“I’m glad you ordered it,” he tried. “You’d been talking about it since we made the date.”
A dry laugh slipped out. At least that part was true. I’d had my eye on the dish since earlier this week, combing through the menu like it mattered—like tonight might mean something.
But now… it was all ash on my tongue.
I reached for my whiskey. The sharpness was familiar now, spreading warm and slow through my bloodstream. Woody, spiced—good enough to make me hate that I noticed.
“You like whiskey?” he asked, finally cutting into his steak.
“Yes.” I took another sip. “My father’s a collector.”
“Oh.” His brows lifted with faint approval. “He must be a man of taste, then.”
I scoffed, low and humorless. The sound escaped before I could catch it.
He caught it, expression dimming. “Not close?”
“That would be an understatement.” I stared at the napkin in my lap—white against the black dress I’d worn to impress a liar.
“I’m not close with mine either.” His voice dropped. “In fact”—a small, self-deprecating smile ghosted across his lips—”that would also be an understatement.”
I narrowed my eyes.Was this real? Finally something real?
Read had never mentioned his father. We’d avoided that terrain entirely—a boundary we never had to name.
It would’ve been hard to fake. Something impossible to rehearse months in advance. And if things between us had ever changed—if any of it had been real—I would’ve met his family someday. And I would’ve noticed who wasn’t there.
“I think that’s the first true thing you’ve said tonight,” I said, sweet as arsenic.
A flash of hurt flickered across his features. The audacity of it only stoked the anger simmering in my chest.
“Everything I’ve said tonight has been true, Emma. I swear on everything I’ve ever loved—Falkirk, my mother, my family. Everything.” He looked down as he drove his fork into his steak, metal scraping porcelain hard enough to make me flinch.
“But this is the first thing I know for sure,” I admitted. “All the others…” I let the implication sit between us.
“I understand,” he said, dipping his chin.
Silence stretched, thick and close between us. Every clink of silverware around us sounded like an intrusion.
And then—
“My brother is a drug addict.”
I froze. The words sliced clean through whatever distance I’d managed to build.
“We were close growing up,” he said, voice low. “But when I left for college, things changed. He started partying—fell in with the wrong crowd. He’s been to rehab three times, but none of the steps ever stuck.”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s been hard on my mother. He stopped visiting her five years ago. Every Christmas, she still buys him a gift. Keeps them wrapped in her closet—waiting for him to come home.”
Silver lined his eyes when he looked up again, and something fragile inside me twisted.
“That’s horrible.” I meant it. “That must be incredibly hard.”
“It is.”
“Do you still talk to him?”
“I manage about once a year.” He cut a small piece of steak, chewing slowly—stalling. “His number never stays the same. But he calls my mother every couple of months.”
