“One week,” I tell myself. “Give it one week. You’ll feel better.”
But even as I say it, I know it’s a lie.
Because this view, this villa, this whole Instagram-perfect moment?
It’s just really expensive emptiness.
And the only thing I want—the only stupid, impossible thing—is to be back in a guest cottage, fighting with a goat, watching a grumpy lawyer try not to smile.
I finish the limoncello.
Tomorrow I’ll do better. Tomorrow I’ll enjoy paradise.
Tonight?
Tonight I admit what I’ve been avoiding since I left New York.
I miss him.
And that’s the most pathetic truth of all.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Truth Tastes Like Bourbon
Dean
Sullivan’s looks exactly like it did in law school. The same sticky floors, the same bartender who pours heavily, and the same lies I tell myself about why I keep coming back.
“You look like shit,” Nate says, sliding into the booth across from me.
“Thanks. Really needed that,” I reply, tipping my chin at him.
He grins, the same stupid grin that got us through Torts. Except now there are crow’s feet, a wedding ring, and probably some spit-up on his shirt.
“Amelia sends her love.” He pulls out his phone. “And approximately four thousand photos of Rosie’s first attempt at sweet potatoes.”
“Thrilling.”
But he’s already swiping through the photos. Baby in a high chair, orange goop everywhere, Amelia laughing in the background with her hair in a messy bun, looking exhausted yet radiant—everything I pretended I’d never want.
When Emily left, I told myself that was it—focus on work, make partner, and don’t get hurt again. Lock it down.
“She’s basically a tiny dictator,” Nate says, pure worship in his voice, his eyes still glued to his phone. “Yesterday she screamed for forty minutes because I gave her the wrong spoon. The. Wrong. Spoon.”
I take a long pull of bourbon. “Sounds awful.”
“It’s the best.”
He means it. The bastard actually means it. I can read it all over his face.
More photos flash by—a baby in a bathtub, a baby asleep on his chest, and a baby giving the camera a gummy smile.
“This one’s my favorite.” He shows me a video of Amelia dancing in their kitchen, baby on her hip, both of them covered in what looks like applesauce. She’s singing off-key while the baby shrieks with laughter.
Something cracks in my chest.
“She’s cute,” I manage to say.
