When We Were Bright and Beautiful(7)

My phone dings; it’s Nate, texting:

u up?

Yes still in bed. You?

In an Uber, don’t let Dad leave

Leave?

To meet new lawyer and get Billy

Lawyer?

Typical Nate, leaving me with more questions than answers. I’m about to text him again when I hear a familiar voice in my doorway. “Hey, Sweet Girl. You up?”

Families are complicated. The name on my birth certificate is Cassandra Forrester. On my driver’s license, it’s Cassandra Forrester-Quinn. I live with Lawrence and Eleanor Quinn, and their sons, Nathaniel and William. I call Lawrence and Eleanor my parents, and Nate and Billy my brothers, except we aren’t related, not by blood. My biological parents are dead. Andrew Christian Worthington Forrester (forever known as CW) died when I was three; Rachel Richardson Forrester, when I was five.

“Cassie, honey?” Lawrence’s voice is like the ocean. It’s gravelly and relaxed, with a hypnotic quality that draws me in and calms me down. “I’m heading out.”

I don’t call Lawrence “Dad,” but he’s my father in every meaningful way. While I’m sure lots of daughters believe their fathers are heroes, mine is exceptional. (I bet we all believe this too.) Long before I was born, CW Forrester was Lawrence’s mentor, protector, and surrogate parent. So, when he and Rachel died, the Quinns offered to raise me. The idea was Lawrence’s, and he says it was a reflexive decision, that he didn’t think twice.

“I’m sleeping, Lawrence,” I say. “I raced home the second Nate called me. I got in very late—which you’d know if you’d stayed up. Or answered any of my calls.”

“Sorry, kiddo,” he says. “I conked out. But you keep sleeping. I have to run.” He turns away.

“Wait!”

“Cassie, what?” Impatient, Lawrence taps, taps, taps the door. “I’m in a rush.”

Still, he hesitates. We’re both relieved I’m home. Although I’ve only been gone six months, and I was here for Christmas, our connection is already fading. I mean, Lawrence is my dad. He’ll always be my dad. But our day-to-day routine is over. Now, I’m a visitor, a young woman whose other life, her real life, doesn’t include him. So, we breathe for a minute, father and daughter, thinking about Billy; and, also, about us.

“Let’s start again.” Lawrence steps into the room. A beat later, I feel the mattress dip as he sits down, and then his hand touching my back. “I’m glad to see you, Cassie. I’m losing my mind. Yesterday was like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.”

I turn over. Seeing Lawrence on the edge of my bed, I feel a hitch in my chest. A valve opens, pressure releases, and tears burn my throat. “I’m worried about Billy,” I say.

“We all are.” Holding out his arms, Lawrence beckons to me like I’m still a little kid. I shrug off the covers and lean forward. My guard falls away. I bury my face in his shoulder.

“Thanks for rushing home,” he says as he hugs me. “It hasn’t been the same here without you.”

I wait for him to say more, to make a crack about how clean the house is now that I live elsewhere. He doesn’t, but I know what he’s thinking. Whereas Eleanor is supportive of my move to New Haven, Lawrence has mixed feelings about it. Yale is prestigious, the distance is fine, but six more years of school? And a PhD? “What about the foundation?” he asked last May when I announced my plans. “Why the sudden change of heart?” I couldn’t talk about Marcus, so I told him the partial truth, which was that I felt suffocated, and needed to be on my own. This, he could understand, if not accept. The five of us are always together. Our life is grand and glorious, but also a trap. Money is a noose that yokes children and parents together in ways you can’t anticipate. It binds you for life and then some. Even if my brothers and I go through the motions of adulthood—college, job, apartment, marriage—we must never forget where our true allegiance lies. What about the family? Lawrence kept asking. What about us? “Please, Lawrence,” I told him. “You can’t pull me back. I’m already gone.”

A second later, my eyes flood. Soon, I’m crying so hard I soak his shirt.

“Hey, hey, hey, Sweetheart,” Lawrence says, patting my hair. “Your brother will be fine. This is all a big mistake. The right lawyer will correct it.” When I wipe my nose on my arm, he stands up and whips out a handkerchief like a magician. “Use this. Or just drip snot everywhere. Your choice.”

As I take the handkerchief, I notice that Lawrence has lost weight. He’s naturally slim, but his button-down is baggy, and his slacks hang loosely on his hips. Otherwise, he looks the same: piercing blue eyes, a shock of black hair, movie-star teeth. In a few days, he’s turning fifty-four. He’s graying at the temples, and he used to jog so his knees are shot, but otherwise he’s still as loose and energetic as a man in his thirties.

“How’s Billy?” I ask. “For real.”

“Like I said, Cassie, I’m optimistic.” He offers a smile. Lawrence has a killer smile. His whole face lights up and fills with warmth; when he looks at you, you shine. But today his upbeat tone is undermined by his bloodshot eyes and hollow cheeks. “Dealing with the cops yesterday was bleak. But now that I’ve spoken to several lawyers, I’m confident we’ll resolve this mess today. As long as we act quickly. The longer he’s in the system, the harder it is to get him out.”