Page 215 of The Art of Almost Losing It
“No one’s going to investigate it,” Aaron assures Grayson. “They certainly won’t figure out it’s Graham kidnapping anyone.”
“It will blow over. Just stay calm. Don’t interact with it,” Finn adds.
Aaron takes a deep breath. “I know this is a tall order, but we all just have to act normal.”
“Really? Do nothing?”Dani hisses at me that evening.
She made steak and chive-and-cheddar mashed potatoes, but I can’t eat. I just pace back and forth in the living room.
“That’s what Aaron and Finn think, that it will all just be forgotten eventually.”
“I really cannot—and I can’t stress this enough—cannothave my mother finding out I was kidnapped and then lied about it. She will disown me.” Dani twists a dish towel in her fists.
“I will go to prison, Dani,” I whisper at her.
The cliché thing to do would be to say, “Why are we whispering?” But we both know why we’re whispering. Because this thing, this event that we both agreed had never happened, now has video evidence.
“Maybe we should talk to a lawyer,” Dani muses.
“No. Too many people already know about this. Let’s just keep pretending it never happened. You can’t even see who’s in the video. No one’s going to know. Please, God, let no one know.”
After choking down dinner, I’m trying to get Lulu to wear a wedding costume.
“My brother says he wants Lulu to be in the wedding. I don’t know why her skirt won’t fit. Lulu, stop fighting—you’re going to look cute. Don’t eat that silk flower!”
“Does Colette want that?” I ask.
“Nope, but it’s the only thing my brother has requested, so she has to, you know.”
I don’t know. It feels like she’s slipping, like I’m losing her. I kiss her desperately. “Do you love me?”
The doorbell rings.
It’s Frank.
We stand there and stare at each other.
He. Knows.
No, he doesn’t.
“Come in.” I widen the door. “We are trying on dog costumes.” I turn my back on him, like this is perfectly normal, like I’m normal. “I’ve been accused of overfeeding the dog, and now the custom flower-girl costume won’t fit.”
I mentally do a catalogue of what I have out in my penthouse—anywhere in my penthouse—that could look incriminating.
“Hi, Frank!” Dani chirps.
I cringe. It’s too friendly. He’s going to know we’re hiding something.
“Do you want some steak and potatoes? We have leftover cake from the party for dessert, and berries.”
Dani, stop talking. That’s how he gets you, if you keep talking.
“I already ate, thanks,” Frank says.
I want to jump in, to launch into an explanation for her weird behavior.
Do not talk.
