We swap clothes in the dim light. His suit fits me perfectly, like he’s in hockey season shape. The climb up the stairs is silent, both of us adjusting to the wrongness of wearing each other’s things. When we reach her floor, I hang back while Jameson approaches the door.
“Knock,” I say.
“I don’t know why Ieverlisten to you and your dumb-as-fuck ideas,” he mutters.
I step forward and tap my knuckles against the wood, then move beside him as the door swings open.
Kendall’s changed out of her dress and into pajama shorts and a thin tank top. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and her eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been crying. An almost-empty wineglass dangles from her fingers, and she looks wrecked in a way that nearly destroys me.
Then her gaze moves between us, taking in Jameson in my tux and me in his navy suit, and something cold settles over her expression.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she says flatly.
“Surprise,” Jameson says, but he’s using my cadence and clipped delivery. He’s standing the way I stand, shoulders squared, jaw set. He’s been studying me his whole life, and right now, he’s putting on one of his best performances.
Kendall doesn’t even glance at him. Her eyes stay locked on mine.
“Really?” she asks, and her voice is tired, but there’s something underneath it, something that sounds almost like relief. “After what this asshole told me, you show up at my door, playing games?”
“Ken Do—” Jameson starts.
“Jamie, stop.” She glances at him, and she’s exhausted. “I can’t believe you’re pulling the twin-switching game on me. Don’t you think Addison warned me about this?”
She steps forward, her eyes moving back to mine, and reaches up to press her palm over my heart, right where the wordRUINEDis inked into my skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says quietly.
I can’t breathe.
“Agreed,” Jameson says, dropping the act. “Told you so.”
Kendall glances at him. “You can leave, Jamie.”
She turns to me. “We need to talk.”
Jameson glances between us, and for once, he doesn’t have a smart comment. He nods, adjusts the collar of my borrowed tux, and heads toward the elevator.
“I’m keeping your tux. Fits nice,” he tells me. “Also, don’t fuck this up.”
His footsteps echo down the stairs, and then it’s just Kendall and me.
There are seven years of unspoken words hanging between us.
“Come inside,” she says.
I follow her in, and she closes the door behind us with a soft click. The space is littered with evidence of her night—an empty wine bottle on the coffee table, her black dress draped over a chair, her heels kicked off by the couch. She moves to the kitchen, grabs a fresh bottle, uncorks it without asking if I want any, and pours two generous glasses.
“What was that?” she asks as I watch her. “I’m tired of playing games.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I just … I got the confirmation I needed.”
She takes a long sip of wine. “Which is?”
I could deflect. I could throw up the usual walls, retreat behind the hostility that’s kept me safe for so long. But she’s looking at me with those brown eyes that see everything, and I’m so fucking tired of hiding.
“That you’re it for me.”
She sets down her wineglass and crosses to where I’m standing by the window. The city lights paint shadows across her face, and she looks up at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
