“She’s replying,” Anna says, her voice tight. “I already messaged her before I called you.”
My jaw clenches as I check my watch again, walking back toward the kitchen. “You did?”
“Yeah,” she says, casually. “I didn’t say much. Just that I’d ask you what was going on. She says she wants to talk.”
I press my palm flat against the cool counter, grounding myself. “I’ve been talking to her, Anna. For the lastfour years. I stayed in touch longer than I probably should have—because I didn’t want to be the arsehole who cut her off completely.”
“She still loves you, Max,” Anna says, her voice quiet.
“That’s the problem.” I move to pick up my suit jacket, slipping it on with the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder. “She hasn’t let go. And I did—a long time ago. It’s not fair to keep having the same conversations when they lead nowhere. She needs to move on. I’ve tried to be kind about it, but kindness turned into false hope. And that’s not fair either.”
“I get it,” she says finally. “I just don’t like seeing people hurt. Even Casey.”
“I don’t either,” I reply. “But I can’t be the one to help her through it anymore. That’s not my place—it hasn’t been for years.”
“She’s not going to take it well,” Anna warns.
“I know.” I run a hand down my face, feeling the slight stubble I’ve neglected to shave. “But that’s not my responsibility anymore.”
“Are you okay?” Anna asks.
We’ve always been open and honest with each other. Anna’s stoic; she always has been. It’s how she presents to the world. But underneath it all is a gentle softness. She’s kind. She cares about people, even when it isn’t her place. My sister has a big heart, and I love her for it.
“Yeah,” I say, pressing my thumb and forefinger to my eyes, trying to chase off the exhaustion. “Just tired.”
“Okay. I won’t say anything else to her. I promise.”
“I appreciate that. How are you?” I ask, changing the subject. “I saw things were a little tense between you and Mason on Saturday.”
“I’m fine. Nothing’s changed.” Her tone has a finality to it.
I frown. “You know I’m always here, right?”
“I know. And I love you for it… I’d better let you go. I’ve got parent meetings to prepare for this afternoon.”
“Have a good day,” I say, tapping my hand against the counter. “And weasel? Thanks.”
“Don’t call me that.”
I smile faintly. “You love it.”
“Not even a little bit.” She hangs up.
Smirking, I slide the phone into my jacket pocket and head toward the door.
Another quick glance at my watch tells me it’s not yet 8 a.m., and I wonder what other fresh hell Monday can bring.
And how can I make up with Gemma.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Max
I hate the Tube. Especially on Monday mornings when the weekend’s filth hasn’t been cleaned away. It’s even more crowded than usual, which is saying something. The stench is a nauseating cocktail of dried piss, stale vomit, and brake dust.
I’d forgotten how much I loathe this morning ritual. After two years with Grayson Livingstone’s private car service in New York, I’ve grown accustomed to a certain standard. One that, unfortunately, the London Tube can’t hold a candle to.
I’m also lucky enough to be standing next to someone’s sweaty armpit, trying my best to avoid touching the poles that thousands of unwashed hands have held. On top of that, wafts of sickeningly sweet floral perfume occasionally infiltrate my senses.
