Remington leaned back in his chair and adjusted his glasses, waiting for Grant to continue.
“The board thinks we should have an event. A gala, kind of. In advance of the new exhibit opening.”
“The exhibit isn’t going to be ready until the spring,” Remington said.
Grant shrugged and gave him a lopsided smile. “In advance.”
“I’m sure marketing will have a field day.”
“You have to come this time,” Grant said.
“Why?”
Remington’s spine straightened and he adjusted himself in his chair. He’d managed to avoid the last event the museum hosted, but Grant’s expression made it clear he wouldn’t be able to get out of this one.
“Because it’s your exhibit? Because it’s your department?”
“I’m more of a behind-the-scenes guy,” he said.
“One night, Remington,” Grant bartered.
“I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“No.” Grant gave him an apologetic smile. “But I am curious. What do you have against these kinds of events? They’re my favorite part of the job. Nice clothes, tolerable music, and free booze.”
“I like books.” Remington stared down at his desk, his throat already scratching from the black tie he knew he’d have to wear. “Not people.”
“That’s what the free booze is for.”
Remington managed a smile. “I’ll be there. Of course.”
“Good. I’ll let you know the date and specifics once we finalize,” Grant said.
“Did this hinge on my attendance?” Remington pulled off his glasses and dropped them onto his desk, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on and he wanted no part of it.
“Hinge is a strong word.” Grant stepped backward. “But yes.”
He saw himself out, closing the door to Remington’s office behind him.
The entirety of Remington’s youth had been spent in clothes that were too stiff, too hot, and too uncomfortable. Spent pretending he cared about which fork went first and which donor had given enough to his family. He’d attended debutante balls and danced fancy dances with women who were more attracted to his name than him, and that thought stopped him in his tracks.
He saw the parallels between himself and Sebastian, but he’d broken free so long ago from the constraints of his name, he had failed to recognize the long-lasting effects and the way they’d manifested in Sebastian St. George. Where Remington had turned to books for sanctuary, Sebastian had turned to vodka. Where Remington had been able to break free, Sebastian had fallen short.
He itched to reach out.
To call or text.
Just to check in.
But more than most, Remington understood the burdens of a name and a family, and he didn’t want to make things worse or harder. He hoped Sebastian knew that Remington was only a phone call away. Sebastian had to know.
It had only been a short time, but they’d shared so many things together. There had been so many firsts between them, and…
Remington shivered, letting his eyes fall closed.
He gave himself some time, a moment, to think about Sebastian, and the way he was so, so brave while also being utterly terrified. And Remington was also scared of all the same things, but maybe better at hiding it. Maybe the way he’d survived his upbringing had given him the skills to cope, to masquerade, whereas Sebastian had always wanted the things Remington despised. Why else would Sebastian have cowered to his prick of a brother and gone home on command?
No.
