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“I was young and stupid.”
“You weren’t bogged down.”
“You think I’m bogged down?” I raise a brow. “By what, trying to do something with my life?”
“By living your life for other people.”
I let his comment stew for a minute. “Even if that person is your daughter?”
“Yes.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Zoe is the one who’s got it all figured out. She tries everything and fails often and doesn’t miss a beat before trying again. She makes new friends every day.”
She’s at the age where Gabe is starting to talk to her about her disease, to help her understand why she’s a little different from the kids at school. But they haven’t hadtheconversation yet...that probably won’t happen until she’s a little older.
“Some days I swear she knows what’s going on.” Gabe’s voice is a little choked up. “It’s like she’s trying to cram a whole life’s worth of experience into every day. Don’t you think we could learn from that?”
I don’t want to disagree with him, because it seems cruel. Ilovethat Zoe is living each day like it’s a whole life—and she should. But that life isn’t for me. Because I’ve seen the darker side of that lifestyle. People like my mother and Monique put their own pleasures before responsibility—they’re hedonists who neglect the people they should love so they can be “free.” So they can “find themselves.”
Whatever the fuck that means.
So no, I don’t subscribe to the “live every day like it’s your last” theory. I’m building my life on stability and responsibility and future-focus, because that’s what Zoe and Gabe need from me.
“I should get going.” I push up from my chair. The amber dregs swish around the bottom of the glass as I set it on a table.
“More work?” Gabe asks drily.
“Self-preservation. Little Miss Ballerina mentioned something about a movie night involvingFrozenand I can practically sing ‘Let It Go’ in my sleep at this point.” I shudder. “That one’s on you, buddy.”
Gabe chuckles and his expression softens again. “Thank you. I know I don’t say it enough—”
I hold up a hand. “Don’t give me an emotional declaration. I don’t do it for you.”
Both our gazes slide over to the little girl who’s dancing, tinny classical music belting out from a pink speaker that Gabe bought her so she could practise in the backyard. When she notices me standing, she rushes over and throws her arms around me, burying her sweet little face against my leg. I stroke her hair and pack everything I feel down into a small lump so I can swallow it all.
Thisis why I can’t afford to get distracted. Not by Blondie, not by this stupid Jack and Jill party. Not by anything.
CHAPTER NINE
Drew
IWAKEWITHa start. It’s late—lights glimmer against an inky backdrop outside the window and I’m lying on the couch doing my best impression of a pretzel. What happened?
Cocktails.Lotsof cocktails.
I’d started out with the bridal squad and when they left, it was Presley and me. My sister might look like little miss perfect, but she can pound tequila like nobody’s business. I groan and push myself up into a sitting position.
I couldn’t have come homethatlate, since we started drinking around 3:00 p.m. It’s coming back to me—Presley bailed around nine when her fiancé picked her up. Then on the way home I’d made a phone call...to who? I search my memory.
Oh, no. The venue for the Jack and Jill party. I’d called them to confirm we’d had a change of plans—the bride wanted a new theme. It would now be a dress-up party—come as your hero. And I’d asked them to direct all future queries about the event to me, instead of to the Giant Pain in the Ass’s assistant.
Presley is going to kill you if you start a war with her in-laws.
Then I came home and...yep, greasy pizza and bad reality TV. The television screen is black with an “are you still watching?” message displayed.
“Don’t judge me, Netflix,” I grumble as I pick a piece of salami from my leggings.
Although maybe Netflixshouldjudge me. I’ve clearly fallen asleep mid-drunk snacking and now I have grease stains on my pants. I peel them off, immediately dropping them into the washing machine tucked away behind a neat little door next to the bathroom.
I glance around the room. The pizza box sits open, illuminated only by the glow of the TV and the city lights filtering in. The view is magnificent. In the dark, Melbourne is splashed across the window like a masterpiece. My mind flickers to the night on the balcony when I’d given Mr. Suit a show.
