“Tell me.”
“Fine, but you have to put in a good word about me to Colette, okay? She’s still not sold on us.”
Terrible idea, but I nod. I’d probably give him my left ball for a snippet of information on Ophelia if he wanted it. “Deal.”
“She’s in London on a girls’ weekend with Colette, and she’s doing that naked modeling thing at an art class tomorrow night,” he says, practically hopping from foot to foot with excitement.
The sounds of a busy ward outside slow to a dull ringing in my ears. “She’swhat?”
“Colette rang me, absolutelywasted, last night and told me all about it. It’s calledlifedrawing, apparently.”
“I know what fucking life drawing is,” I snap, knuckles white around the phone. “Where is the class? What time?”
Vincenzo howls with laughter. “Iknewyou’d lose your shit over this.Just friends, my ass.”
“I’m not losing my shit over it,” I grit out. I am absolutely, categorically, most definitely losing my shit over this, for no good reason. Ophelia is an adult. She can try new things. I’ve sketched from a live model several times. I know better than anyone that there’s nothing sexual about it.
Yet, the idea of a room full of people looking at her, taking note of the small intricacies of her body, the soft smattering of stretch marks on her outer thighs, the gentle dip of her hips … it’s turning me into a different man. A jealous man. Anunreasonableman.
It’s so unlike her. In fact, I’d say it sounds like her worst nightmare.
“Tell me where it is, Vincenzo.”
He strokes his chin. “Elise, what do you reckon? Are theyjust friends?”
My traitorous mother hums beside me, tone so sarcastic that it’s very obvious where Fleur gets it from. “I’m not sure, Vincenzo, it’s justsohard to tell.”
I’m one second away from raising my voice—which Ineverdo—when a link pings through from Vincenzo at the top of my screen, saving his life. “Gotta go,” I say, hanging up.
“Iknewit.”
“Don’t you start,” I say, to my very smug mother, opening up the link to the event. “I’m just … making sure she’s not made a mistake is all. Looking after her.”
“Is that what you kids call it nowadays?”
I grind my teeth, staring down at the event description. It’s tomorrow night in Camden. I’d barely get there in time.
I shut my eyes, trying to be rational.
There is absolutely zero reason for me to fly to London. Or intervene. Or even be bothered about this.
A soft hand lands on mine. It’s a hand I know better than my own. It has rested on top of my fingers at every twist and turn of my life. When my vision has blurred from tears, when life has felt unlivable, when I’ve bled at the hands of my father, when nightmares rocked my sleep as a child. “You should go, Alex.”
I pull my hand away and let my head drop to the crook of my elbows, fingers interlacing behind my head. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Your brain deprives you of the best things in life.”
“I won’t be able to make her happy. She wants someone present, not someone like me.”
“Who wins the Super Bowl next year? I’ll put a bet on them.”
“What?”
“Tell me who’ll win the Super Bowl, since you seem so confident you can predict the future?”
“Maman.”
“No, Alex. I’m sane enough to know she’s right for you. You’re depriving yourself of a chance at something beautiful because there’s a possibility it won’t work. And all the while, you’re always asking me to try new pills even though we both know the odds are stacked against me.”
