Thank you to everyone who’s read this while it was still on Google Drive. Double thank you to everyone who saw something in it that was worth improving. Hope you enjoy this one!
Prologue
June 30th, 2019
Alfie and Rose had set off to play soccer hours ago, and the game had devolved into a game of tag punctuated by shrieks and the occasional tumble. Dinner would be ready soon—burgers and chips and lemonade—all the essential ingredients for a late summer feast.
It was a lot of food for a small party; just the Stylinsons—Larry, Jenny, and their son Alfie, along with Hermia and her daughter Rose. There were six of them there last summer. Now, one extra plate sits tucked away in the cupboard instead of on the patio table.
After everyone was stuffed with burgers and lemonade and the children were put to bed, Larry and Hermia lingered in the den over chilled glasses of red wine. Jenny watched them enviously, making do with a cherry-flavored Otter Pop (she was five months pregnant). The growth of the child, the way Jenny grew like a balloon—it was an unignorable sign that time was passing.
Jenny realized she was with child two weeks after her brother Don passed. She shared her grief with Larry, his best friend, and Hermia, his wife. The three of them, Hermia, Larry, and Jenny, knew what it meant to be loved by Don—and what it meant to love him. The trio shared the fondest of memories and many jokes at Don’s expense—just like he would’ve wanted.
It was no surprise that the pain hit Hermia the hardest: it was hard, going through grief without him.
Eventually, Larry and Jenny retired, leaving Hermia alone to stare out the window. She lost herself in the summer nightscape, watching the fireflies as she warmed her feet by the fire. Hermia reached for her book and then—something made her stop in her tracks. She could have sworn she saw something moving in the woods.
Someone, more likely.
She shivered and wrapped her jacket tightly around her shoulders. Maybe her neighbors are taking their dog for a walk. It was a pleasant evening, after all.
She shook her head and took another sip of wine. But there it was again; and this time, she saw the figure in greater detail: Blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. A dress shirt and slacks that were as out of place in these woods as their wearer was in her life.
She was no longer scared. Now, Hermia was angry. She shoved her feet into her sandals and threw open the door.
“Are you insane?” she half-shouted, half-whispered (moms are good at that). “I’m here with my family!” She said, marching towards where the figure stood, leaning against a tree. He was wearing his favorite expression: a smug half-smile that rested comfortably under mischievous eyes. Much more had changed since they were in school together, but that expression was as constitutive of his identity as was his family name or propensity to overdress.
“Well, you’ve ignored every request I’ve sent your way.” His smile widened. “I had to see you.”
“Mallory, I have no interest in what you have to offer,” Hermia said through gritted teeth. “Now get the hell out of here before I make you wish you hadn’t left Manhattan.”
“What are you going to do, Hermia? Whack me in the face like you did when we were thirteen?”
“That wouldn’t be a bad place to start.” Her sneer deepened as she remembered why he deserved that punch in the first place.
Her sneer unfazed him. He’d seen the hurt. The tears. The nights and days when she couldn’t bring herself to leave her bed. The radiant smile that would shatter after her daughter left for school or when her in-laws went home for the night.
He was her shadow, after all.
Though she was strong, a time like this, a time of change, of world-shattering existential crisis—he could finally get what he wanted.
He’d never waited so long for anything in his entire life.
“Hermia, if you keep saying no to me, you’ll have to answer to my father,” he shrugged. “And you know how difficult he can be.”
Chapter I
March 9th, 2019
Drake stood in the doorway, eating a green apple. The room was large, but he was hard to miss. He was the only one in the room with a watch that heavy and a snake tattoo slithering up his left forearm. It disappeared into a silk shirt that cost more than most people’s cars.
He wore these clothes like a second skin—the same way he wore his shrewdness and cunning and ruthlessness. It seemed like he was never anything other than the man he was now. It was hard to imagine him as a child, playing with toys or being tucked into bed by his parents. It seemed like he was sprung from his father’s head, a fully formed adult, in a perfectly tailored suit and tie.
It was the cruelest of illusions—that he appeared on Earth as the manifestation of his father’s greatest dreams—the one and only proud son, heir to the Mallory empire.
He was here on a very clear mission and he listened, genuinely listened, to what Hermia had to say—so he could leverage that against what he wanted.
As she was finishing her talk, her expression changed a bit. Drake recognized it immediately. As soon as Hermia got off that stage, she would start to cry. It was the same expression she wore that night in the stairwell of the Great Hall in their fifth year. He never did know what she was crying about, but it damn near moved him to tears.
Why did it move him to tears? He didn’t know. He had no idea why someone who represented everything he disliked about the world provoked such a strong reaction within him. Tears weren’t allowed in his Father’s house. Drake cried plenty, of course, but for the longest time, he couldn’t understand why. But it was always alone, and if anyone in his life cried, they took pains to cry alone as well.
Seeing Hermia on the stairs, that night of the Winter Ball, those were the first real tears he’d seen. This was the first time he’d seen someone feel. He felt, in the pit of his stomach, what she felt—or at least he thought he did, on some valence. He had never given himself permission to truly fall apart like that —and he felt, instinctively, that Hermia hadn’t either; that this private expression of emotion wasn’t just a result of the inciting incident that caused the outburst but was sustained by the weight and accumulation of everything she pushed down before to seem strong, if only to herself.
Twenty Christmases ago, Hermia Grainer dressed herself in a silk gown of pale rose that turned into magenta at the bottom. Hung from her shoulders were sleeves that looked like petals just beginning to wilt at the first sign of autumn.
She looked more beautiful that night than she had in her entire life.
She finally figured out how to work with her curls and not against them. It was the first time most of the school had seen her in non-uniform dress. Of course, it helped that her statement piece was the star athlete of a rival school two years older hanging on her arm; he was simultaneously despised and idolized by all the footballers at their own school, including Drake.
How she tricked or blackmailed him into going to the Ball with her was beyond the guesses of most students, including Drake. When they entered the ball together, she looked more like a woman than she ever had before. More than the dress, or the shoes, or the date: she had the confidence. But he also saw something else. He saw a flush to her cheeks, a glow most students had lost with the fade of their summer tans. She was beautiful—it was so obviously true it was impossible to deny: the presence of a flower in full bloom in the dead of winter.
He soon quickly forgot her. He had his hands full with Parker, his date who seemed to thrive off his attention, and his attention alone. It was a symbiotic relationship: Drake wanted to be wanted too, and Parker was one of the more sought-after girls in their year, with skin like porcelain, hair black as night, and lips so full they were begging to be kissed.
As much as Drake wanted Parker in the frenzied, hormonal, impulsive way that is the core of “want” itself, he needed to hear himself think that night. His father’s words echoed in his head:
“Look at me when I speak to you.” Luke Mallory’s icy blue eyes flashed before him, and suddenly, all he wanted was to be alone with a cigarette, far, far away from the party.
So he told his friends he had to piss and Parker released her claws for the first time that night (not without a “hurry back” and a kiss on the lips that almost made him forget who he was entirely. Almost.). He nodded and walked away from the dance.
The noise shrunk as he walked farther away. But then the quiet was replaced with a new sound. The sound of someone in pain. He peered around the corner and saw her: Hermia. She was crying at the bottom of a grand staircase on the other side of the building.
Something about someone so beautiful expressing such an ugly emotion was wrong. She looked like a slain unicorn- like a crime against goodness itself. He had the sudden urge to go to her—to hold her and undo whatever had been done.
Instead he stood hidden around the corner. He was unable to look away, and before he could even realize what was happening, he realized that his face was flooding with tears, trickling down his cheeks like summer rain down a window. He then had the crazy thought that revealing his presence would replace her sadness with anger, or outrage, which would at least give her a respite from her tears.
But then his phone started to vibrate. Drake quickly took a few steps in the opposite direction and checked his messages. Parker, of course. He briskly made his way back to the party.
Every so often, in moments of extreme sadness, he thinks of her. Even now, at the conference podium, her face hardened with age, and grief, he can still see vestiges of the girl she used to be. His eyes trailed after her, as she exited the auditorium through the back door. She was leaving the conference early to pick Rosie up from school. It wasn’t necessary to follow her today; he’d learn more from talking to her peers.
After this session wrapped up, everyone filed out of the auditorium to attend the conference mixer. Drake’s goal was to get information about Hermia and her research under the guise of “networking” with these academics. Most were all too happy to discuss their work. Even the most standoffish and secretive of academics would fold at the mention of the Mallory foundation, the world’s biggest private foundation for supporting research. It made the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation look like it was as poorly funded and stretched thin as Planned Parenthood.
While Drake’s mixers usually took the form of corporate dinners and happy hours, attending research conferences this year showed him how similar they could be. Everyone could be bought for a price- whether it be money, status, or something else that money or status could get. Drake’s talents didn’t lie just in the ability to deploy the Mallory fortune at will: he also had a knack for ferreting out what most people really want. Since Drake was so unapologetically honest about his own desires, he was quick to find the path of least resistance to making a mutually beneficial agreement—on his terms, of course.
The cliche that everything looked like a nail to a hammer was true to Drake: it was the way he approached all his relationships. People were just means to an end. People wanted to be wanted and because of that, they were just waiting, eager to be used.
That included Grainer.
March 9th, 2019 (continued)
Hermia felt his presence from across the auditorium. It took everything she had not to look up, to acknowledge his presence with her gaze. To meet his ice blue eyes while his every chew punctuated the sharp angles of his jaw. Even though she was ignoring the man standing in the back of the room chewing contemptuously on a green apple, his image still flashed before her eyes, superimposed on the slide deck before her. Pale lips, long fingers. An old-money nose that felt most at home in an upturned sneer. Until he started reappearing in her life, she hadn’t thought about him in years. But now he snuck her way into her dreams, beautiful dreams that she realized were nightmares only upon waking up.
He was always like this: un-ingorable, confident to a fault. It was something that Hermia first thought all Mallory men were just born with. But she knew for a long time that wasn’t true.
The first time Hermia saw Luke Mallory, she was fifteen years old. She had just exited the headmaster’s office. It was an odd combination of traditional academia—marble bookends (all shaped like phoenixes), thick, yellowing candles, and volumes upon volumes of books—and 80s stoner paraphernalia: Grateful Dead and Eagles posters and college sports merchandise. She could imagine both studying for hours or putting on a record and lighting a joint, closing her eyes, and escaping it all for a few hours, exploring the wonders of her own mind.
Headmaster Bumbleboar ostensibly did both.
Being in Bumbleboar’s office was a rare privilege for any student. He invited her in personally to congratulate her for being the top of her class. When she got the news she was ecstatic, even though she was expecting it. She jumped up and down with glee and Fawkes, the Headmaster’s auburn retriever, picked up on her enthusiasm and got up from his blankets, wagging his tail and running in circles.
She worked incredibly hard for what she earned.
Hermia all but skipped out of the office and was about to charge down the hall to find Don and Larry to tell them the good news when she saw Drake Mallory and his father in one of the corners. She slinked back around so they wouldn’t see her. An encounter with Drake was unpleasant, but she was well aware of Luke Mallory’s vicious reputation, even among Drake’s own friends.
But even she wasn’t prepared to hear what came out of Luke’s mouth.
“I didn’t raise you to come in second,” Luke said in a voice so plain it didn’t even seem human. The intense heat of a blue flame flashed in his eyes. Drake stood still: like Hermia he was paralyzed, afraid of moving a single muscle. Luke took the point of his walking stick and used it to angle his son’s head up slowly and firmly, but not forcefully.
Then again, there was nothing to force.
“Look at me when I speak to you,” his voice was devoid of any anger, but Drake’s eyes still shone with tears. It would have been scarier if Luke yelled.
“Coming in second place to that scholarship filth is unacceptable to someone of your pedigree. If you embarrass me like that again…” Luke let his sentence hang in midair as he withdrew his stick back to his side. Drake felt his throat close up. Luke clamped a firm hand on his son’s shoulder and marched them both out of the hallway.
Once Hermia heard the footsteps fade away, Hermia let out a loud exhale. That was the first year class rank was publicly posted, but even before that, Hermia was unofficially top of the class. Every time the class results were posted at the end of term, and Hermia came in first, she remembered this. Whenever she saw him bully, whether it was on school grounds or later on in courtrooms, she remembered this. She remembered this the first time Drake asked Hermia to work for his father, and every time he asked her after that. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.
And how could you, when the world’s most powerful man also happens to be your flesh and blood, everything you’ve desired to be since you were old enough to have a sense of self?
The way Luke Mallory punished Drake was worse than anything Drake himself had done to anyone. It was hard to remember that when Drake seemed to unapologetically enjoy the finest parts of being alive. But for Hermia, what was harder to forget was seeing Drake wander back to what he thought was an abandoned hallway, a look of pathetic defeat on his fifteen-year-old face. She watched from the top of the stairs as he, between choked sobs, drew a cigarette to a pair of pale lips.
March 9th, 2019 (Still continuing)
Hermia couldn’t remember how she got into the elevator. As soon as she walked off the stage, she surrendered her conscious mind to a blurry autopilot. Thinking, inevitably, would lead to straying from that train of thought and down a spiral of anger, indignance, frustration.
Why couldn’t Drake take no for an answer?
Nothing was more frustrating than what she couldn’t control: the shiver that ran down her spine when she saw him lurking in the shadows. Feeling his gaze across the auditorium. Imagining what he did after his long drive uptown, loosening his tie, easing off his shirt, stepping into a cold shower to rinse the ridiculous amount of product out of his hair.
Unfortunately, Drake’s brief stint as a cologne model left little to the imagination when it came to the contours of his body. It played on a loop on nearly every TV in JFK during a five-hour delay. She couldn’t ignore the supercut of Drake dressed in all black, walking through various cityscapes, progressively wearing less and less clothing in each shot. In the final frame, before it faded to black, his golden body shone in a hall of mirrors, every muscle in his body straining against his skin as he flirted with the camera. And then the ad started all over again.
Hermia exhaled. It was only a couple more paces to the elevators. As soon as the doors shut, she could cry, scream—whatever her body needed.
Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?, she thought, bitterly, as it seemed like she was having an equally difficult time keeping him out of her thoughts.
Hermia firmly pressed the “door closed” button, willing that nobody entered the car with her as the doors inched closer and closer together.
Right before they shut, a very expensive black leather shoe edged its way into the gap. Hermia held in a scream. The doors slid back open. As Drake entered the car, Hermia tried unsuccessfully to ignore how much larger-than-life he was when he stood right next to her. He was taller, yes, but he also exuded a certain aura of confidence that drew your gaze towards his when he got within a certain proximity.
And the confines of a hotel elevator were definitely within that range.
The doors finally closed and Hermia smelt something spicy and woody and sweet.
That damn cologne, Hermia thought, pushing Drake’s commercial out of her head. She decided she was going to ignore him for the fifty-six floor ride down to street level, at which point she’d march out of the elevator with her head held high to the nearest metro station.
He’d never follow her down those stairs.
Besides, it seemed like he wasn’t really interested in speaking with her either. It was like being trapped in a cage with a wild animal. Don’t poke the bear, she thought, keeping her eyes forward.
But somewhere between floor forty-five and twenty-two, the elevator stopped. After a few moments of suspension, Hermia allowed herself the luxury to look around and meet Drake’s eyes. He met her gaze coolly.
“Relax, Grainer. It’s just stuck,” he said, as she pushed the emergency button. “I’m sure someone will come save us soon.”
“I have to pick my daughter up from school,” she replied, fumbling with her phone. No service, of course. Hermia pushed the emergency button again, which of course, did nothing.
I will not die in this elevator with Drake Mallory, she thinks, as she presses the button again. And again. And again. She’s so focused on this task that she notices her hand is gently lifted off the keypad. With the most delicate of gestures, Drake guides her body to face his, about an arm’s distance between them.
“Hermia,” he said in a voice so soft, so devoid of his typical Drakeness, that it seemed to come from the strange glacial planet in his eyes. She willed her hand to pull away, but it went limp in his palm. Drake smiled, interlacing his fingers with hers. While his expression usually signaled an assuredness he wielded like a weapon, today, he seemed to be saying: I don’t need to fight today. I’ve already won.
He guided their hands to both rest on Hermia’s waist.
“When was the last time someone touched you,” he whispered, “the way you want to be touched?” His fingers traced the veins on her forearm, and every hair on her arm pricked up until he stopped at the sleeve of her blouse.
Torn between knowing he should stop and wanting him to keep going, she stood absolutely still. Hermia pressed her lips into a line to prevent from making a sound. She closed her eyes and simultaneously willed for the fire department to arrive and for Drake to put his other hand behind her neck and close the space between them.
And he did.
“When was the last time you gave in?” The words lingered on her ear, floating in the heat of his breath.
It’s been too damn long, she thought as she grabbed his tie and kissed him. Their bodies hit the elevator wall with a thud, and Hermia’s vision went black.
She woke up in a cold sweat, in a bed that was too big for her.
She’d never admit it, not even to Larry and Jenny, but this wasn’t the first time Drake appeared in her nighttime thoughts. The first time was their fourth-year fall term, after he spent a summer tanning in Santorini. The second was when they were the last two in the library during their sixth-year finals term.
Hermia glanced at the picture of Don on her nightstand, sighed, and tried to go back to sleep.
March 10th, 2019 (The next morning)
Hermia didn’t believe in ghosts. Yet she found herself talking to one almost every day. Even in her imaginative reincarnations of Don, he always knew the right things to say. She wasn’t sure how much of that was due to anything he said being the right thing, just because it came from his mouth and was said in his voice. She carried a photo of him in her coat pocket, one where he looked the most like himself: mid-laugh, a rosy tint to his cheeks, his fiery hair lending warmth to his sea-blue eyes. Before bed, she propped it up on her nightstand and woke up to it every morning, feeling him watch over her like she used to feel him breathe.
When she awoke from the previous night’s fitful sleep, she thanked her lucky stars it was Sunday. She had nowhere to be for a few hours, and Rosie was at the Stylinson’s. Hermia turned over to the photograph and said aloud:
“I’m losing it.” She closed her eyes and allowed her to believe, just for a minute, that Don could jump out of the frame and into his spot on the bed.
“Because you had one silly little dream?” Don asked with a smirk, fluffing the pillows just the way he liked them.
“You’re not supposed to know about that,” Hermia replied, her face reddening.
“I know everything you do, remember?” Don stretched a bit and cracked his knuckles. Hermia smiled, watching the sunrise set his red hair ablaze, forming the faintest of haloes behind his head. “Besides, we both know it’s not just about the dreams. It’s about the Mallory clan chasing you. And the pressure to fundraise for the clinic. And things getting worse for your most vulnerable patients.”
“Don’t forget the grief,” Hermia added dryly.
“The grief,” Don said, putting his arm around her. “That you can handle. That’s what I’m here for.”
“It just—” Hermia wiped at the tears that started to stream down her cheeks. “Some days, I feel like it’s getting better. And then I wake up feeing the worst pain.” She took a deep, snotty inhale. “It hurts.”
“It can’t be more painful than chemo,” Don said with a smile.
“I’m serious,” Hermia said, lightly shoving him. “It hurts being alive without you.”Don took her hands in his. “Sometimes I just—I wish I could’ve gone with you.” He squeezed her palms.
“I know you don’t really mean that.”
She shook her head. “I don’t.”
“I’m always here with you, Hermia, whenever you need me.” Don pushed a strand of hair from her face. “But you have a life to live out there, and I have to go let you.”
“For Rosie,” she whispers.
“And Larry and Jenny,” he adds. “Not to mention your patients.”
“And the clinic.”
“And the rest of the planet, because the world is so much better with you in it,” he says, touching her nose lightly. Hermia laughs through her lingering tears. It feels like the first rays of sunlight after weeks of rain. Don wraps her in a hug and after three deep breaths, pulls away and holds her face in his hands.
“So you go,” she says, closing her eyes. She feels a kiss on her forehead. “And I’ll stay.”
Chapter 2
January 15th, 2020
How did I get here?
Drake stared at himself in the mirror. He saw Parker’s legs in the corner of the glass. She wouldn’t be up for hours, but he had a breakfast meeting with his father.
How is it that years after supposedly having grown up, he was exactly where he used to be? As if this whole time his life’s trajectory was a circle. Parker in his bed, cigarettes in his coat pocket, striving to meet his fathers’ expectations, smoking between shudders in the corner when he didn’t, a constant dread in the pit of his stomach that he could dull if he ingested the right combinations of the wrong things.
It all happened so quickly. Had it really been almost a year since his father told him to stop chasing after Hermia? MalloryCorp was on the rise, his father explained. Some new investors. We don’t need her. Standing in front of a large mahogany desk, Drake absorbed his father’s words, along with praise for his persistence and loyalty.
“Sometimes you can’t force someone’s hand,” Luke continued, picking up the phone and dialing into his next meeting. “Besides, if money and status won’t motivate her, she doesn’t belong at MalloryCorp.” He dismissed his son with a wave. Drake left the room with his head spinning.
His life had been hunting after Hermia for these past few months. His father all but told him not to return until he’d convinced her to join the company. Maybe my father didn’t need Hermia at all, Drake thought. I mean, why would he? It was probably some Sisyphiean penance to repeatedly fail until his father decided he’d punished his son enough. And I’d be so grateful to him, I’d never take another step out of line, Drake thought bitterly.
But then again, how was he to know that the woman he met at the bar was a MalloryCorp intern? She dressed like she could afford not to work. Drake knew they paid their interns barely enough to afford to live in Manhattan for the summer. In the dim lighting, the haze of cigarette smoke, and underneath expertly applied makeup, she looked to be in her late-twenties.
It was an honest mistake. But to Luke Mallory, even honest mistakes result in failures.
Drake did his best to ignore his body’s distress signals as he entered his father’s office. Breakfast for both of them meant black coffee, scrambled egg whites with spinach, and lean sausage. Luke somehow talked the whole time and found enough time to polish off his whole meal, while Drake was usually too nervous to eat. After his father dismissed him, he always left the double doors the same way: shaking, reaching for his smokes.
After every one of these meetings, he told his driver to take him to Prospect Park. There was always enough to see to distract him from his responsibilities, but nothing that would remind him of them. There was more space, more green, more air than Manhattan. He found the park when he would trail Hermia to and from work, setting up surveillance across from her office in an unmarked white van. Whenever he needed a smoke, or to eat, he sat in the park. He found it was the best place to clear his head and forget who he was.
As Drake stepped out of the Town Car, he felt his coat pocket. He was out of smokes. He briskly made his way to the nearest corner store. After getting a new pack and briefly turning up his nose at the junk that filled the shelves, he pushed the shop door open. Drake had the thought of the next cigarette on his teeth and didn’t notice the woman with a tray of coffees run headfirst into his Tom Ford suit.
She jerked her wrist to the right, narrowly avoiding a spill. He met her eyes as she excused herself and he took half a second to stare and collect himself. It felt so odd to see Hermia there in three dimensions, like seeing someone you watch on TV in real life.
“Drake?” She cleared her throat and caught her balance. “I never thought I’d see you on this side of the Bridge.”
“Just business,” he said casually, easing a cigarette out of the pack.
“Daddy didn’t want to come all the way to Brooklyn himself?” Drake snorted. “Besides, I thought you’d given up on following me. I was starting to miss you,” she said with mock disappointment.
“Don’t get too used to me being here, Grainer. You’ll have to settle for seeing me in your dreams.” That line had its intended effect, as Hermia’s face reddened with what must only have been rage. She rolled her eyes unceremoniously.
“As pleasant as this was, I want to get back to work,” Hermia replied, brushing some hair out of her face. “I’m sure I’ll see you in the papers when you and Parker announce your engagement.”
Drake’s stomach dropped—his father was nudging him on that topic that very morning. Her father was one of the reasons MalloryCorp had a recent spike in success. Plus, an engagement to an old-money socialite would be the perfect way to quash any lingering rumors about his past affair. His father took great lengths to ensure photos of Parker and him were strategically “leaked” to various publications.
“Nobody wants to get back to work,” Drake replied, focusing on the first part of the sentence to avoid the second. “Don’t you mean you have to?”
“Actually, you’ll find that not being a soulless corporate drone does wonders for your motivation.”
“I happen to take pride in what I do.”
“Sure, you win the approval of your father and a huge salary at the same time. What more could you want?”
With that, she turned on her heel and went back to the office. Drake knew she said the words facetiously. Even then, he had no real answer to her question.
Chapter 3
September 21st, 2021
During the pandemic, Drake resumed his habit of walking through cemeteries. He found solace in this practice since his mother’s death, but his father’s increasing demands after his slip up with the intern coupled with Parker’s neediness meant he had less and less time for himself. But the pandemic changed things. His father was busy expanding the business to make money during lockdown. Parker wanted to be “quarantined” in a house on Lake Como with fifty of her best friends. And much to his relief, any plans of a wedding were put on hold until the world opened up again for good.
Drake had room to breathe again.
Drake’s mother was buried in a cemetery that was not strictly “open” to visitors. So he never went there. But he found that walking among the dead buried in various plots and graveyards all over New York City was a profoundly meditative experience. Something about it made him feel at home in his own mind, somehow.
Though many cemeteries were technically open for recreational use, Drake found that he was often alone. When he wasn’t, his companions often mourned in silence. Photographers wouldn’t follow him into a graveyard, though there were less and less of them around these days.
The leaves in Green Wood Cemetery shone with the brilliance of rubies and garnets in the late afternoon sun. Though the air was crisp, the sun shone like it was still summer. As Drake strolled through the narrow path, autumn leaves fell like pieces into place, forming a carpet of scarlet and burnt orange beneath his feet.
There was only one other mourner in the cemetery, sitting at the far end, near the exit gate. They sat with their head down in front of what looked like a large family plot. As Drake approached closer, he saw the surname BEESLY printed on the gravestones. Quicker than it takes to write down, Drake spun on his heel and tried his best to make a swift exit.
A loud crunch betrayed his presence, and the mourner turned around and met Drake’s eyes. Drake found himself staring at the woman whose memory had all but slipped away with the seasons. He thought of her only when he drank to silence his thoughts (it never worked). Her words appeared to manifest from the bottom of a glass or a bottle- “what more could you want?”
Hermia cleared her throat. She didn’t look angry, but the look on her face suggested that she was searching for the right words to use.
“My mother,” Drake offered.
“Which plot is she in?” Hermia asked, her face expressionless.
“Not here. The Mallory family plot is…” his voice trailed. “Elsewhere.” They both rested in a moment of silence. Then, Drake continued,
“I can’t visit her as often as I’d like. So, I come to cemeteries when I need some peace of mind.” He paused and eyed the seat next to her almost unconsciously, and quickly darted his eyes away. He’d been walking for a few hours and could use the rest. She slid to one side to offer him some room.
“Sometimes, I find myself asking her for advice.” Drake shook his head and sighed. “I know it sounds stupid, but she’s the only person who asked what I thought. The rest of them just tell me what to think.”
Hermia tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and turned towards Drake.
“It’s incredibly difficult, isn’t it? To lose the person who saw you and made you feel whole. A constant of your everyday- you expect to see them every morning, like the sun.”
Hermia’s eyes focused on Drake. A range of emotions flickered through her face- some combination of pity, sadness, and understanding.
“How old were you when she passed away?”
“It’s been almost 20 years.” Hermia couldn’t help but think of the little boy in the corner of the corridor she saw from the top of the stairs. There is no loss without pain, but the loss of a parent while so young…
They sat in silence for a few more minutes. Drake’s eyes scanned the plot of BEESLY gravestones and his eyes finally rested on the freshest name: Donald W. Beesly. March 1984- October 2015. Six years, he thought. Drake tried to remember what Don was like at school, and his brain darted to a prank involving a weasel when Hermia turned to Drake and said, abruptly,
“It’s not stupid,” He was about to respond, but she was faster. “Your conversations with your mother.” Something caught in her voice. “I often talk to Don. The harder it gets, the more I need him.”
It was obvious she was trying not to cry in front of Drake, and talking made it all the more difficult.
“He knew all the right things to say,” Drake said, empathetically, “and sometimes you feel like he’s there—physically.” Hermia nodded, and her lips pressed together.
“After all this time,” she said quietly.
“Always.”
“It’s been six years but it’s still painful—I’ve tried to work through it, volunteering, the clinic, helping at the school, keeping myself busy…”
Hermia took a deep breath.
“I honestly haven’t spoken to anyone about it since the funeral. Besides Don- but that’s really just talking to myself.”
“Your best friends were like his family, and you have to put on a brave face for your employees and daughter. “Drake said softly. “I understand.”
Hermia’s eyebrows raised.
“I get why you’re surprised. But as a kid I wasn’t allowed to grieve my mom’s death. Only child—no cousins. My father acted like it didn’t affect him.” He paused and added, “It probably didn’t.”
Drake shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve spoken to anyone on Earth about it either.”
“Parker’s not the listening type?” Hermia asked dryly. Drake snorted. “When’s the wedding, Mallory? Your family’s personal business has been uncharacteristically out of the news lately.”
“Shut up, Grainer,” Drake retorted, with a twinkle in his eye. “In case you haven’t noticed, the media is more focused on covering the pandemic.” Hermia nodded in agreement. “Besides, Parker and I… our arrangement is more business than pleasure.”
“I’m sorry,” Hermia said. She rested a hand lightly on his leg, the way she’d comfort a patient. “We don’t agree on the way your family does business, and probably a great number of things, but I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under.”
A clock tower chimed six times in the distance. Hermia rose and said,
“I should go.” Drake remained seated on the bench.
“I’ll stay. I could use some more time to think.”
“Couldn’t we all?” Hermia asked with a small smile. Drake returned the expression, and looked one more time into her eyes. There was something else she wanted to say, and he gave her a look that invited her to do so. She held his gaze as she wrapped her scarf around her neck.
“You know—they don’t own you,” she said, finally. “But if this is what you want, I understand.”
Chapter 4
November 25th, 2021
“I thought I might find you here.”
Drake looked up to see Hermia staring back at him. Halloween had come and gone. The last of the leaves had fallen from their trees, swept into neat little piles by the cemetery caretaker.
Hermia’s cheeks were stained pink just above the dimples of her half-smiles.
“I’m sorry—I’ll go.” Drake kept his head down as he moved to leave. They hadn’t seen each other since that September, but Drake felt himself drawn to Don’s grave. He supposed he thought he was alone every time he’d come to visit, but he realized now that Hermia probably saw him, sitting on the little bench, his cold exhales visible in the crisp fall air.
Leaving him to mourn in front of her late husband’s grave. His heart sank at the thought, a combination of self-pity and guilt for taking up space that wasn’t his.
“Don’t.” Hermia placed a delicate hand on his forearm. With that touch, the familiarity of their previous encounter returned. He felt her gaze pull him closer, gently but steadfastly closing the rift between them. “I’ve seen you come here after our talk. If this place makes you feel safe, you’re always welcome.” Drake moved over to make space for her on the bench.
“Even if you and Don didn’t leave on the best of terms,” she added with a smirk.
“That’s putting it lightly,” Drake said quietly. They were silent for a few minutes, both staring at the large Beesly family plot. Compared to the rest of the family’s gravestone’s, Don’s was newer and shinier. It stood out among the moss-covered and weathered tombstones of his relatives.
“Drake—” Hermia said suddenly, “What is it about Don’s grave that draws you here?” Drake was about to reply that he didn’t know, but instead he found himself saying,
“I always felt your presence here, and I guess, in a way, I was right.” He inhaled deeply. “I think some part of me wanted to talk to you again, or just, I don’t know—be around you?”
Drake shrugged. Hermia was taken by surprise but tried not to let it show on her face. After a few moments, she changed the subject.
“It’s Thanksgiving— what’s your family doing tonight?” Hermia asked.
“Dad’s on some business trip and Parker is with her family.” Drake’s eyes shone mischeviously. “They think I’m very contagious and, well, Parker’s family aren’t the type to believe in vaccines.”
Hermia frowned. “Don’t worry—I’ve always trusted modern medicine,” Drake said with a grin. Hermia returned a smile and put her gloved hand on top of his ice-cold fingers. A shiver ran through his entire body and left a wake of warmth upon its departure.
“Drake, I mean it when I say you’re welcome here anytime you want.” He watched the way the light hit the golden flecks in her deep brown eyes. “And if you ever want someone to talk to who can talk back…”
“The same goes for you, Grainer,” Drake said with a nod. Hermia had the sudden urge to put her head on his shoulder and before she could decide whether to go through with it, Drake asked suddenly,
“Do you remember that time you almost spilled your coffee on me?”
“Yes,” Hermia said with a snort.
“That place any good?”
“Sure, if you’re feeling like your mouth needs a chemical peel.”
“Alright then,” Drake said, standing up while wrapping his hand around Hermia’s, who was still sitting. “Spa day, on me.” Hermia stood up.
“It’s a deal,” she replied, shaking his hand firmly.
They left the cemetery and walked in the barren cold, beneath streetlamps, the normally crowded Brooklyn sidewalks empty while its residents enjoyed Thanksgiving. As they walked in silence, Hermia thought about what would happen after their coffee: she would return to the warmth of her family, while Drake would go home alone. Inviting him to her house was out of the question, but letting him leave without a real home to go to felt wrong. Hermia continued to turn the issue over in her head, losing herself in thought.
“Hermia!” Drake’s exclamation jolted her back to reality. “Look!” He gestured to the white, powdery snow falling around them like he’d never seen it before. Hermia held her hand out and watched the glistening flakes gather on her palm. Drake stared up at the sky in wonder.
“The first fall of snow,” Drake whispered. Hermia felt her phone buzz, and she reached into her pocket. Rosie.
“Mom! We miss you! When are you coming home from visiting Dad?”
“I’ll be home soon, my dear. I just—” she looked at Drake. “I ran into an old friend.” Drake met her eyes and walked back over to where she was standing. “But I’m on my way, I’ll be back soon.”
“It’s Thanksgiving,” Drake said, nodding. “You should be home with your family. I can give you a lift.”
“That’s okay, Drake, I can manage.”
“I insist—the snow might get worse, and I’d hate for you to keep them waiting.” Hermia stood on the sidewalk, mentally calculating how long it would take her to get home if she took the Subway.
“Oh, look at that,” Drake said with mock surprise as a black Cadillac pulled up. “Car’s already here.” He opened the passenger door for Hermia and raised his eyebrows.
“Fine, Drake,” she said, stepping into the car. “But next time, coffee is on me,” she added with a smile.
Drake told the driver where to drop Hermia off, then asked her about her fondest memories of snow. They traded stories, him of his mother’s excitement at the first snowfall, her of misshapen snowmen and sledding upstate.
Before they knew it, they pulled in front of the Stylinson home. Drake and Hermia shared a glance. She wanted desperately to invite him to dinner. He wished he could feel as at home in his penthouse as he could in a cemetery with her. They both wanted the moment to go on a bit longer, to hold each others’ gaze until they could make sense of what exactly they were feeling.
“Well,” Drake began as he broke eye contact, “as a gentleman, I feel I should walk you to the door.”
“I’ll settle for a kiss goodnight,” Hermia replied, her voice shaking ever so slightly. Drake looked back at her with a smile that glowed like starlight. He all but jumped out of the car, slammed his door, and ran over to her side, where she was stepping out onto the thin layer of snow that collected on the ground.
Drake took her hand and helped her out of the car. As the snow flurried around them, they looked at each other one more time before finally closing their eyes and leaning in.
December 2nd, 2021
The warmth from the coffee radiated through the cheap cardboard cups and Hermia’s thin gloves. She couldn’t help but smile as she approached the Beesly family plot. There were so many feelings that she thought Don’s death had closed the door on, but last week, in the light snowfall and the warm glow of the streetlamps…
Everything felt possible again.
They hadn’t spoken since that night; but she knew she would find him here. She looked for a moment at his tall frame, wearing a simple black overcoat that probably cost more than most cars.
Hermia cleared her throat and held out a coffee in Drake’s direction. When he turned around, she could see from the redness in his eyes that he’d been crying. Hermia immediately thought back to that young boy she watched from the balcony. For a second, it was like they were both back in that moment, her observing him from a distance instead of a few feet apart.
“Let’s sit down,” she suggested, taking a seat on the bench beside them. As Drake sat down slowly, he reached for the coffee cup that was still in Hermia’s outstretched hand. As he stared blankly in front of him, Hermia tried reading Drake’s face for any indication of what was wrong. Was this a new grief or a recurrence? It had been years since he lost his mother, but, to Hermia, that seemed like a pain that never fully went away.
After a few moments, Drake set the coffee down and reached into his pocket. The action seemed to cause him physical pain that persisted as he turned to Hermia. He opened his palms and revealed a small velvet box. He could barely stand to look at her as he opened it.
Hermia gasped. A solitaire diamond on a pavé band sat proudly on crushed green velvet. Drake unceremoniously closed the box and put it back in his pocket.
“We can’t see each other anymore,” Hermia said quietly. “When are you going to ask her?” Drake ran his fingers through his hair, and replied,
“The proposal is scheduled for next Thursday, at 6pm, on top of the Empire Hotel,” Drake said mechanically.
“Scheduled?”
“The boards of both family’s companies decided that would be the best timing. Early enough to be before Christmas and to get a head start on next year’s finances while securing a strong end to this quarter.” Drake took a deep exhale. “It’ll look great to announce our companies and families are merging at the same time.”
“Drake, I’m—” Hermia tried her best to hold back her tears. “I’m sorry.” She wanted so badly to tell him that he didn’t have to keep choosing his life. It wouldn’t do any good. This life was all he knew.
“God, I’m so exhausted,” Drake said. “I can’t wait for this all to be over.”
It’ll never be over unless you walk away, Hermia thought. She turned away to wipe away the tears that started to stream down her cheeks. Drake stood up and turned to face the Beesly plot, knowing instinctively she wanted a few moments to collect herself.
After a few moments, she stood up to join him. Their shoulders almost touching, they held their coffees and took deep breaths in the cold, thin winter air.
“Hermia,” Drake said with a sudden change in voice, “the path I’m on—this company, my family—we’ve hurt a lot of people.” He hesitated. “I can’t change it. I know you disagree with me but I really can’t—in every sense of the word.” He looked into her eyes to make sure she would see how serious he was about what he was going to say next.
“Is there anything I can do to do good—like you? I could donate money to your clinic, or set up a charity trust…” He looked at her expectantly.
“Drake, I can’t accept money from you—or MalloryCorp—for the same reason I couldn’t work for you.“ She paused. “But if you ever wanted to give your time, either to the clinic or back to the community, there’s loads of stuff to do. Build trust with people around you, vote, organize—not as MalloryCorp but yourself.” Drake looked like he was about to protest, but Hermia added,
“I don’t blame you for the choices you’re making. Of course I’m— ” She paused. “There’s just a part of me that thought I’d never feel for anyone the way I felt for Don…” Drake looked puzzled at the seemingly random change in subject. Hermia nodded and continued on,
“Of course, you’re getting engaged, and I don’t believe in what your company does, and the world is going to absolute shit, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am still your friend.” She looked at Drake squarely in the eyes. “If you’ll still have me.”
Drake smiled. “Of course I will, Hermia. I’ve always wanted a friend,” he added dryly.
“Wives come and go,” Hermia said, returning his smile, “But friends are forever.”
“Cheers to that,” Drake said, clinking his coffee cup with hers. They both took a sip. Drake almost immediately spit his back out.
“Dear god how is this still hot? We’ve all but finished baring our souls to each other.”
Hermia laughed and replied, “The bodega man must be some kind of wizard.”
“Such a shame, squandering a Hogwarts education on terrorizing a muggle neighborhood.” Hermia raised her eyebrows. “What? Rich kids like Harry Potter too,” Drake said with a shrug.
“I’m glad you managed to squeeze it in between the 48 Laws of Power and The Harvard Business Review,” Hermia teased, “Unless, of course, you only watched the movies.”
“You know I was a star student. Textbook Ravenclaw.” He looked at Hermia pointedly. “And it takes one to know one.”
“You are so off base, it’s not even funny.”
“Really?” Drake said, his eyes gleaming. He took out his phone and grinned. “Prove me wrong while I find us some real coffee.”
Chapter 5
December 24th, 2021
The decision to block every news outlet and social media channel was easy. Of course, she couldn’t completely avoid the news—Larry and Jenny spent an entire dinner treating Drake’s engagement like Sirius does his favorite toys: ripping it to shreds. Hermia did her best to laugh when appropriate and, when it got too much to bear, she excused herself from their company on the pretense of work.
That was last week, though, and they had since turned their attention to preparing for the big Christmas Eve dinner. Tonight, friends and family would gather at the Stylinsons’ to exchange gifts, build gingerbread houses, and eat four different kinds of pie. Holly Beesly—Don and Jenny’s mother—always managed to knit enough Christmas sweaters for everyone.
Hermia needed a few more hours to herself before surrendering to the chaotic onslaught of Christmas cheer. And in those hours, with every delicate snowflake that melted on her nose and every bitter bodega coffee, and her constant walks around the cemetery, her thoughts were filled with Drake. She had just come from visiting the cemetery when her program manager, Dora, handed her a stack of mail.
“Dora, please go home,” Hermia said, beginning to look through the mail. “I can’t believe you’re still here. Isn’t Remy missing you?”
“He’s already on his way to the Stylinsons,” Dora said, rolling her eyes. “More quality time for him and Sirius, I suppose. I swear, he spends most of the night playing with that dog.”
“Well, just because I’m working a little late doesn’t mean you have to be.”
“All right, Dr. G, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“And don’t even think about setting foot into this office before New Year’s,” Hermia added. “I can manage until then.”
“I’m only one call away if you change your mind,” Dora said, putting on her coat. “No need to be strong for my sake.”
“I know, Dora. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll see you in a couple hours, then,” Dora said, closing the door gently behind her.
Hermia rifled through the stack of mail, tossing aside takeout menus, ads, and various forms of spam. Eventually, she came to the end of the pile. The last item was a newspaper, tied in red ribbon, with ink so fresh it stained her fingers. A pristine square card rested underneath a neat, simple bow.
“There are far better things ahead than what we leave behind,” it said in neat print. “Merry Christmas, Hermia.” There was no signature, and though Hermia had never seen Drake’s handwriting, she knew he sent it. Who else would it be? Anyone else who wanted to wish Hermia a Merry Christmas and give her a gift would do so tonight in person.
She unfolded the newspaper, careful not to stain her fingers any further, and stared at the headline:
“PRODIGAL SON DEPARTS, FIANCEE ENRAGED”
She scanned the body of the article. For what appeared to be a legitimate newspaper, the piece was largely fluff, repeating and re-iterating information and filling the holes with speculative gossip on where Drake may have disappeared to.
The story continued on page 14. Hermia flipped to the middle of the paper and found a note, handwritten in the same neat print taped to the rest of the article.
“I’ll be away for awhile.
It sounds juvenile, but I just need some time to figure out what it is I’m meant to do. I’ll come back then. But I’m not ready to be a husband, a CEO, or even a Mallory at the moment. And I suspect it’ll take me a few tries of doing the wrong thing before something that seems right. It took everything I had to leave my family, even though they’ve always made me feel like absolute shit. But it was the only life I’ve ever had.
The next time I see you, I’ll be someone my mother would’ve been proud of, instead of someone she feared—or hated. And maybe I’ll even have some more friends of my own to introduce you to. I’ll be someone you can have over during the holidays. Someone who you can talk to about more than just your pain.
I’ll come back having done some good.
Happy holidays,
Drake”
Hermia folded the newspaper up, tucking both notes neatly inside. She left it on the middle of her desk and began to tidy up. Once everything was clean, she took a deep breath and locked the office doors.
Epilogue
March 15th, 2024
“How are you holding up without me, Dr. G?”
“I’m hanging in there, Dora. How are you? How is James?”
“Sleeping—thank god. I spent the past hour trying to get him to quiet down.” Hermia remembered when Rosie was that little. God, she was so cute at three months, Hermia thought, but I don’t miss it, even for a minute. She shuddered at the thought of changing diapers.
“How is the search for my temporary replacement going?” Dora asked.
“We have plenty of qualified candidates,” Hermia said proudly.
“Well, don’t sound too excited,” Dora replied. “I’m still planning on coming back in three months.”
“And we will welcome you back with open arms.”
“Oh! I should let you go—It looks like you have an interview in a few minutes”
“Dora, are you stalking my calendar again?” There was silence on the other line. “I appreciate your interest but I’m fine on my own for a bit—really.”
“Okay boss. Good luck for the interview,” Dora replied. “For my temporary replacement.” Hermia could picture Dora’s face on the other end of the line, with eyebrows raised in jest.
“Yes, very temporary. All the candidates know this is for a 3-month period.”
“Good. Bye, Dr. G.”
Hermia fixed herself a coffee and waited for the last candidate on her list, Harry Evans, to enter her office. When she sat back down at her desk, her eyes drifted back to the note Drake left behind two Christmases ago. Another holiday season, filled with snow, hot coffee, and the promise of a new year, had come and gone. Spring was just around the corner, and Hermia saw green creeping its way back into the world around her with each passing day.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in Harry.” The door opened and Hermia stood up for the obligatory handshake. She met eyes with a leaner, tanner version of the former MalloryCorp heir.
“Drake,” she said with surprise. She never thought she’d see Drake in anything but tailored clothing, but here he was in Levi’s jeans, an old white t-shirt, and a lived-in leather jacket.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Drake said, taking her hand. “I can’t believe how well he pulls off normal clothing.” He gently let go of her fingers and sat down in the chair across from her desk. “It turns out the clothes don’t make the man.”
“I—what are you doing here? Harry,” she added accusatorily.
“I’m here to apply for the job, Grainer.”
“Absolutely not.”
“And here I thought you would be thrilled to see me working for a living,” Drake replied with a grin. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“I am happy,” Hermia said slowly. “But also very surprised. And confused.”
“I’ll explain everything. I mean—isn’t that what an interview is for?”
“You seriously want to work here?” Hermia asked with raised eyebrows.
“Look,” Drake said, leaning in closer. “I promised a lot of things in that note, including that I would come back a changed man. What better way to show you than doing the work?”
“You make a fair point.”
“I know. That’s kind of my thing.”
“That’s why you’re such a Slytherin.”
“We are both Ravenclaws, I will die on that hill.”
At this point they were both laughing, settling into an easy, familiar rhythm.
“Drake.” Hermia said, returning to a more serious tone, “You can’t have this job.” He was about to protest, but Hermia cut him off, “I have candidates with project management and administration backgrounds.”
“You don’t need any more help around here? Not even a janitor?”
“I can clean up after myself, thanks.” Hermia paused. “But—”
“But?” Drake asked hopefully.
“You can be my intern.”
“Intern?”
“If you really want to do the work, this is a good place to start.Prove to me that you learned something while you were gone besides how to thrift and how to use suntan oil.”
“So you did notice my new look.” Drake said with raised his eyebrows. “Anyways, I’m in,” he said, holding out his hand to close the deal. She took it firmly, and they shook on it. “And you call yourself a Gryffindor,” he said with a scoff.
Hermia shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe we’re both Slytherins.” They shared another smile.
“So, what are the rules about dating the boss?” Drake asked mischievously. Hermia rolled her eyes. “If that’s frowned upon, how about treating her to her favorite caffeine chemical peel?”
“How about coming over for dinner instead?” Hermia said, turning off her computer. “The Stylinsons are hosting.” Drake chose his words carefully.
“I don’t know if I’d be welcome here,” Drake replied.
“Drake, after you disappeared, they did say some unkind things about you.” Hermia paused. “About the person you were—you and Larry didn’t exactly get along.”
Drake winced at the thought of his behavior in school. “I remember.”
“But I came around and told them everything. About how supportive you’ve been, about how we’ve helped each other,” She stepped over to his side of the desk and took his hand.
“No matter what happens, or even with us—I’m still your friend. And my family and I will be there to welcome you home.”