I’ve been staying here for three months now, but this is the first time I realize, it doesn’t feel like home.
Because it’s not. This place is temporary for me, like every other part of my life. Temporary job, temporary dreams. I just have to hope to God Hunter doesn’t turn out to be temporary too.
I shake off the whispers of self-doubt rising in the back of my mind. I flip on all the lights and the radio too, heading to the kitchen to grab a carton of ice-cream from the freezer before I settle in at my work-station in the living room. I need to keep busy, I decide. It’s not like I didn’t know what to do with myself before Hunter came around.
The fabric I bought from Emilia is still sitting there, wrapped in tissue paper on the table. I feel a bolt of self-doubt, remembering Maxwell’s cruel comments in our interview, but I force myself to reach for it all the same. I trace my fingertips over the soft silk, and like magic, the criticism seems to melt away. I left my sketchbook at Hunter’s in the rush, but I don’t need it: I know my designs by heart. I grab a loose sheet of paper and my pencils, and start drawing again, letting my imagination take shape on the page. I see the dress clearer than ever now: the curve of the bodice, and the sweep of the long, elegant skirt, the way the fabric will drape and slither when I walk…
Before I realize, it’s past midnight. I’ve broken the main design down into its component parts now: sketching out the pattern I’ll need to cut from plain canvas to test the shape. There’s nothing more I can do tonight.
I stretch, my shoulders aching. I check my phone again, but there’s no messages or calls.
Hope everything’s OK, I text Hunter. Goodnight.
I wait, my stomach twisting, until his reply flashes up.
Sweet dreams. Thinking of you.
I exhale, a long breath of relief—and regret. Never mind the logic, I should be there with him, by his side; curled in his arms, the way we slept last night.
God, it feels like a lifetime ago, not just a few hours, but as I get ready for bed and slide in between the sheets of my room upstairs, I can’t help but feel the absence of him beside me, as real a force as if he were lying there himself.
How can it be, that I miss him like this already? When did Hunter become so damn necessary in my life that just one night without him makes me feel lost and set adrift?
When he was moving inside you, making you feel so safe, so complete. When you opened your heart and let him see everything you are, and gave it to him, despite all the risk.
I reach out, tracing the empty space on the pillow, remembering his face beneath my fingertips, so beautiful and at peace. This is what I was scared about, all those years I kept my heart so protected—kept the world at arm’s length with my sharp barbs and carefree comebacks. Because now I’ve opened myself up to him, and I know what it feels like to truly connect to another soul, I’m even more terrified that something might happen to tear it all away. I stepped off the edge for him, but now I’m here in freefall, hoping so desperately that he’ll be there to catch me when I hit the ground.
He loves you, I tell myself, repeating the words like a lullaby. He’s not going to leave you like the others do. He’ll stay.
But still, I fall asleep with a tight knot in my chest, alone and miles from the one man I’ve ever needed to be there when I wake in the morning.
Two days.
That’s how long it’s been since I held her. Forty-eight hours away from Brit, and I’m already losing my damn mind. Every minute I’m not with her is like an eternity, back in this house, surrounded by my parents’ passive-aggressive judgment and the crushing weight of my guilt. I need her with me, to taste her lips, touch her soft skin, lose myself in those kisses that somehow set everything to rights in the world. But each time I pick up my phone, ready to dial, something stops me.
This is my bullshit, not hers. She’s had enough family drama in her life to last a thousand years. The last thing she deserves is all my crazy, too.
But that’s not it, not everything. Because despite the bliss of coming clean to her, seeing the understanding and forgiveness in her eyes when I finally told her the truth, I can’t shake the fear that it’s not real. That once she has a chance to think about it—really recognize what I’ve done—she’ll see how wrong I am, how I don’t deserve her love. And every report about my fucked-up family will remind her, Jace is gone. I did that. Me.
“You’re wearing that?” My mother’s voice stops me as I walk through the front atrium. I turn.
“It’s just dinner.” I look down. I haven’t had a chance to get my things from the ranch, so I’m stuck wearing what was left in the closet of my old room here. Jeans, a shirt—I look fine.
My mother walks closer, tutting. “I laid out a suit for you, Armani. And wear that blue tie, it brings out your eyes.”
I look at her, realizing she’s dressed to the nines in a cocktail dress and pearls. My heart sinks. “Who’s coming?”
“Just a few people.” Mom makes an absent gesture. “The Kellermans, you know he just moved his accounts to the firm. Bitsy Tremaine, and her husband. The Feinbergs, oh, and some of the senior partners and their wives.”
“You’re hosting a party,” I state, through a clenched jaw.
“Well, of course I am.” My mother stares at me, like this shouldn’t be a surprise. “You haven’t been back in months, and there are important people for you to meet.”
I try and control my temper. “Unless they’re looking to sell horses, or have them trained, I’m not interested.”
My mother sighs. “Honestly, Hunter, this ranch business is a fool’s errand. It’s time for you to face up to your responsibilities.”
“They’re not my responsibilities!” I burst out angrily. “They’re your obligations, and I don’t want any part of them!”
Her face changes. “How can you say that, after what happened with your father? Don’t you care what happens to this family?”
I catch my breath. “I’m sorry, Mom. I do care. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up my life to live yours.”
Mom’s lips press together in a thin line. “I’m not going to have this discussion now. We have guests arriving soon. Go and change, and be ready for drinks at eight.”
I feel rebellion thunder, hot in my veins. I don’t want to do as she says. I want to bolt right out that door and drive non-stop to Beachwood Bay. I want to tear open Brit’s door, carry her up the stairs, rip off her clothes and not get out of bed for a week.
But I’m just about ready to turn and walk out the door when my mother’s gaze slips past me, to the framed portrait of Jace that’s hanging in the entryway. Her expression softens; her eyes watering. “I remember the day he started at the firm. Your father was so proud, I thought he’d never stop smiling.”
Guilt crashes over me, a hundred-ton weight.
The only reason my mother is ambushing me is that I didn’t give her any choice. They had their perfect son: the company man, my mother’s dinner party host. They had him, and I took him from us forever.
I’m a poor second choice, and we all know it.
“I’ll go put the suit on,” I agree, resignation smothering my plans to get away. It’s just another night, I tell myself. You can head back home tomorrow.
My mother brightens, moving to kiss me on the cheek—and smooth back my hair. “We’ll need to get you a haircut, you look like a vagrant.”
“Sure,” I sigh, turning to head back upstairs.
“And don’t forget the tie!”
Dinner is unbearable, like every other damn party in this house. My parents laugh and make small talk with all their society friends, gossiping about local scandals and politics while I pick at my fancy food and wish desperately I was a hundred miles away, eating burgers at the bar with Brit, just hanging out, messing around to make her laugh, stealing kisses between her shifts.Watching the look in her eyes when she comes…
I feel a buzz in my pocket. I check my phone, sneaking a glance under the table.
How’s it going? I miss you.
Warmth seeps through my body, melting my tension for one brief, blissful moment. Even from a hundred miles away, Brit can make all this bullshit go away.
I start to tap out a response.
“Hunter?” my mother’s voice comes sharply.
I look up to find her giving me a deathly glare. Cellphones at the dinner table are strictly forbidden. I grit my teeth, and tuck my phone back in my pocket.
“Yes, mom?” I ask in a fake-polite voice. I look at the clock on the mantle. Jesus, only 8:30 p.m.?
“Bitsy was just saying her niece is in town, she’s about your age,” my mom adopts a sugary tone. “You two could get together for lunch later this week.”
“Oh yes!” Bitsy claps her hands together. She’s a brittle blonde with a forehead that hasn’t moved all evening. “That’s perfect.”
“Sorry,” I tell them both, not even trying to sound like I mean it. “I’m not staying. And I’m seeing someone,” I add in my mom’s direction, in case she gets any more bright ideas about fixing me up.
Mom raises an eyebrow. “That girl from the hospital?”
“Her name is Brit,” I reply, ice-cold.
“I thought she was a hitch-hiker you picked up,” Mom smirks, turning to the table. There are titters of amusement from her friends. “Honestly, you should have seen her: shorts up to here and a shirt down to there. These country girls—”
“That’s enough.” My voice is harsh over the ring of china. I scrape back my chair.
Mom’s face changes. “Where are you going? We haven’t served dessert.”
“I’m not hungry,” I tell her, striding out of the room before I lose it completely. I don’t know where to go, but instinct takes over: driving me upstairs, down the hallways to the back of the house, and through a door I haven’t brought myself to open in years.
Jace’s room.
I catch my breath, my heart pounding fast in my chest. It’s quiet up here, away from all the other bedrooms; the windows overlooking the side of the yard, with a tree in easy reach for all those times he snuck out to go fool around with a girl, or grab some beers with his buddies out at the lake.
I look around. They haven’t touched a thing. It’s like a shrine to him: sports trophies still lined up on the mantle, school medals and his college diploma framed proudly on the walls. The bed is made with fresh navy sheets, and his computer is sitting there with a stack of magazines on the desk, like at any moment, he’s just going to come strolling in the door, back from playing tennis at the club, yelling at me to get my ass in gear.
I sink down in the desk chair, memories hitting me like a tidal wave. Mom never let us pin up posters or photos, but there are pictures of him everywhere, framed in heavy gilt and black. Jace with the lacrosse team, celebrating a win. Jace in his cap and gown, looking bashful up on stage. Jace and I, laughing together on the docks, that last summer in Beachwood Bay.
My brother.
Damn, I miss him. I feel it every day, but now—here—it’s more than I can stand. Some siblings have a love/hate thing going on, but we were always tight, even when I felt like I could never live up to him. He drove me crazy with his confidence, acting like there was nothing in the world he couldn’t get once he decided he wanted it. I used to joke that one day he’d meet a problem too big to charm his way out.
I guess I was proved right, that terrible night when we both discovered that all the wanting in the world won’t un-break bones, and mend torn flesh. No amount of swagger and easy smiles will re-start a heart that’s stopped beating.
A noise comes from the doorway. I look up to find my mom.
“I’m not coming back down,” I tell her, my voice gruff in my throat.
“Dinner’s over,” she says softly, stepping into the room. “They left hours ago.”
I jolt with surprise. I didn’t notice the time pass, wrapped up in memories, but the sky is dark outside, and it must be late.
My mom looks around the room, and I can see her thin body strain with tension.
“You should pack all this away,” I tell her. “It’s not healthy, keeping it here.”
“I know. I keep calling them to come, but then…” Mom swallows. “I guess I’m just not ready to let go.”
That makes two of us.
There’s silence for a minute, the two of us alone with our ghosts. I look at her, and a terrible thought creeps into my mind, the one that haunts me only at my darkest ebb.
Does she wish it was me?
I get up. “I’m leaving in the morning,” I tell her abruptly.
“But what about the party next week?” she asks. “It’s our anniversary.”
Shit, I totally forgot. “The party will go great without me. I’m sorry, I need to get home.”
“This is your home.” Mom looks wounded.
“Not anymore.”
She moves to block my path. “Please, think of your father. He’s been so proud, showing you around, introducing you to everyone.”
Guilt twists in me, hard. “Mom—”
She grips my hands. “It’s all he ever wanted, to build something and pass it on to you both. And now…”
“I’m not him, Mom.” I plead. “I’ll never be him. Just look around.”
“We know.” Her voice breaks. “But you’re all we have left now. We need you more than ever.”