Pretty Things

by Janelle Brown

I’m sure it would secretly delight her, as it does me, to know that some of the money that I take from the most spoiled children in the world goes to children who have the least.

That he is the only person in the world who knows everything about what I am and where I’ve come from, and that this makes me vulnerable to him in a way that is both excruciating and thrilling.

I never met my grandparents, who had cut her off entirely after she had a baby (me) out of wedlock with a Colombian poker player. (I’m not sure which sin was the unforgivable one: the baby, the lack of a ring, or the lover’s country of origin.)

The rich are always the most comfortable around their own kind: Familiarity breeds affection.

The whole thing took less than a week. This is what the Internet has given my generation: the ability to play God. We can make man in our own image, birth an entire human being out of nothing at all.

After all, if you aren’t willing to display yourself for public dissection these days, people assume you must be devious and unworthy of trust.

“Shut up, Benny,” she hissed. “What’s up your butt today, Vanessa?”

“You’re beautiful and smart and tough and I don’t get it.” “There’s nothing to get,” I said. “Stop thinking so hard. Let me like you without second-guessing it.” But maybe he had a point. Nothing is ever as pure as it seems at first glance; there is always something more complicated to be found if you peel back the unmarred surface of pretty things.

Smarts mean a lot in the world, and good looks mean even more—my mother, with her closet of couture and her endless low-carb diets, had taught me that much—but money and power are, of course, the most important of all. That was the lesson I took away from my father.

Our parents loved us both but they loved me a tiny bit more because I was easier to love, and some part of me felt guilty about that; like, it was my job to make up for what he was missing.

They had love they could trust to last, forever: a child’s love.

I wondered what my brother was dreaming about, or if the medications he took robbed him of dreams altogether.

A moving truck arrived the next day and hauled my life away. I snapped a last photo as the truck lumbered off, rattling uneasily along the cobblestones, and uploaded this to Instagram: And so I begin a new journey! “Every great dream begins with a dreamer”—Helen Keller. #sotrue. Later, I would discover that Victor had liked this image, and I would wonder what he liked about it: the positivity, or the departure.

When my father died, they sent texts, but didn’t pick up the phone. Maybe that was the moment that I realized that my friendships were like the thin crust on a frozen lake, a barrier blocking the way to anything deeper.

It is a familiar feeling: this nagging sense that I’ve been looking at the world through a tilted mirror, and that if I were to turn it around and look at myself I would be horrified by what I saw.

I flipped quickly through the pages. Some entries were short and dutiful, and others were rambling and long, and yet more seemed to end mid-thought, as if she was still unsure about committing them to paper.

But the temperature had dropped overnight, and the lawn was covered with a lacy crust of frost.

Lacy. That’s my name!

Overnight, the hail had turned into snow. Silence had settled in around Stonehaven, as if someone had dropped a blanket over the house.

People don’t take the time to really look at each other anymore. We live in a world of surface imagery, skimming past each other, registering just enough to assign a category and label before moving on to the next shiny thing.

And I know what he’s thinking, because he’s my brother. And his soundless whisper of doubt exposes the fear I’ve been avoiding myself.

“You married a guy you know nothing about?” “I know enough,” I say. “I know how I feel.” “Vanessa,” he says slowly. “You’re an idiot.”

“You’re my savior. This place is like heaven. I couldn’t wait to get back to you.” See? I have no good reason to doubt him.

Wow, she really is an idiot lol

But I take a beat, second-guess myself the way I always do:

I can’t quite pin down what about this bothers me. Is it that he’s been poking around the house without me knowing about it? That he suddenly knows more of Stonehaven’s secrets than I do? But why would this be a problem? I wanted him to feel at home here.

Why am I so hesitant to tell him that I am not as rich as he thinks I am? Is it because I’m afraid that he won’t love me as much? That he won’t believe we are alike anymore? Because I still worry that, if I’m not Vanessa Liebling, heiress, I’m no one at all?

But I prefer his version of events, even if it all feels just a hair too convenient.

Is he really suggesting that I sell the house to pay for a vendetta against Nina Ross?

I watch his face, but if he knows, he’s hiding it well. Instead, he scowls. “We’re not selling my grandmother’s ring. It’s an heirloom.” “Well, we’re not selling my great-great-grandfather’s house, either. Also an heirloom.”

Did I only ever want Michael because Nina had him, and now that he’s mine I’m losing interest?

Stupid me, I know, but I still feel compelled to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Yes, very stupid.

It’s growing clear to me that I don’t know this man, my husband, at all. I feel like a hostage in my own house: Do I continue tiptoeing around him, in fear of provoking him and watching my life tumble back into lonely uncertainty? Or do I confront him, and risk angering him and making everything worse, when I don’t have any real proof of anything? Because he has an answer for everything, I’m learning. He will gaslight me until I question my sanity, rather than his.

Except that I already know that this won’t work. Magical thinking didn’t save my mother, or my brother, or even my father. Why would I think that it might save me?

My head feels thick, muddied. It’s maddening, how calm he is. He’s trying to confuse me; he’s succeeding, too.

I believed that he loved me despite my failings as a human being (or because of them!), but now I know that what he really saw were vulnerabilities that he could exploit.

Perspective is, by nature, subjective. It’s impossible to climb inside someone else’s head, despite your best—or worst—intentions.