Over Art’s shoulder, I catch Lance’s eyes. He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his face carved from stone. But his gaze drops to where Art’s hands rest on my hips before snapping up to my face.
I look away first.
“We should go,” I say, stepping back from Art. “Don’t want to be late.”
Art grins and offers his arm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He glances at Lance. “See you there?”
Lance nods. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t look at me again. So I swallow the feeling of wanting to run to him, and let Art lead me out the door.
Art helps me into a black town car, the driver already waiting, and slides in beside me. The door clicks shut, sealing us together, and the space shrinks to nothing.
“You look incredible,” Art says as the car pulls away. His hand finds my knee, thumb tracing a slow circle on the fabric. “I mean it. I’ll have to fight off every guy at this party.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
He laughs, like we’re a normal couple on the way to a normal event. Like I didn’t spend last night in another man’s bed with his name on my lips.
His best friend’s bed.
The guilt hits me so hard I almost double over. Because Art is right here, being attentive and charming and everything I used to want, and twelve hours ago I was riding Lance in an armchair and begging him not to stop.
What kind of person does that make me?
The kind who’s been lied to for months, a voice in my head answers.The kind whose boyfriend hides her from his father and disappears for weeks and keeps her in the dark about everything that matters.
But the guilt doesn’t care about context. It just sits in my chest like a paperweight.
“I know things have been complicated,” Art says. “With everything going on. But tonight, I want it to just be us. The way it used to be. Maybe this can be a fresh start for us, you know?”
The way it used to be.Before the email. Before Lance. Before I started questioning everything about the man sitting next to me.
“I’d like that,” I say, because it’s what he needs to hear.
He lifts my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “My father’s been asking about you.”
My stomach tightens. “Asking what?”
“Just questions.” He glances out the window. “He’s not always easy, Gin. But it matters to me that he sees what I see.”
And what is that?I want to ask.Because lately, I’m not sure you see me at all.
But I don’t say any of that. I squeeze his hand and nod.
“I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“You don’t have to be nervous.” He turns back to me, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his expression. “Just be yourself. That’s enough.”
The words land in a soft nook of my heart. A spot inside that still exists—will likely always exist—for the guy who texted me funny memes, and remembered names of the line cook’s I hated, and brought me tiramisu with forks while claiming mine was better.
For a moment, I almost believe him. I wantso badlyto believe him.
Then I think about Lance crushing me against his chest while his tears sunk into my skin, and that soft spot hardens.
The Calloway estate is lit up like something from a fairy tale. Lights wrapped around the columns, music drifting through open doors. Valets, servers with champagne, designer gowns and tailored suits everywhere I look. This is the world Art grew up in. The world Lance grew up in. The world I’ve been hidden from for over a year.
“If Craig and Martha are gone, who lives here?”
Art laughs, then sobers when he realizes I’m serious. “Paxton and Tiffany, now. Alex, too.”
