Three days.
That's how long we've been back in Malibu. Three days of fragile normalcy and pretending everything is fine. Three nights of Phoenix holding me while I shake through nightmares I can't escape.
I haven't talked about what happened. Neither has he. We move around each other carefully, gently, like we're both made of glass. He makes me coffee in the morning. I curl up beside him at night. We don't talk about Marcus or the blood or what happened to his body.
Some things are better left in the dark.
I'm curled up on the sofa, a book open in my lap that I haven't turned a page of in twenty minutes, when Phoenix walks into the living room. He's freshly showered, his dark hair still damp, wearing slacks and a button-down shirt that probably costs more than my monthly rent back in Boston.
"Get dressed," he says. "Something nice."
I look up from my unread book. "Why?"
"My parents are having a dinner party tonight. They want us to come."
My stomach drops. "Us?"
“Well, me, but we should go together." He sits on the arm of the sofa, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I want you to meet them."
"Phoenix..." I set the book aside, my heart rate climbing. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
Because I'm a mess. I haven't slept properly in days. Every time I close my eyes I see Marcus's face. I watched your hands beat a man to death and I still let those same hands touch me.
"I'm not exactly in a meet-the-parents headspace," I say instead.
"I know." His voice softens. "But it might be good for you to get out. To do something normal. And my parents..." He hesitates. "They're important to me. I want them to know you."
I study his face. There’s an earnestness in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw. This matters to him. Despite everything that's happened, despite the horror we're both carrying, he wants to bring me into his real life.
"They don't know who I am," I say quietly. "Do they?"
"They know we’re seeing each other. They know your name."
"But they don't know I'm Sydney Catalano's daughter."
Phoenix is quiet for a moment. "No. They don't."
I think about what that means. Olive Crawford and my mother were best friends once, before whatever happened that turned my mother bitter and fearful and convinced her that all rich men are monsters.
Phoenix's parents don't know they're about to meet their old friend's daughter. The daughter of the woman who hates them.
"Maybe we should tell them," I say. "Before we show up."
"Maybe." Phoenix takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine. "Or maybe we let them meet you first. Let them see who you are before they see whose daughter you are."
There's logic in that. And also risk. If they find out I've been hiding it—if they think I'm playing some kind of game?—
But Phoenix is looking at me with such hope, such need, that I can't say no.
"Okay," I breathe. "I'll go."
His smile is worth the knot in my stomach.
I spend an hour getting ready.I study myself in the bathroom mirror while I apply makeup with trembling hands. The woman staring back at me looks sophisticated, polished, like she belongs in a Malibu mansion. But her eyes tell a different story. There are shadows underneath. A haunted look that no amount of concealer can hide.
I wonder if his parents will see it. I wonder if they'll know, somehow, what their son has done. What I've let him do.
