Oh
Just that. One word. No questions, no worry, not even her usual sarcastic remarks. Just “oh.” My jaw tightens. That’s not normal.
Me:
I handled it; Brant backed me. We’re fine. But we can’t be careless.
Another pause.
April:
Okay
Something is off. I don’t like it. I don’t like that I can’t see her face to read what’s between those texts. I make a decision on instinct more than logic.
Me:
Dinner tonight. Seven. Meet me here:
[link]
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again like she’s weighing it.
April:
Sure
Sure?Sure?Notyes, notokay, notfine, but I’m ordering dessert on your card. Justsure.
My chest tightens with something I absolutely refuse to name.
Me:
Wear something warm. It’ll be cold tonight.
April:
Okay
I set the phone down and stare at the skyline through the glass window, my jaw working. It feels wrong in a way I can’t figure out and can’t probe without looking more and more like…Like what? Like I care? Am I running from that? I sigh and lean back in my chair, scrubbing a hand down my face. Karen tried to take a swing at me today, and now April is slipping out of alignment, just enough for me to notice and want to reach out and force her back into place.
God dammit.
Chapter 19
April
Twenty-four hours ago, I watched two thin pink lines appear on a cheap plastic stick and felt my entire life tilt on its axis. Tonight, I’m walking down a Manhattan sidewalk toward a restaurant that looks like it was designed by people who think the word “exclusive” is foreplay, and I’m pretending, badly, that nothing has changed.
Anthony is already outside when I arrive, hands in the pockets of his dark coat, shoulders squared against the cold. The building behind him is all glass and polished marble. It looks like somewhere I don’t belong. When he spots me, his face shifts, not enough for anyone else to register, but I see it. His eyes soften, and the tension in his jaw releases. He walks toward me, and before my brain can decide how to behave now that the board knows, his hand settles on my lower back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s allowed.
“You’re late,” he says, but his voice is low and warm.
“I’m on time,” I counter, glancing pointedly at the time on my phone. “You’re just chronically impatient.”
His mouth twitches. “I’m efficient.”
“You’re a control freak.”
