the stonecoast review

The office of Mr. Peter Jameson, manager of the country club, reeks of authority. Dark wood walls. Marble-top desk. Hovering indoor tree, most likely fake. Mr. Jameson speaks to us with a hint of apology, referring to Zander’s confusion about what is and isn’t allowed.

Rayan hasn’t slept. Last night, as he scraped wiry hairs from his chin with a straight razor before his chipped and frameless bathroom mirror, two chimes rang through his apartment: the first from his microwave, announcing his dinner of pre-buttered popcorn, and the second from his laptop, waiting open on the standing desk that doubles as his kitchen table.

We filed out of the cab at 7 p.m. sharp, cradling lukewarm bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, store-bought eclairs transferred to porcelain platters, cold cuts smothered in cling film.

I was finishing up a late-night pee when I heard the tinkle of glass smashing downstairs. Then, the patio door, sliding open with its customary squeal. I rushed back to the bedroom and shook Sean, the snore catching in his throat.

Beatriz fastens off the last stitch of her blue-and-red crochet blanket, then carefully spreads it on top of her bed. This is her second winter in New York, and she’s slowly getting used to the rhythm of a new city and a new country.

My mother didn’t have any brothers or sisters. I think that was part of the problem, why she didn’t know what to do with three children so close together. She’d never been a sibling, so she didn’t know how to handle it.