They leaned toward each other, heads close, like I wasn’t even there. My brother’s tie was loosened, his face lit with genuine interest, and Dad was smiling in a way I hadn’t seen in years. At him. Always at him.
I reached for another glass of champagne. The stem was cool against my fingers for half a second before my brother plucked it out of reach without breaking stride in the conversation. He didn’t even look at me when he set it down on the far side of his plate. Just kept nodding along, soaking in Dad’s approval as if it was air.
When the waiter passed behind us, he finally glanced my way, eyes sharp in a way that told me he hadn’t missed anything, least of all the way I’d been avoiding Tru all night. His gaze flicked across the table to where Tru sat with Charlotte, their laughter soft, their eyes affectionate. Then back to me.
“What happened with you two?” he asked quietly, low enough that Dad wouldn’t hear. “Feels like you’re circling each other with knives.”
The question squeezed around my neck tighter than my bowtie. My mouth was dry, my pulse too loud in my ears. I forced a smirk and let my shoulders roll like I couldn’t be bothered.
“Nothing,” I said, the lie sour on my tongue. “People grow apart. We were just kids.”
He studied me for a beat longer than was comfortable, and it was clear he didn’t believe it, but he filed the truth away for later. Then he turned back to Dad, already rejoining the conversation about law schools and legacies, while I sat there swallowing the silence, wishing like hell I could drown it with champagne.
I leaned back and scanned the crowd until I found Lauren across the room, talking with a girl she knew from school who also happened to be the daughter of my father’s client. She perched on the edge of her chair with her shoes dangling from her fingers.
I crossed over, hands shoved in my pockets. “Want to get out of here?”
She tilted her head, lips curving in a pout. “I was hoping for another dance.”
“Not likely,” I muttered, and her laugh was soft, practiced, like she’d expected the brush-off.
We slipped out the back, into the cool night air, the parking lot buzzing with cicadas. I drove aimlessly for a while, music low on the speakers, streetlights flickering past the windshield. We didn’t talk much. We never did. And every mile that passed, the guilt pressed harder—that I was only with her to look normal. To keep the lie polished and shining. She deserved someone who wanted her for real. Not someone clawing at shadows in the rearview.
God, why couldn’t I love her instead? It would be so easy, with her sweet smile and sweeter body. I’d never understood why she put up with me. Maybe we were both using the other in a way.
By the time I pulled into her driveway, the silence between us had grown thick. She leaned against the door, gave me that small, searching smile, and asked, “Want to come in?”
It shouldn’t have sounded tempting. But the thought of going home—back to Tru, back to the newlyweds, back to myself—was worse.
So I killed the engine.
Inside, Lauren kicked off her heels with a groan and flopped onto the couch. The TV remote was already in her hand.
“Want a drink? Snack?” she asked, tilting her head toward the kitchen.
“No,” I said too quickly, sinking into the opposite cushion.
Her eyes flicked to mine, then away. “Movie, then?”
“Sure.”
The opening credits washed the room in pale blue light. I leaned back, pretending to focus, but her perfume curled toward me, sweet and heavy. Halfway through some forgettable comedy, her hand slid onto my knee.
My skin prickled. Not in the way it should have. Not in a way I wanted. It was more like a rash, an itch under the surface I couldn’t scratch without giving myself away.
I stared at the screen, rigid, as if laughing at the right time would make me normal. As if sitting there, letting her touch me, would drown out the truth buzzing like static in my veins.
But it didn’t. It never did.
Lauren lowered the volume, the laughter track fading into background noise. She let out a soft sigh, then turned toward me, her hand still resting on my knee like she had some kind of claim there.
“You wanna talk about it?”
I frowned at the screen. “About what?”
“Truen. Your dad. The wedding. Moving in with them.” Her voice had lost its playful edge, softer now, almost careful, as if she was tiptoeing through broken glass.
My jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
