Page 71 of The Truth of Us

“I know.”

He held out his hand; I took it, and together we walked away.

By the time we settled back in the sitting room, the fire had burned lower. I curled into the corner of the couch beneath a blanket while my father pretended not to study me too closely.

Then he said, “Will you stay through New Year’s?”

I took a slow sip of wine.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t need to be in Chicago?” he asked.

“I don’t.” I responded, but kept my eyes on the fire.

“I thought we could spend New Year’s with the Hastings.”

I looked at him over my glass. “The Hastings?”

His mouth curved. “Like old times.”

Something shifted in my chest. The Hastings had been woven through my childhood so thoroughly that some memories felt like they belonged to both families. Summers at the lake. Christmas parties. New Year’s countdowns where the adults drank champagne, and the kids drank sparkling cider out of crystal glasses because our mothers thought plastic cups were depressing.

I hadn’t seen them in years.

“Are they coming here?” I asked.

“Small group. Nothing flashy.” He replied.

“With our families, that usually means a hundred people and a string quartet.”

“More like twelve people. No quartet.”

I smiled despite myself. Then he added, far too casually, “Oliver will be there.”

I froze, and my father suddenly became very interested in the fire.

“Oliver Hastings?” I asked and ignored the squeak in my voice.

“How many Olivers do we know?” he asked with a chuckle.

“Dad.”

“What?”

Oliver was this larger-than-life memory for me, Will’s best friend and one of the few boys who never treated me like the annoying little sister.

“You said that in a tone.” I retorted.

He sipped his wine, eyes bright with amusement. “I merely mentioned an old family friend.”

“An old family friend who once put a frog in my riding boot.”

“You liked him.” Dad said with a grin.

“I did not.”

“You followed him everywhere.” Dad was full out laughing at me now.