Page 37 of Right Where I Want You

“No need, Al,” Sebastian said. “I’ll get Georgina’s next drink. After all, we never set anystakes.”

I wasn’t sure that was true. It seemed that the stakes had been set the first time I’d been introduced to Sebastian as my new co-boss. He wasn’t willing to make room for me in his office, much less in his world. It was me or him, and neither of us would go down without afight.

9

Sebastian

After a quick pick-upgame of basketball with my sister’s husband in their driveway, Libby called us in for brunch. Sturdy trees with changing leaves flanked their Colonial-style home in Newton, a suburb of Boston. Aaron tossed the ball onto the lawn as we entered the house through the garage. My nephew sat on a stool at the kitchen island, picking lox off a bagel while Libby buzzed around him, setting out fruit, cream cheese, hummus, Bloody Mary mix, andmore.

“How was the drive?” she asked when she sawme.

“Hardly any traffic,” I said, popping a grape as I sniffed the air. “Are you wearing perfume around your ownhouse?”

“We just got back from synagogue. If I don’t dress to the nines, everybody thinks I’m the kids’nanny.”

At five feet tall, my twin sister looked much younger than her actual thirty-three years. It was the same dark hair and complexion as mine that often got her mistaken for the help. Only our height and eye color set us apart—otherwise, Libby and I looked the same, talked the same, and saw most things the sameway.

“It probably doesn’t help that you carry a jar of homemadesalsa verdein your purse,” Isaid.

She checked a skillet on the stove. “When I was a kid,” she told her son, “yourabuelamadechilaquilesall the time for me and youruncle.”

“She made them for me too, Mom,” José answered. “I wasn’t a baby when she died. I was alreadyfour.”

Libby made the sign of the cross the way Mom used to. “Don’t play with yourfood.”

“I hatelox.”

“Have one bite.” She took a bowl with Saran wrap over the top from thefridge.

I peeked in and made a face. “You’re serving guacandlox?”

“I have culture coming out of my ears,” she said, stopping in the pantry for a clipped bag of chips. “Unlike some people, I’m proud of my Hispanic heritage. My children will betoo.”

Libby’s jabs were never subtle. Bysome peopleshe meant Mom and me. There’d been times we as a family had tried to hide our background to make things easier on ourselves, but Libby had never subscribed to that—especially when it came to names. She’d given her husband no choice but to defend their children’s traditionally Mexican names to his Orthodox parents. She’d convert to Judaism for him, but damn if she wouldn’t put our family’s stamp on things. She’d even been using her full name, Libertad, since Mom’sdeath.

Aaron balanced Carmen on his hip, dragging her playpen into the kitchen. “Things calmed down at work yet?” he askedme.

I visited Libby whenever I had a free weekend, and every time they asked about work, I answered with some version of “the usual.” Today, my mind went to Georgina. She was a disruption to my routine, a routine I liked and one that had served me well up untilrecently.

“Why are you hesitating?” Libby asked as she plated thefood.

She and I weren’t the kinds of twins who finished each other’s sentences but sometimes, she was a littletooin tune with me. “Work has beenbetter.”

“It hasn’t been very long,” Aaron said, one-handedly mixing Bloody Marys as he carried Carmen around the kitchen. “Don’t let all that stuff bring youdown.”

“What stuff?” My first thought was Georgina, but there was no way they could’ve known abouther.

Aaron lowered his voice. “Your sister set a Google alert for yourname.”

The fucking exposé. I hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Libby, hoping I could avoid the exact look she was giving me now. She clucked, shaking her head. “I can’t say it surprised me,” she said, setting a hot dish in front of me. “WhatModern Manprints is mostly inoffensive, but sometimes things slip through that have me scratching myhead.”

“You’re just saying that because everyone else is,” I said after a bite. “I never heard any complaints from youbefore.”

“Your sex advicecolumn—”

“Is calledBadvicebecause it’sbadadvice,” Aaron explained. “It couldn’t be more obvious. I don’t understand how people don’t get that, or why it wasn’t detailed in theexposé.”

“Thankyou,” I said, throwing up my arms. “They misprinted the name to make it look as if my column was titled Bad-Vice, with a capital V, when it’s a portmanteau of bad andadvice.”