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“Oh, come on. It’s not like that. The kids . . . that goes without saying.”
“Keep telling yourself that. And when you’re done, why don’t you work on convincing yourself that people like you aren’t everything that’s wrong with the modern-day institution of marriage.”
I leave, silently hating how triggered I am . . . and how triggered I’ve been since I watched my brother head to the dock this morning with Briar in tow.
As much as I want to loathe her, as much as I resent being played for a fool, I can’t stop wishing things were different.
Wishing, much like looking back, is nothing more than a waste of time.
And there’s nothing I hate more than wasting time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BRIAR
One Year Ago
I’ve been back from Vivi and Benson’s trip a mere eight days—hardly enough time for my tan to fade—when I stop in my tracks on my way inside Sunrise Coffee Co.
Seated with his back toward me at a table for two is a man with silky brown waves, white AirPods in his ears, and his nose buried in some thick book.
It isn’t until someone brushes past me that I realize I’ve no idea how long I’ve been standing here, staring at the back of some random guy’s head. And it isn’t until the same person who brushed past me takes a seat across from the dark-haired mystery man that I realize it isn’t Dorian.
With flushed cheeks, I take my place at the end of the line and quietly chastise myself for getting my hopes up. It isn’t the first time this week. Or the second, for that matter. In fact, I’ve been seeing Dorian everywhere since the second my flight touched down at LaGuardia.
I’m on the subway fifteen minutes later, en route to the office, when I grab my phone and pull up Dorian’s number.
We weren’t going to exchange numbers at first.
We didn’t even exchange last names because we didn’t want to be tempted to google each other—save for the one time I googled the band, but there was no mention of him anywhere.
The plan is to get to know each other in person, sans internet assistance, when the time is right . . . which apparently is two years from now when Phantom Symphony’s worldwide tour is over.
Then—and only then—are we supposed to reach out.
But my self-control is paper thin these days.
Dorian is all I think about; he invades my thoughts, my daydreams, my every waking minute, and everything in between.
Holding my breath, I type out a text telling him I spotted his doppelgänger in a coffee shop. It’s a desperate attempt to open up some kind of dialogue between us. Or maybe I only want to see if he’ll respond, if he’ll prove Vivi wrong about the whole heartbreaker thing.
Only before I press send, I delete the whole thing.
We made a promise.
We have an agreement.
And I’m nothing if not a woman of my word.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DORIAN
Present Day
The house is silent when I come in from the pool. I’m halfway to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water when I spot that the door to my father’s study is wide open, a green-tinted light spilling out.
“Hey.” I rap on the doorframe before stepping in.
He glances up from his newspaper, placing his magnifying glass aside. The old banker’s lamp that he’s had since the beginning of time is aglow beside him, making his gray eyes shine brightly.
“Dorian,” he says. “Come on in. Take a seat.”
For a minute, I’m sixteen again. It’s the summer after Mom died, and Dad is forcing us to hole up on this godforsaken island because he still can’t bring himself to spend a single night back in Manhattan, where our lives were in full swing before the tragic night that took her from us.
“Where’s everyone?” he asks.
“Nicola, Dash, and the kids are swimming. They were talking about taking the horses for a ride later,” I say. “Burke and Briar are still in town, as far as I know.”
“How are you doing?” He leans back, his chair creaking, and he folds his hands over his thin belly. His eyes are squinted, laced with concern.
“I’m . . . fine.” I’m not sure why he’s asking.
He never asks.
“No, how are you really?” He sits straighter, resting his elbows on his desktop. “Can’t help but notice you’ve been in a bit of a mood since you arrived. More so than normal.”
“Just have a lot on my plate,” I say, quickly adding, “with work.”
His mouth forms a hard line, and he forces a hard exhalation through his nostrils.
“I know how that goes,” he says. “All too well, unfortunately. It’s taken me eighty-one years to learn the most valuable lesson this life had to give me.”
“And what’s that?”
“That time is the most precious commodity there is,” he says.
I nod. “Couldn’t agree more.”
He lifts a finger. “But that’s not all.”
