“I’m sure you can understand why Tracy’sthoughtsdon’t hold much weight for me right now, manipulative as she’s been towardbothof us,” he mutters. “Fuck.That was supposed to beit.” Alex grabs at his hair, turning away from me.
That was supposed to be it.
Successfully launching a subsidiary company at his father’s old haunt was supposed to be the thing that would make Robert care.
I think of Mom in this moment, of her obsession with legacy. I still don’t know what mine is supposed to be. But Alex does.That was supposed to be it.Only now, it won’t be. Itwon’tbe.
“Alex,” I whisper, and he turns back. “We did everything we could. We tried our hardest.”
For an instant, I deceive myself into thinking his eyes warm, but it’s so brief, and they go so cold after, that I must have only seen what I wanted.
“I know, Casey,” he says, his voice soft and low. “And I’ll come around to that, with time. That the acquisition was beyond either of our control.” His jaw flexes and he breaks hold of my gaze, looking back toward the car. “But you obviously never trusted me the way I trusted you. And that’s what’s really breaking my heart.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
My Subway Nemesis is holding two things: his usual homemade death trap granola bar and a computer bag with a vaguely familiar insignia stitched on the front. Through puffy, swollen eyes—I haven’t stopped crying all week, despite the excitement of planning my big move and Miriam’s constant attempts to cheer me up—I squint at it.
I’ve seen that before, I’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, where have I seen that before.
It’s woven with silver thread, a small spiral that braids in on itself. I stare for a few beats longer, and then, I realize—
It’s the same symbol I spotted on a document in Robert’s Harrison’s town house.
My forehead wrinkles, and hair falls into my eyes as I lower my head into my hand, thinking. The headache I haven’t been able to get rid of for days is drumming loudly, choking my thoughts the same way it’s been robbing me of sleep.
Focus.
I think this is important. Because… even when I saw the symbolthere,on that Upper East Side entryway table, right before Alex made urgent, desperate love to me on the sunroom floor—fuck,I miss him so much and it’s only been a week—but even then, it was familiar.
So, where did I see it thefirsttime?
My Subway Nemesis is talking with someone he recognized a few minutes ago. They’re having a slightly awkward, self-preening conversation about his current line of work. I’ve been halfway listening, halfway reading a historical romance novel (to avoid thinking about the tragedy of my own romantic state), but the more they talk the louder they get, and I eventually give up on the French Revolution.
“I miss the rush,” says my Subway Nemesis. “The excitement of the floor.”
“You mean the terror,” says the other. “But I get it. Trading’s so addictive, sometimes it feels illegal.”
I roll my eyes. Okay, Jordan Belfort.
“What do you do now?” the trader asks.
“Financial consulting,” says my Subway Nemesis, and I roll my eyes again.
“What sort of consulting?” the trader asks.
“We work with clients looking to break into new markets.”
I look at his computer bag.
I look at my Subway Nemesis.
I look back at his computer bag.
And then, I remember.
That symbol wason the Strauss website.
In a perfectly Elle Woods moment, a lightbulb glows bright in my mind, and I gasp out loud, causing both men to glance down where I’m sitting. My hands clutch my book as the train hauls to a stop, and shakily, I rise to standing.
