Page 82 of The Truth of Us

Eight.

"I know you're angry."

Seven.

Six.

Five.

"I know… I hurt you."

Four.

Three.

"I just need you to talk to me."

Two.

One.

The city exploded with cheers. Fireworks, music, and laughter. A brand-new year.

I swallowed hard. "Happy New Year." Then I added quietly, "I wish you were here."

The line disconnected, and for the first time all night, I finally admitted the truth. The party wasn't what felt empty. I was.

21

HARPER

Two weeks after New Year’s, I was still at Montgomery House. I had told myself I would stay through Christmas, then Dad asked for New Year’s. Then maybe a few extra days to help my father with the foundation transition. Then, suddenly, it was mid-January. My Chicago townhouse felt more like a storage unit than a home. Everything had officially been handed off, and Timothy had become the last thin thread tying me to my past work, and Northwell… him.

When Timothy asked me what I wanted to do with the voicemails for my work phone, with the final transition pieces that needed to be placed, I almost caved. Almost asked him if he had listened to them and asked if he had called. Timothy never mentioned Elliott directly, which I both appreciated and hated. Because some weak, humiliating part of me wanted to know, wanted to ask. Wanted to type his name into a search bar like a woman with no dignity and too much free time. I had been too tempted a few times, but the idea of seeing whoever Timothy had pitched to replace me at Elliot's side made my stomach roll.

Some mornings, when my father went into the city and the house felt too large, too quiet, too full of memories that watched me from corners, I sat in the library with coffee gone cold beside me and wondered where Elliot was. If he was working, had been seen at events with someone new. Was the woman from the elevator part of his new PR plan? Was she my permanent replacement? Had his New Year’s looked the way I imagined it had. Women in glittering dresses, champagne in excess, his mouth near someone’s ear, his hands on someone else's body.

But then I heard her voice talking to someone on the phone about her booty call and knew my body wasn't the last place his hands were. That thought always hurt enough to make me close the browser before I could type a letter.

I was trying not to miss him. But, the problem with trying not to miss someone was that it required thinking about them constantly enough to ensure you were not thinking about them.

Which was deeply counterproductive.

My father noticed, but did not push for more than I was willing to give. He simply left me notes beside my coffee before he went into the city.

Foundation reports are on the desk. Read only if you feel up to it.

Or:

The vineyards sent another case, a sample of their varieties. Please pretend to have sophisticated opinions when I return.

Or, once:

You are allowed to be sad and still move forward. Both can be true.

That one I folded and kept inside my book.

I had just settled into the library that morning with a stack of files for the literacy initiative my mom had once pioneered, when the front doors opened. Which was odd because I knew my father would be out until later this evening, and no one else came here. A moment later, her voice rang through the foyer.