I’m happy she felt ready to try. Even if it will feel strange not having her with me on weekends anymore, especially onceEthan leaves for college, I truly hope she and Colin can rebuild the relationship they used to have.
I can’t help wondering if the same could ever happen between me and my own parents. But I shake the thought off and focus instead on the brightness in Alicia’s face when she came home the next day, talking a mile a minute about everything she and her dad bought to decorate her new bedroom at Colin’s penthouse.
When I went there yesterday to see it myself, surprised doesn’t begin to cover how I felt about the location he chose. I’m not sure what message the universe was trying to send with that... so I decided not to dwell on it.
Colin picked a beautiful place. Spacious, comfortable, elegantly furnished. Alicia’s room looks like a more extravagant version of her bedroom here. She and Colin clearly went all in on their shopping spree. Later he mentioned he’d hired someone to come in earlier that day to decorate everything using what they’d bought, plus the reference photos Alicia sent him.
Colin picked her up before Alexander called. Alicia called as soon as they arrived, and she texted not long ago to say everything was fine, that she was going to sleep there tonight with her dad.
I check the time, five minutes to eight.
Before I’m ready for it, I hear a car pull into the driveway. I grab my bag and jacket and step outside just as Alexander gets out. He walks around the front of the car and waits for me by the passenger door.
He’s in dark jeans that fit him with precision, and a crisp white shirt that molds to him in all the ways I shouldn’t be noticing. There’s something almost disarming about how simple he looks and how I seem unable not to notice every detail about him.
When I reach him, it hits me as odd that he doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach for me. Like he always does.
“How would you feel if I greeted you with a kiss on the cheek?” he asks.
I stop breathing.
I know this distance is my doing. Avoiding his calls, keeping our messages brief since my visit to Santoro Marmo. And once I finally had the space to process everything, I realized how unfair, and irrational, I’d been.
We’re just friends. Because of that alone, I shouldn’t have acted the way I have these past few days. And if Alexander had something with Lillian... or anyone else? He’s single. Nothing stops him.
And yet the thought twists something low in my stomach. I also can’t deny this change in me that I can’t name or explain—a feeling I don’t fully understand.
Wanting to fix what I broke, I step closer and rise onto my toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek. My lips linger as I breathe him in.
When I pull back and meet his eyes, I whisper, “It’s good to see you again, Alexander. I’m sorry about the past few days.”
He lifts his hand, hesitating for a heartbeat before brushing his fingers along my cheek.
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Cecilia. I understand... You are free to be yourself with me. Just please don’t shut me out again.”
I swallow hard and say, “Never again.”
Alexander smiles, and when he rests his hand at the small of my back and opens the car door for me, I don’t move right away... letting myself feel the comfort of a gesture I’ve missed far more than I want to admit.
We turn onto an empty street lined with low buildings. They look like old warehouses someone cared enough to bring back to life. The drive passed in a mix of easy conversation—updates about our week, my plans for the Santoro Marmo article—and stretches of comfortable silence.
Alexander wasn’t exaggerating about the area being secluded. Even with the street well lit, it feels almost deserted, the only cars belonging to whoever’s inside the building we’ve just pulled up to.
“Wait here for a second,” Alexander says, stepping out of the car.
I watch as he enters a code into a small panel, and the large metal door begins to rise. A moment later he’s back, sliding into the driver’s seat and pulling the car inside.
We park next to a red Mini Cooper.
“My sister always keeps this spot free for me,” he says, and I don’t miss the affectionate way he says it.
Alexander steps out and opens my door, offering his hand. I take it, and he guides me toward the staircase to our right. As we near the top, the sound of jazz floats toward us, layered with animated conversation.
When we step into the open space, it feels like walking into an industrial loft turned artist’s hideout. Canvases are scattered everywhere, some on easels, others hanging from hooks along the walls. There’s a lounge area with a couch and oversized poufs, a small kitchen tucked to one side, and, all the way at the back, a bed positioned beside a bold red door.
“She sort of lives here whenever she’s ‘visited by the art muse,’” Alexander says, probably noticing where my eyeswandered. “That’s when she’s not holding one of my properties in Europe hostage or disappearing into one of our father’s.”
I smile at him. “I’ve always heard artists can be... eccentric. But I’ve never really known one.”
