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This feeling is familiar. The nausea. The lead ball sinking from his chest down to the pit of his stomach. Breaths that don’t quite fill his lungs. His hands feel like two boulders on Roman’s shoulders. Moving seems impossible, but he does when he tries. He looks around the room. Gerri’s head is down, pretending to continue reviewing financials. Her leg bounces, something Kendall doesn’t think he’s ever seen from her.
He makes accidental eye contact with Frank. He gives Kendall a look that he can’t quite read. Apologetic, maybe? No. More like “Well. Bed’s made. Nothing to do about it now.” Fair enough.
They were close once. Maybe they still are; Kendall’s not sure he’s close to anyone anymore. He’d fucked so many things up, pushed so many people away. It’s not even been a year since Frank backed him in the vote. It feels like ten.
Kendall’s not mad. He’s not too good for it; he just hasn’t got room inside himself. He’s still reeling from his breakdown in the dirt. The outpouring. Cleansing? Not quite. Whatever it was it left him content enough to follow his siblings to this war room. His chest had been hollowed out and stuffed with something else, by his siblings’ hands. Something different but not exactly better; his skin itches, but his hands are steady.
They should leave. There’s no reason to stand here, in the aftermath of the massacre, the deal that kills them trudging along despite them. He pats Roman’s shoulder, and Roman starts, pulled back from wherever he’d lost himself, deep inside his head.
“Hey, buddy. Come on. Time to get going,” he says, giving him another rousing pat.
Roman nods, slowly uncurling himself from his spot on the floor. “Where we gonna go?”
“Uh. I should get back to the kids, probably. We can go to my villa, wait out the night, fly back to the city in the morning.”
“The city,” Roman repeats hollowly. He takes Kendall’s hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. Kendall puts a hand on his shoulder, and leads him towards the door where Shiv stands with Tom, unmoving. Her wracked breaths overbear the gentle buzz of the room, Gerri and Frank’s hushed whispers. Tom rubs her arm with one hand; the other rests on her lower back. Her shoulders are tensed, hiked nearly to her ears.
“Hey, Shiv, you heading back with Tom?” he asks.
Her gaze slowly finds Kendall and Roman, her lips pinched, eyes burning and intense. She looks distant and trapped at the same time. She’s begging for something, he can tell, but Kendall’s never been able to read her all that well. She doesn’t usually like to be read.
She turns back to Tom, lays a hand on his shoulder, forcing her own to relax. “Honey, I think I need to be with my brothers tonight,” she says, forcing her tight lips into what she probably thinks is a smile.
“Oh, okay,” he says gently. “Do you want me to stay here? Keep you posted?”
“Sure. Whatever.” She evades a kiss from Tom, spinning on her heel, and strides out the door past Kendall and Roman. They follow. Tom shuts the door behind them.
They make their way back to the car, through the dimly-lit corridors, down the long staircase, silently. The air is cool, drying the sweat on Kendall’s brow. A strange relief consumes him, the suffocation in the aftermath of their assissination popped like a bubble. Roman follows a step behind Kendall, feet shuffling as he walks. Kendall checks on him with a glance every few steps. His eyes are still red, the devastation behind them clear. Shiv leads, swinging her arms by her side like she has a purpose. Kendall thinks it’s just anger, but for them, that’s a kind of purpose.
At the bottom of the stairs she stops. Crosses her arms. Looks at the sky. Her eyes burn, expression still pinched. Her breaths haven’t calmed; she’s holding something in.
Kendall looks to Roman, who shrugs like he doesn’t want to think too hard about anything, contemplating his shoes.
Kendall nods. Right. Very helpful.
“Uh. Shiv, are you…?” he starts.
She shakes her head with a humorless laugh, slumps to a seat on the second step, and kicks her shoes off. She looks at her hands, like she’s searching for an answer in the lines of her palms. “It was Tom,” she says.
This pulls Roman into the moment. “It–what– Tom –”
“He told Dad.”
Roman sputters, “You’re kidding. That fucking domestic corporate cuck cocksuck? Why the fuck would he do that?”
“I don’t know!” Shiv snaps; then softer, desperately, “I don’t know.”
Her face sinks into her hands. Her shoulders don’t hitch; she’s not crying. Kendall doesn’t know what to do but stand there, looking down at her. Roman sits on the step below, offering nothing but a gentle nudge against her knee with his shoulder. It’s not much. They don’t have much.
“I told him I don’t love him,” she says into her hands.
Roman pitches a high, hysterical laugh. “You what ?”
Kendall shoots him a stern look that Roman doesn’t catch, too busy giving Shiv an incredulous stare, that obnoxious grin he can’t help stuck to his face.
Shiv shakes her head. “I pushed him away.”
“Shiv, come on,” Kendall offers weakly. “It’s not…”
“I know it’s not my fault.” She looks up, finally, eyes on fire but brimming with tears. “It’s his fucking fault.”
“Yeah, Jesus,” Roman says. “If you want a divorce, get a fucking divorce. Don’t fuck your wife’s dad behind her back. What kind of Fruedian fucking mess…”
“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“You don’t need to figure that out right now,” Kendall says firmly. They don’t. It’s too much, all at once. They need–he doesn’t know what they need. Other than to get the fuck out of here.
He proffers his hand to her, and she takes it, grabbing her heels as she stands. She walks barefoot the rest of the way to the car. Kendall stares holes into her back. He wonders if she can feel it.
Tom. Kendall can believe it. There’s been something boiling under the surface there. He’d tried to appeal to it, back in Virginia, but he’d failed, as he does. It makes sense that he’d back Logan over them–there’s a sick logic to it. He could say he married Shiv for love all he wanted; it might even be true, but it’s no coincidence it was a Roy he fell in love with. There’s always been a hunger there.
The car ride is uncomfortable, the rural roads challenging the SUV’s suspension. There’s no focus to keep them distracted like on the drive over. No plan, no purpose. Kendall doesn’t wear his seat belt. Shiv stares out the window, pretending to watch the night-drenched landscape. Roman fidgets more than ever, chewing on his lip, eyes darting from Shiv, to Kendall, his knees, his hands, bitten-to-dust fingernails, back to Kendall.
“You,” he says, accusing. “Why do you seem so okay?”
Kendall shrugs. He’s not. “I guess getting killed by Dad is second nature to me.”
Roman nods, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Great. Thrilled to join the club.”
“Welcome.”
“Mm. Thanks,” Shiv hums, turning to him. Silence almost falls back over them, but Shiv can’t help herself. “Are you, though? Okay?”
Kendall scoffs. “Are you?”
“Obviously not. But I mean, about the–you know, earlier…”
Oh. Right. They know now. This knot that has been living in his chest for months, he unravelled a part of it and gave it to his siblings. He doesn’t regret it–there was a certain amount of relief he felt telling them that he didn’t expect, like the thousand needles pressing into his skin, at all times–maybe there are less now. But he does regret it a little bit. Because they know now. They’ll be able to see it in him. It's terrifying.
“I’m fine.”
Roman rolls his eyes. “Ha. Right. I guess we’ll ask you again the next time you fall off a fucking floatie.”
“Rome,” Shiv warns.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. Obviously, I’m not–” he cuts himself off. He tries to think of something to say that’s not a lie but not exactly the truth, either. He stalls. “Look, I can’t.” Technically the truth.
Their concern chills his skin like a sweaty sheen. He’s not used to it. He’s used to an agenda. He’s used to pretending they have no vulnerabilities–or treating them as a target. It’s all a game. But he almost died, and now they know, and Dad killed them, and everything is different. He needs a cigarette, or a bump, or a drink. Or all three.
Shiv nods. She’s at her most gentle, clumsy and unpracticed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s too much to ask.” she contemplates him for a moment before asking, words carefully plucked, “Can you just, yes or no–should we be worried?”
Icy cold dread clamps down on his heart. Kendall shoots her a look he hopes conveys that he’s not answering that question, but she seems to get an answer out of it anyway, nodding and returning her gaze to the moonlit night.
They stop at Roman’s and Shiv’s places to get more comfortable clothes for the night before returning to Kendall’s. The kids are in their rooms, Iverson asleep and Sophie still on her iPad. He kisses his daughter’s head; gives Iverson’s shoulder a squeeze before meeting his siblings back in the living room. Shiv is sprawled on one of the couches, phone in clenched hand, resting against her stomach. He hasn’t seen her on it once tonight, surely ignoring a string of texts from Tom. Kendall’s own is off. He doesn’t want to be available right now; he’s sure no one’s trying to reach him anyway. Roman sits on the floor, leaning against the couch Shiv lays on even though there's three in the room. He bounces his leg, hands unable to stay in one place as they clasp and unclasp, ruffle his hair, pat his cheeks like he’s trying to keep himself alert.
Kendall sits on the couch across from them. He thinks about asking if he should get drinks, but he doesn’t want to sound like he needs one. He does, though, badly. He can wait it out until one of them brings it up. They might not be as bad as he is, but he’s never known his siblings to suffer through a bad night sober.
They try not to talk about Dad, but they do, despite themselves–he’s always somewhere in the room when they’re together. And Frank and Gerri and Mattson–what might have happened if they'd left the deal alone. But it's a flight of fancy. It’s too late.
“Do you think Dad was right?” Roman asks.
“What? About the deal?”
“About us.” He puts on his mocking Dad voice, “‘Fucking pedestrians.’”
“Dad’s a piece of shit,” Kendall says, shutting him down. Dad’s always right; Dad’s never right. It doesn’t matter.
Roman scrunches his face. “Okay.”
“He is, Rome,” Shiv agrees. “He gets his kicks pulling us along on strings. It was never real to him, any of us taking over.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No,” Kendall says. “He’s a control freak.”
“ You’re a control freak,” Roman retorts.
“Uh-huh. Yeah, well.”
“ Uh-huh. Yeah. Well, ” Roman repeats in a dopey voice.
It’s late. Kendall doesn’t remember the last time he was sober past 5 pm. His skin itches. The catharsis of his confession, his dubious cool in the face of the evening’s massacre, are starting to fade; his nerves are getting to him. He needs a drink, and to his surprise, it looks like his brother and sister don’t. Booze and shell shock don’t mix for normal people, apparently. Well, “normal” is relative.
If he can make it to the kitchen alone, he can sneak himself a drink, something inconspicuous. As far as he knows, they won’t stop him, but something is telling him to hide it. Shame, maybe. Probably.
He debates whether it’s smarter to announce his exit or make his leave silently. Will they question him; will they know; will they care? Will he care, if they do? He’s overthinking this. Stand up. Walk to the kitchen. You’re an adult.
“I’m gonna get a glass of water,” he finally says. “Does anybody need anything?”
Roman squints at Kendall for a second, scrutinizing, and Kendall can sense it before it happens.
Smirking, Roman stands and says with purpose and a glint of mocking, “Uh, yeah. I could use some water. Let’s get some water. Shiv, you want water?”
Shiv looks confused until her eyes meet Roman’s, and something on his face must communicate his intent because Shiv nods knowingly, smiles at Kendall in this painful, pitying way. Kendall always resented that, their spiteful closeness. Their ability to read each other, to read Kendall, when he’s never quite had that power.
“Uh, no, man, you’re good. I can get it.” Kendall stumbles, tries to laugh, winces as it dies in his throat. “It’s just water.”
Roman’s grin tightens. “No, let’s both go to the kitchen and get water. ”
Well, he’s trapped now. Roman follows him to the kitchen like a prison guard, stands in the doorway and watches as Kendall grabs three glasses, filling them each. Roman’s gaze is locked on him, his hands pushed deep in his pockets. It’s heavy, the shame and the regret; and his brother’s gaze, it’s knowing, and that’s heavy too, unbearable. It bubbles in Kendall’s chest, full and burning.
“What?” he snaps.
Roman starts, just a twitch, almost like it didn’t happen. His expression sharpens now, minutely. “What do you think? This ain’t my first rodeo. You think you can fool me with the old vodka water bottle trick?”
Kendall’s shoulders tense, irritation taking him over. Don’t get defensive. “Fuck off.” Good enough.
“Yeah, I’ll fuck off tomorrow. You’re on a leash tonight.”
“Why? Why do you care what I do?”
“Oh, uh, why do I care? Do you want me to make a list?”
“Okay. I’d rather you didn’t.”
But Roman is revved up, face red and desperate and a little bit wild.
“No, no, let’s talk about it. Or are you gonna keep acting like you’re fine and nothing else happened, and you’re just the Polly-fucking-Anna, stoic oldest brother of the slit-throat gang?”
“I’m not–”
“You’ve been acting insane lately, for months, like literally batshit insane, and you almost died , which, according to you, is no big fucking deal, and then today you tell us you k–”
His tirade shatters like a sheet of ice as that first consonant hits the air. The regret is instant; Kendall can see it, but that doesn’t change it. The unsaid word hangs there.
Killed. Kendall killed someone. Roman might have argued with him earlier, but he knows what Kendall did. He’s a killer.
He nods. He wants to retort, but his throat is closing up, and he’s frozen.
“Dude, I–fuck,” Roman starts, but it falls useless into the dead space between them.
Kendall takes a few deep breaths, tightens his fists, pressing dull nails into his palms. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to fall apart again. He waits until the knot in his throat has dissolved.
“I said I didn’t want to fucking talk about it.”
Kendall pushes past Roman out of the kitchen. Shiv watches him return, her soft eyes telling him she was listening.
You good?, she mouths.
He nods. He’s not sure why she keeps asking when she knows he’ll keep lying.
Roman comes back a minute later balancing the three glasses of water in his hands. “I’m actually fucking thirsty, so,” he says, setting them on the coffee table.
“Thanks,” Shiv says.
Roman curls up on the third couch, that scrunched-up look on his face. A pang of guilt rises in Kendall, and he squashes it down. He didn’t fucking do anything.
“So,” Shiv croons uneasily, daring to broach the bitter atmosphere. “You,” she points to Kendall, “need to think about rehab.”
Kendall rolls his eyes. “Okay. You need to think about a divorce lawyer.”
Shiv bites the tip of her thumb. “You think so?”
“Are you kidding?” Roman blurts, incredulous. “What, you’re going to continue to share your marital bed with the man who cut your–cut our throats, so that he could, what? Fuck Dad? I’m pretty sure there’s a vow broken in there somewhere.”
Shiv shrugs. “I’ve probably broken a few vows myself.”
“ Thou shalt not tell your husband you don’t love him ?”
Kendall interjects, “I’m pretty sure that’s a commandment.”
“Even more reason to get lost if you ask me,” Roman continues, “What are you hanging around for? He’s the fucking pedestrian–dirty little fucking ladder climber.”
Shiv’s face falls into her hands again, and she groans into them. “Can we–I can’t do this tonight. I’m sorry for even asking.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Kendall says. “We don’t need to get into any of it tonight. We should just… we can figure it all out tomorrow.”
“Right,” Roman scoffs. “We’ll figure it all out tomorrow–it’ll be hunky-fuckin-dory.”
They keep conversation casual after that, as casual as they can, with their lives up in smoke. It’s been a few weird–well, months, years…whatever. It’s been a while since they could talk without holding knives to each other’s throats. It’s none of them, now, for the first time. There’s a freedom to it, maybe, that they can appreciate.
Kendall doesn’t think there’s any way they’re sleeping tonight, but they nod off: Roman first, then Shiv, each curled up on one of the long couches. There’s enough bedrooms if they wanted them, but he gets why they don’t want to be alone. Or maybe they didn’t want Kendall to be alone.
But it’s way past midnight, his siblings are asleep, and Kendall is still sober. It’s been months since he fell asleep sober; he doesn’t know if he can anymore.
He waits until he hears their soft snores before padding to the kitchen, silently as he can. He pulls a half-full bottle of vodka from a lower cabinet, grabs a glass, and allows himself a generous pour.
He looks down at his drink. Shiv was right about rehab. He did almost die.
Tomorrow. No, not tomorrow. There’s… too much going on. Maybe next month, when things have cooled down. Maybe.
He knocks it back.
He thinks about Andrew Dodds. The word “killer” bounces around his head. What Roman said. At worst, you’re an irresponsibler. What he almost said, in the kitchen. Someone is dead because of him. It’s semantics. Kendall was there when he died. No, he was running while the kid lost his final breaths to the water. He died, alone in the dark, because of Kendall.
He pours himself another drink. This feeling is familiar.
He’ll figure it out tomorrow.