Confessed Read online

  “Right. Helen.” She gives me a slow, sexy blink-and-smile. Killer. A sweet little killer right here, lying through her teeth.

  That is what I’m talking about.

  She dusts the dirt off of her dress. There’s a patch of it on her arm and I wipe that off for her. Her skin is silky and soft under my fingers. Like maybe she uses baby oil after she showers. Jesus.

  “I’m Vince,” I say, but whoa, holy fuck. I’m no better than she is. Vince is actually my name. This girl is turning me into an idiot. She’s fucking up my whole M.O. “I’m gonna call you Lucy if you don’t mind…Helen.”

  She grits her teeth. Smiling but freaked out “Really, it would be better if you went with Helen,” she says, and starts fiddling with her necklace, zipping the charm side to side and then running the fine chain along her lip before letting it fall back to her throat. She goes to the driver’s side of the Beemer and gets in.

  I get in the passenger’s side. I notice a suitcase in the backseat. I’m putting it together. All by herself. No insurance. No cops. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what’s going on here. I slam my door shut. “Sure. Helen.”

  The strap of her dress falls down her shoulder as she buckles up. She fires up the engine and then turns to me and smiles.

  Yeah. She doesn’t know it yet, but Peaches here, she’s got everything I need.

  2

  ten hours earlier

  Right now, I am an heiress to two things: a lunchmeat empire and the largest E. coli scandal in the history of America. It hasn’t been pretty. It started with three cases at a sandwich shop in upstate New York and grew with what my dad calls “astonishing speed” into a national digestive disaster. The Burchett name, once a paragon of pastrami and fine roast beef, is now associated with an array of horrifying symptoms and an expose on 60 Minutes last night.

  I’m standing in the kitchen watching my dad make a ham sandwich. It’s not Burchett ham. It’s Boar’s Head. At least they can be trusted not to poison you. On TV, CNN is saying that in the wake of the E. coli outbreak, the SEC is looking into embezzlement charges against Mr. Charles Burchett. Who would be my father.

  “You can’t embezzle from your own company,” he says, jamming the sandwich in his mouth. “Can you?” That last part comes out a little muffled behind his seven-grain bread.

  “I think so, Dad,” I say. I didn’t learn a ton in college, but I’m pretty well-versed in corporate wrongdoings. Who wouldn’t be with a father like this?

  My mom comes in holding what looks like a large glass of Perrier but is, in fact, her perpetually refilled pint glass of a little tonic and a whole lot of gin. The bottom drawer of our refrigerator is stocked entirely with limes just for her.

  “What’s happened now?” she says. She’s thin and exists almost exclusively off of assorted cocktail nuts and colorless liquors. When she talks, she quivers a little. Very bird-like. A sparrow, maybe. Nervous, always looking around.

  Dad re-opens his half-eaten sandwich to add more mustard. “Nothing to worry about. Can I get you a sandwich, dear?”

  I can tell he’s freaked out. He’s never this nice.

  Mom says something about how she’ll never be able to face her bridge club again, and paws for her Xanax. They roll around loose in the junk drawer. We’re not exactly the Cleavers.

  I take a bottle of water from the fridge and pad out of the kitchen. I walk upstairs to the east wing. The only noise is the hush-hush sound of my feet on the high-pile, immaculate, white carpet. I pass one closed door after another and finally arrive at my room, where I close the door behind me. They won’t bother me in here. I’m not even totally sure my dad knows which room in the house is mine. My mom says my closet gives her a headache. I drag my suitcase out from under my bed. It’s halfway packed. I fill it with the remaining essentials, planning for warm weather. No more endless Connecticut winters, nope. If I have to wear a parka, I’m not going.

  Outside my window, I see my parents now sitting by the pool, which none of us swim in because we’re all allergic to chlorine. My mom is taking the petals off a marigold, and my dad is staring at a fountain in the garden that’s foaming alarmingly because our gardener always puts too much Listerine in the water to keep off the algae. In other words, all is status quo.

  It’s go time.

  I pack up my makeup and lotions, my night guard, my electric toothbrush and charger. My hair dryer, my curling irons, my deep conditioner. I pick a bottle of perfume from my vanity and stick it in a Ziploc. Then I put on my necklace, adjusting the tiny gold charm at the base of my neck.

  I hurl myself onto my suitcase and zip it closed. Then, to make sure I don’t cause a fuss by wheeling my bag down the steps, I make an executive decision: I open the window facing the driveway and shove it outside. Unfortunately, it lands in the garden and the huge rhododendron below kind of takes it in the shorts on impact. Branches crack and a handful of blooms get smooshed. But that’s alright. Nothing a few years and a good pruning won’t fix.

  Downstairs I go again, to my dad’s office. It’s all mahogany and leather and portraits of him in various oddly aristocratic situations: standing in front a rolling green valley while wearing tweed and an ascot; dressed in a tuxedo and leaning semi-casually on a statue of Caesar. He looks natural in exactly none of them because he’s new money and doesn’t have the good sense to say, “I don’t care how much I’m worth. I won’t wear an ascot,” to a portrait artist. I, on the other hand, grew up here in Greenwich, and have gotten a new BMW every year since I turned 16. I refuse even to sit for a portrait because number one, this isn’t the seventeenth century, and two, Instagram filters are very flattering. This crazy wealthy life, it’s always been just too much. Which is a good thing because all of it, every last bit, from pastrami to thoroughbreds, is about to come crashing down to nothing at all.

  I saw the Chapter 11 papers last night in the foyer. That’s when I started planning my escape. Honestly, I don’t mind the money vanishing. It’s handy to have, but it comes and goes. None of it means anything. It’s all too forced to be real. I want a real life. A simple one. I may or may not have spent two summers at a brat camp in Montana and it’s there I fell in love with the simple life. That’s what I want. What I don’t want, on the other hand, is the endless association of my last name with bad ham and stomach cramps. Burchett might be pretty enough to say, but it’s now sounding awfully synonymous with rampant foodborne illness. Which is not, thanks, a fortune I have any plans of inheriting.

  My dream is this: No more talk of hams. No more talk of inheriting the family company. No more board meetings and profiles in Forbes 500. No more Beemers or yachts. No more SEC investigations. No more Ivy League. No more schmoozing and elbow rubbing. No. This is my chance to do something different. To find my way. To find a life of my own. A few horses. A good man who doesn’t sleep until 1 pm because he has a trust fund. A simple house. A mortgage that costs less than 9k a month. One car. And a completely different freaking last name.

  That is the plan.

  I crouch behind Dad’s desk. He is, fortunately, painfully predictable, and the safe code is the anniversary of his first smoked ham sale: 7-14-84. Inside are stacks, and I do mean stacks, of cash. I’m tempted to take all of it, but I’ve got a feeling that as soon as the FDA, the SEC, and the rest of the government really descend on Burchett Meats, my parents are going to have to make a midnight flit to Belize or the Cayman Islands or something. Even though my dad is crazy-making, unethical, and a real pain in my rear end, I don’t want to wipe out my parents’ go-stash. If even just for Mom’s sake. So I take twenty grand and my passport and lock the safe back up.

  Mom and Dad are still by the pool. I walk out with my purse over my arm and my keys in hand.

  “Where are you headed, sweetie?” my mom asks. She’s got that strange Xanax calm coming over her now.

  It really makes exactly zero difference what I say, provided I don’t tell her “turning Dad’s tax records over to th
e press.” So I say, “Just going to the mall.”

  My mom raises her cheek for a kiss. I linger there for a little longer than usual. Her skin is cool on my lips and smells like her face cream. Then I bend down and give my dad a kiss. It’s so unlike us that he sort of jumps when I put my lips to his cheek.

  “Love you,” I say. I try not to get choked up.

  “Love you too, honey,” Mom says. “If you see anything nice, just put it on our Amex.”

  “And if you eat at the food court, stick with vegetables,” Dad says without even glancing up from his phone.

  In the driveway, after a decidedly awkward skirmish with the rhododendron in which I come out looking like I just intervened in a cockfight, I put the cash under the carpet in the trunk, tucked in next to the spare wheel. Then I put my luggage on top of it, and quietly close the trunk.

  I head down the long driveway, shrouded in copper beech trees, but take a right before I get to the main road. One more stop: the stables. I get out and with a pinch in my heart, say goodbye to the horses. Friday Night Lights, retired from the track, snorts as I rub his muzzle. Lady Grey presses her chest to the door of the stall and neighs. And there at the end is Peanut. My Peanut. My lovely girl. My heart aches under my ribs.

  “Hello, lovely.”

  Her big paintbrush eyelashes close. She nickers. Mom!

  I rub her forelock, and she presses her face into my shoulder. Her hoof drags along the floor of the stall and her ears twitch. I place my lips to her cheek, and she stomps just once.

  “I’m going to miss you,” I tell her. She smells like hay and heaven. I’ve loved her since she was a tiny, awkward creature, with knees in every direction and eyes too big for her face. I have loved her always. I will love her always. Always.

  She huffs when my tears start falling, and I sniff, wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

  My Peanut. My girl. My oldest friend. “I’ll miss you so, so much.”

  Ten hours, six cups of coffee, and a whole lot of Chex Mix later, I’m just crossing into Tennessee. The pain of saying goodbye to Peanut, it still stings. My chest gets full and tight, and I try not to cry. I try to stay strong. I’ve variously been called a handful, a pistol, and even occasionally a tough cookie, but deep inside I’m a softie. Especially for the ones I love.

  I try to distract myself. The sun’s down, my windows are open, and my music is blaring as I head southwest, according to the compass on my dash. As my mind wanders, I realize I forgot to take my birth control pill. Not like it matters, but still. I like to at least try to stay on schedule. Kind of. I dig for the case in my purse and pop a random one in my mouth, swigging it down with cold coffee.

  I’m not entirely sure where I’m headed. Somewhere warm, sure. Somewhere quiet, definitely. Other than that, I’m envisioning flip-flops and freedom. With a deep breath, I take some comfort in knowing it’ll be an adventure, whatever happens next. That’s the whole idea. It won’t be easy, but at least it’ll be mine. Over the passing hours, my parents have been texting…

  Mom: How’s the mall?

  Dad: If CNN calls, don’t answer.

  Mom: I don’t think you’re at the mall.

  Dad: If CNBC calls, don’t answer.

  Mom: Where are you, honey?

  Dad: If MSNBC calls, don’t answer.

  Mom: Have you run away again?

  …but I haven’t answered. It’s not like I haven’t run away a time or two before. From the lack of exclamation points in their texts and the general tone of their voicemails, they don’t seem overly concerned. I am, after all, 23, a Yale graduate, and perfectly entitled to ride off into the sunset all by my-damn-self.

  Outside a town called Kingsport, there’s nighttime construction. I decide to get off I-81 and head for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I head south on 26 towards a town called Unicoi. I like that name, and I figure the odds of them having Chili’s and a halfway decent Motel 6 are pretty good. It is Middle America, after all. There are certain things I’m hoping I can depend on. A buffalo ranch sandwich, a margarita, and a room without bedbugs would do me just fine right now.

  Even on this side road, though, there’s some construction, and I have to slow. A little guy in big Timberland work boots, a hard hat, and a reflective vest stops my half of I-26 with a twirling stop sign. I come to a stop and pull out my phone to play around a bit while I wait. My wallpaper is Peanut eating a radish from my hand. I linger over her face a second and then type in my passcode.

  Facebook has the usual stuff on it: People taking post-graduation trips to places like Amsterdam and Myanmar. People getting jobs at places like Apple and Google, where they’re wearing those ugly T-shirts. Seems to me reason enough to turn down a job there. Hanes tagless T-shirts every day? No. Thank. You.

  Of course, I’ve been in mostly unnecessary talk therapy long enough to know that’s all a coping mechanism. I’m super freaking jealous of all my friends with jobs and plans and untainted family names. What I’d really like to be doing right about now is opening a horse therapy ranch. I pitched the idea to my dad at my graduation dinner, and he said, “Volunteer work isn’t going to pay for your haircuts now, is it?”

  Charming.

  There’s a honk behind me, and I look up. Traffic is moving again and I press on the accelerator. As I do, I see Trending off to the side of my Facebook feed.

  TWO HUNDRED MORE SICK FROM BURCHETT MEATS!

  Oh my God. I put one hand to my mouth as I skim over the story, and steer with my knees. It’s still going on. It’s like an epidemic. It’s like a plague. It’ll never stop, never. I’ll never be free of poisoned pastrami. We are the Madoffs of Mortadella.

  I raise my eyes to the road.

  Traffic ahead of me has stopped. But I, on the other hand, am going at least fifty miles an hour, speeding towards the back end of an absolutely enormous black pickup. It gets terrifyingly closer and closer, beefy and manly and spattered with mud. His brake lights go from dots to spotlights, and everything begins to slow, slow, slow down in my head.

  I jam the brake to the floor.

  My headlights shine back at me off his bumper.

  Oh God, no, no, no, no…

  I flatten my hand to the horn.

  I clench my eyes shut. There’s a screech, and everything flies forward. The seatbelt locks against my body. I am a living crash test dummy, my limbs moving at a completely different speed than the world around me. There’s a sickening crunching noise, the squealing stops. My head bangs back on the headrest. And I remove my hand from the horn.

  Everything goes silent.

  For just one brief, disoriented second, with my eyes still closed, I think to myself, That didn’t happen. That could not possibly have happened. I could not possibly have gotten in yet another rear-end collision.

  But oh yes, it happened. When I open my eyes, I see what I’ve done. Worst one yet.

  Just at the edge of where my lights shine past the road, there’s the big black pickup with its front end wrapped around a big old pine tree.

  “Shit, shit!” I say, scrambling for my purse to get my driver’s license and then my insurance. I’m just astonished that the airbags didn’t deploy, and I feel pain in my ribs where the seatbelt dug into me. There’s coffee everywhere. A box of Altoids mints has loosed itself from the console, and now there are tiny white pills all over everything. The whole car looks like the junk drawer back home. My phone has been thrown all the way to the floor of the passenger seat, and the screen glitters with a nasty crack.

  In my head, I hear my dad’s voice. Never admit fault! Ever! The Fifth Amendment exists for a reason!

  I snatch my phone from the floor and get out of my car. I begin to dial 911 as I start walking towards the mangled, hissing pickup.

  That’s when the door of the truck squeaks open. In the dim edge of my headlights, I see the driver. He’s looking stiff and rubbing his neck.

  My heart bangs hard against my already sore breastbone. He’s coming to
wards me, shielding his eyes from my headlights with one hand. That body. Two full-sleeve tattoos, all black and white. I can see the rise and fall of his pecs even in the shadows. Messy black hair. Rugged stubble. Eyes that could unlock a bedroom door from forty feet away. Jeans that fit him like he was the prototype for jeans in the first place.

  Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. What have you done?

  As if in reply, the pickup’s horn spontaneously fills the air with a long, sad beeeeeeeeeeep.

  3

  The Beemer is custom—maple burl wood, full-grain leather—but I don’t know what the fuck is happening with all these pills. It’s like an ecstasy factory. I pick one up and put it on my tongue. Peppermint.

  “Have as many as you want,” she says. “There’s plenty.”

  No kidding. Like, hundreds.

  But I couldn’t give a shit about the mints. I’m too busy casing this joint. Burberry luggage, matching purse. Monogram says “LMB.” Little disco ball hanging from the rearview window. It smells like detail shop and peach pie in here.

  I adjust the air vents and get comfortable as she puts the Beemer in drive. “Where are you headed anyway?” I ask. Her fingers tighten on the wheel and her bracelets rattle a little. “You know, just…around.” She gets right on the highway, doesn’t even check her blind spot or look over her shoulder, just guns it and gets on the road like this is some kind of video game. A little white sedan swerves to avoid her, shooting past and horn blaring. She’s completely unfazed, like that shit happens all the time.

  “Around,” I repeat.

  “Yeah, around,” she says, a little snotty-sounding. I watch her thigh tighten as she presses on the gas. Motherfuck. “Why do you care where I’m going?”