Samos. He has a knit cap over his bald head, otherwise wearing a pair of khakis and a grey sports jacket. Wire-rimmed sunglasses cover dark eyes that match Evangeline's.
Without a moment's delay, Lucas opens one of the bronze doors in a swift motion. Through it I glimpse textured golden floors, modern seating arrangements, and dim light that casts the space into bronze. It's only the lobby of one of Manhattan's luxury hotels. The residential floors are stories and stories above us, the Calores' penthouse at the very top.
"Shade?"
My brother and I pass through the threshold, finding the door wide enough for us to fit shoulder-to-shoulder. A new rich, extravagant aroma becomes poignant inside, scents of perfume and wine ebbing away. Eucalyptus and mint permeate the air.
Luggage racks with golden handles and red velvet bottoms stand near a bank of gilded elevators. Abstract paintings in neutral colors line the ombré cream walls. An elegant bar bearing bottles of wine and champagne waits to my right, and a modern reception desk stands off far away. In between everything rests artful arrangements of chairs and couches and coffee tables.
"What?" Shade crunches his brows, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Though he hasn't said anything, my big brother has likely noticed my nerves, the little twitches in my throat. He's probably chalked it up to me being anxious about visiting the Calores' penthouse.
We're in a public space. Lucas trails us, and hotel guests loiter around every bend of the lobby, wearing business suits and pencil skirts.
Like most of my plans, this one, too, will likely backfire.
The less time that I give Shade to plan what he'll do when he sees Maven, the better. I can't give him time to think about what I've done, nor what he's going to do about Maven in the immediate future.
Plus: he won't be able to scold me until we've left brunch.
The words struggle to leave my throat.
Time speeds up, considering that we've already turned down a dim hallway bathed in light that resembles the inside of a whisky jar.
I pause in place, forcing the words off my tongue like pulling white bread from the top of my mouth.
With wide eyes, I regard my brother.
"Maven and I are dating. He's, like, my boyfriend."
Lucas cups a hand over his mouth to stay quiet on the elevator ride up.
My head feels dizzy, but I can't decide if it's from the story that I'm currently telling Shade or the sudden change in altitude. The elevator is like the ones at the Academy and Calore Industries with its gilded walls, bronze framework, and silver marble. A chandelier with a thousand little glass beads hangs overhead, and warm sconces wait between tall stretches of mirrors.
The elevator is double the size of normal, meaning that I have plenty of places to look other than into Shade's eyes.
The elevator shaft to the residential floors is tucked deep into the building. To so much as board the elevator, Lucas took us through marble-hewn hallways, past rounds of black-suited security guards, and then through a set of elegantly carved yet sturdy wooden doors that required an ID. Then awaited me was a lobby made of sleek grey wood, an onyx concierge desk, white light, and scathingly modern furniture.
There's a simpler entrance to the residential lobby on Fifty-Eighth Street, but these days, only the Calores themselves are using it.
All the while, I explained to Shade what I meant when I told him that Maven is, like, my boyfriend.
I didn't let him ask questions. I just rambled in a continual stream of words the story of how Maven Calore and I got together. First, we held hands, then Blonos forced us to kiss, then we kissed some more. I glossed over the hot tub details, blaming the situation on Evangeline and her scheming, but Shade got the gist.
Two Sundays ago, Maven asked me if I wanted to be his girlfriend. I said yes.
"It's not a big deal," I continue. "I mean, not for you. You don't have to worry about it. You don't have to worry about it, Shade."
Shade has lost his easygoing expression. Even with his hands tucked into his jeans pockets, he looks ready to tear a gasket.
I can't date Maven. There are so many reasons why I shouldn't date Maven.
It's a shame that I was never good at reasoning with myself.
Farley, Shade's girlfriend, once held a gun to Maven's skull. Farley told Maven that if he committed one false move, he was done. That if he showed the slightest sign of betrayal, that he was done.
I'm getting too close to Maven, and he's getting too close to me.
With a resolute ding, the elevator glides to a halt. My stomach catches up with the rest of me, and it nearly lurches up to my throat. Out of nerves, I glance over myself in the mirror, pushing up my sweatshirt sleeves to my elbows and pushing back an invisible strand of hair into my ballet bun.
For the past five minutes, my older brother has done nothing but stare at me in silence. His face is one of poorly-hidden concern. We'll talk about this later. For hours, likely.
Aside from his role as a Scarlet Street Fighter who desires to bury Mister Calore six feet deep, Shade is, well, my big brother. Bree and Tramy will put him to shame when the time comes, but for now, Shade will drag Maven through hell if only for kissing me in a—
At the last minute, as the gilded doors begin to glide open, Shade's face melts. I can tell that it isn't easy for him as he puts on a casual smile and brightens his honey eyes.
Oh, shit.
Without waiting for me, Shade strides straight out of the elevator and into the heavenly light of the Calores' penthouse.
I disregard the new scenery. Maven and Cal stand next to one another before the elevator shaft. Cal wears a pair of black Nike sweatpants, contemporary socks, and a grey sweatshirt that doesn't totally obscure his muscled form or corded forearms. His hair is still tousled, but Cal wakes up as early as I do. He already worked out and ran and showered for the day, but he never ran a comb through his black locks.
He also wears an amused smirk.
Maven, on the other hand, is looking a little anxious. His face doesn't give anything away, wearing an easygoing, friendly smile, but his overly-combed hair and hands folded behind his back do. Like Cal, he has on a pair of sweatpants, along with a plain white T-shirt.
"Shade," Maven greets my brother, extending out a hand. "I just want you to know that—"
I took great pains in giving my boyfriend directions on how to act around Shade. I told him to avoid looking at me for prolonged periods of time, to always agree with Shade, and to never say anything that could be used or twisted against him in any possible way. If Shade talks down to Maven, Maven shouldn't defend himself or fight back. If Shade tells Maven that he'll toss him down the Calores' elevator shaft should Maven break my heart, Maven should say that he'll throw himself down if he ever makes that mistake.
And most importantly, if Shade asks Maven what my favorite food is, the correct answer is my brother's five-cheese grilled cheese.
"Hey," Shade says, shaking his head. He puts up both of his hands. "No worries, Maven, dude. You're dating my sister. That's cool. I mean, I didn't appreciate the hot tub part of your guys's love story, but young love can be confusing. If Mare wants to date, she can date."
Every syllable that exits Shade's mouth is dripping with sarcasm. I feel like I'm standing on a rug that's about to be pulled out from under me.
Shade moves his hands to his back pockets.
"I mean," he continues, turning on me. I stop at my brother's side. "I'm fine with it, as long as Mom, Dad, Bree, and Tramy are fine with it too. But I assume that you've already talked to them about this, right Mare Bear? So anyway, yeah."
Shade delivers the most conniving, vengeful smile that I've ever seen out of him.
"Think of me as the cool brother, Maven."
Yes.
If Heaven was a place on Earth, it would be on the eighty-eighth, eighty-ninth, and ninetieth floors of One-Fifty-Seven Fifty-Seventh Street in Manhattan.
Maven and Cal are currently giving me a tour of their humble abode. Shade's upstairs with Mister Calore and Elara, supposedly discussing whether Maven is of good "merit" to date me.
"You know, Mare, it hasn't been an easy three weeks on me. After what happened at Calore Industries, Dad told Cal that he had to come home, and he's been living down the hall from me ever since. And it's not good. Cal tries to wake me up every morning at six to go on runs with him. When I say no, he starts blasting his gross eighties music to wake me up. Then after that, he asks me what I want for breakfast, doesn't listen to what I say, and tries to force a kale smoothie down my throat. And after that—"
"You know, Mare, there was a time when my brother loved me. Remember, Maven? You used to want to be around me all of the time. You cried every day for the first week when I went to kindergarten because you were so sad that I was gone. Up until you were nine, you wanted me to give you a kiss on the cheek every night before you went to bed. Remember that school project that you did in fifth grade about who you wanted to be when you grew up? You chose me. You said that you wanted to be like your big brother when you grew up because he was brave and nice and cool."
Maven glowers at his brother. "I have vague memories of thinking that you were 'cool,' Cal." Maven uses his fingers to make air quotes. "I've since realized that I was deluded by my youth and that you are in fact a loser. I don't love you. Never did. Also, why would I want to be like my twelve-year-old brother when I grew up? That doesn't make any sense. So like I said: deluded."
"Twelve-year-old Cal was way cooler than anything that you'll ever be, Maven."
I zone out the brothers' bickering.
The Calores' penthouse spans the top three stories of their Billionaires' Row highrise. It wears glossy walnut wood as its floor and floor-to-ceiling windows as its walls. The rooms, sprawling and never-ending, bathe in unobscured sunlight. One-thousand feet above the city, there aren't any shadows of other buildings up here.
I can see everything. I see the Hudson River, the East River. Around every hallway is a new angle of the city. I see where the tip of Manhattan meets New York Harbor five miles south of here. Midtown Manhattan looks oddly small. Its white, tan, and blue skyscrapers look like pins stuck into a pincushion among a grid of streets and avenues. All but a few buildings fall short of the Calores's penthouse, no longer so tall when I see where their spires and antennas mix with blue sky.
The penthouse itself is artfully decorated. Maven and Cal lead me down stairs of glass, through expansive hallways hemmed in with modern art. I've counted five bathrooms thus far, all with marvelous glass showers, porcelain bathtubs, and creamy stone walls. One of the guest bedrooms that we passed was easily the same size as my family's apartment, wearing white silken curtains, a plush bed that I could sleep in for days, and views out towards the Hudson River.
We pass through a sitting room brimming with plush grey couches accented with warm-colored throw pillows. A massive coffee table that Maven, Cal, and I could all easily lie on sits before a sectional sofa. Underneath it rests an exotic red and black rug that probably cost tens of thousands of dollars. I find a colossal fireplace embedded into a column of solid white marble that stretches up two stories to the ceiling. The windows that I face curve, arching along with half-drawn, hulking black drapes.
But then we're turning again, down a hall that has a wall of wine bottles behind panels of fine glass to my left and a bank of windows to my right.
"Maven, Cal. Miss Barrow. Mare, I mean. We're so happy that you could join us for brunch."
Very much like a stealthy cat, Elara comes up from behind us. I hide my flinch as she emerges in my periphery in a navy blue silken robe extending to her ankles. But even in her fancy-lady slippers and luxurious pajamas, Elara already has her face glossed over with foundation and a heavy coating of mascara.
Before I can do anything about it, Elara's wrapping her thin arms around my shoulders in what I realize is her interpretation of a motherly hug. Her cold frame presses against mine, and I can feel what is an attempt at a warm smile against my neck.
So this is what Elara meant when she said that she wanted to get to know her son's girlfriend. I didn't know that the woman was capable of giving hugs.
I force myself to wrap my own arms around Elara, but she's already pulling away.
"Maven," she says, looking at her son. "Mare's brother, Shade, would like to speak to me, your father, and you upstairs."
Shade's too clever. He's probably already regrouped himself and drawn up some awful plan to derail my relationship with Maven. I part my lips with the full intention of telling Elara that I'll come up too.
"Unfortunately, Mare, your brother gave me explicit instructions to leave you down here. Why don't you finish your tour with Cal?"
"I'm sorry if you don't still have a brother when my brothers are done with your brother, Cal."
Leaning against Maven's desk, Cal shrugs with a smile. "Oh, I'm enjoying this, actually. I like seeing Maven struggle. And I'll manage without him."
Cal and I have since progressed to Maven's bedroom, a place that I'm a little surprised that Cal grants me entrance into. Maven's queen-sized bed wears a lavish but plain white comforter with a blue throw and pillows. His overflowing-with-textbooks but orderly white desk rests against a glassy wall that overlooks Midtown's pincushion. His MacBook, test prep books, and pleasure reads all find places in the expansive desk and its cabinets, a comfy black desk chair before it all.
The rest of his furniture is similarly orderly and plain, but his little sitting area with plush red chairs and a little wooden table for board games gives the room a pop of color.
Attached to the wall next to his door is a corkboard that looks out of place. It's brimming with sticky notes written in Maven's perfect scrawl, report cards, a playbill for one of Broadway's newer musicals, and the occasional photograph. I quickly find a copy of Maven and Cal's 2007 Disney World photo, along with a selfie Maven and I recently took somewhere in Midtown. With a bustling intersection at our backs, Maven and I cringe-grin, looking awkward as hell.
I hide my grin from Cal, pushing my smile back into my mouth and down my throat.
I turn to my teacher. "Do I get to see your room, Cal?"
Perhaps surprised that I even asked, Cal blinks for a moment before smiling. "Yeah. Of course."
Without another word, we slip out of Maven's room and head down the cream-walled, expensive-rugged hall. One of the Calores' glass staircases stretches upward at the end of the hallway, and I hear Shade's passive-aggressive voice spiral down it.
"Think of me like a warm-up, Maven," Shade says. I can hear the mocking smile on his face. "Because once Mare's other two brothers are done with you, you'll be begging to break up with her."
I can't decide if I'm happy or not that his voice fades away as we turn into the next door over from Maven's.
I blink. Once. Twice. I see Cal's growing smile in my periphery.
"Cal." I fling out a hand toward what I see. "This is a mess."
Through the white door, I find a room that is very different from Maven's.
Cal's bed, positioned to overlook Midtown the way that Maven's does, isn't made. Its maroon-colored comforter is wrinkled, and pillows that look flattened from many nights of sleep hang haphazardly off the bed. He has several pairs of sweatpants and running pants slung over the bench before his bed, and black T-shirts stick out of his dresser. His tassel rug in front of what can only be a chaotic walk-in closet is crooked, and he's filled a large wooden bookshelf with board games and photo frames.
In one corner of the room, where paint meets glass, Cal has a bench press with a lot of weight on it. He has a rack of weights to the side, and a bar for pull-ups suspends from his ceiling.
His walls are covered with a variety of things. I find a signed Pete Alonso Mets jersey on one wall, a New York Jets football poster on another. I tear my gaze away when I lay eyes upon a three-foot-tall poster of a lithe brunette lady wearing a black bikini top, Daisy Dukes, and chunky high heels on top of a motorcycle.
Gross.
Not that I've ever thought about it, but I guess that this confirms that Cal likes girls.
With a look into Cal's white-marble bathroom, I find men's deodorant, shaving cream, what looks to be a very cheap razor, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and some cologne strewn about his massive counter.
"I think that you need help, Cal," I mutter. "Don't you have maids that clean your room for you?"
As though he's proud of his mess, Cal shakes his head slowly.
"Dad makes us clean our rooms ourselves. I pick up every so often, but like Maven said, I don't usually live here. I'm just waiting to go back to my loft in Hell's Kitchen."
If Cal's room wasn't so cluttered, it would be enormous. It's bigger than Maven's room but has infinitely more things in it. Not far from his bed on the side further from his door, I find a desk that textbooks have long abandoned. A vintage record player rests atop it, encased in a wooden box that's surely from the seventies. Golden triangular stands hold vinyl records, some of them with ripped packaging but none of them dusty. Between the three stands on Cal's desk, he has close to one-hundred records.
ABBA, AC/DC, Air Supply, Alice Cooper . . . he has his vinyl arranged in alphabetical order by the name of the artist. There's something cute about that, considering what a mess the rest of his room is.
"You collect vinyl records," I acknowledge. "Cool."
Cal plops down on his bed behind me. "Cool? I didn't know anything about me was cool, Mare."
I scoff. "I didn't say you were cool. Your vinyl records are cool."
He laughs a little. "It's my thing. I like going to this one record store down in the East Village every so often, and I usually pick up a new vinyl or two. It has a better sound to it, even if my brother's constantly threatening to take his physics textbook to my record player if I don't turn it off and put in my AirPods."
Maven's more of a Panic! At the Disco kind of guy who enjoys the occasional rap song.
"Is that why you moved out? I know that he paints you as the annoying one, but I doubt that he's easy to live with either," I tell Cal, moving my eyes along to Queen, REO Speedwagon, and Whitesnake.
Another laugh. One that tells me I'm entirely right.
"Or did you just get sick of being able to see all of New York from your bedroom window?"
I turn around so that my hands are braced against Cal's desk. When I look at him, I see this light in his eyes and those dimples on his cheeks again. Mirroring me, he leans back on his hands before staring up at the ceiling.
"I moved out the day after I graduated last year," Cal says, smiling at some memory. "For one, my brother is a menace. He goes to bed at three in the morning on weekends, and I go to bed at ten. Sometimes he jumps on my bed for fun. Every so often he'll throw away all of the kale out of the fridge so that I can't make my smoothies."
I'm shaking with silent laughter. I think that I'd crumble to the floor if not for the desk behind me.
"But I don't know," Cal continues, sighing. He lets himself collapse onto his bed. "I lived up here for most of my life, but it's so big and pretentious it feels like I'm suffocating. Which doesn't really make sense. Every morning when I leave, I'm leaving Billionaires' Row. Everyone on the street notices. I like my loft. It has everything that I need, plus a parking garage for my motorcycle. I always have kale there, too. And it makes me feel normal."
Well.
There's no sarcastic rebuttal I can throw back at Cal for that one.
I realize that we don't spend a lot of time talking about Cal. We're usually either talking about me or bickering. Usually, I'd be rolling my eyes and Cal would be flashing his annoying grin.
I understand exactly what he means. And I think that he's cool for collecting vinyl.
"Brunch time," a woman's voice calls from the hallway. Anabel, donning a stunning power suit with a grey sweater, comes through the threshold of Cal's door with a faint smile upon her face.
She looks happy for whatever reason, eyes flashing between me and Cal, spread out on his bed.
I don't have it in me to wonder why, not as she saves me from having a real, actual conversation with my contemporary teacher.