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It was nothing more than a business arrangement.
I double-click on the iCal invite—some meeting at a downtown law firm this Friday morning. A quick Google search of the law firm’s name tells me they handle estates, wills, and trusts.
I can only imagine this has to do with the settling of the Rothwell estate, and as his fiancée, he needs me by his side to keep the gig going.
Red-hot annoyance flushes over me, replaced with the zing of anticipation when I realize that there’s a chance Dorian will be there too . . .
Once the intern sashays off to chitchat with someone else, I take the opportunity to sneak my phone out. I tap on the colorful Instagram icon, type “Phantom Symphony” into the search bar, and pull up their account. According to the most recent photos, they’ve been in Jacksonville and Atlanta, and the concert-tour schedule pinned at the top of their page shows they’ll be in Nashville next.
Holding my breath, I zoom in on all the recent photos, hoping to spot Dorian somewhere in the background, preferably smiling.
He’s been through the wringer.
All I want is for him to be happy . . . the man at least deserves that.
But alas, he isn’t showing up in a single one.
I scroll down, farther and farther, diving deep into posts from the late teens, until I find one with him in it. My chest tightens when I see his chiseled face, intense turquoise irises, and devil-may-care smirk. He’s standing in the middle of a group of guys, with a green beer bottle in his hand, wearing ripped jeans low on his hips.
In this image, there’s no question he’s content.
But this was a lifetime ago.
Like a weirdo, I screenshot it because this might be the only image of Dorian that exists online, and I want something to refer to when I’m fueling my melancholy daydreams.
Days before Dorian left Driftway—and just before he buried his father—Dorian confessed to Burke that he was still in love with me. Since Burke told me that, I’ve thought about that fact more than I care to admit, at times seeking solace and comfort in it and at other times wondering if he was being intentional in his actions and hoping his brother would inadvertently pass that tidbit along.
If he didn’t want me to know, I can’t imagine he’d have breathed a word of any of that to Burke.
Maybe it’s foolish of me to keep this death grip on hope, but I’m not ready to accept that this is the end of the road for us.
There’s this unsettled sensation that gnaws through me at 2:00 a.m. sometimes when I’m lying wide awake in bed. Other times, it’s a jolt of electric hope zinging through me without warning. Whatever it is, it doesn’t want to let go. Not yet. And neither do I.
There’s got to be a way.
Pulling up my contacts, I search for Dorian’s number. We’d exchanged our numbers a year ago in the Dominican Republic, swearing we’d wait two years before using them per our agreement. But now that things have changed, I’m feeling inclined to reach out sooner rather than later. That, and if we’re going to see each other at the attorney’s office later this week, I don’t want things to be more awkward than they already are.
I begin to type: Hi, it’s Briar. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear from, but I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you and I hope you’re doing well. Also, Burke told me what you said . . .
My thumb hovers over the send button until I have a change of heart and delete the last sentence of my text. We need to talk about that, but not like this.
“I’d think you’d be absolutely buried in work after being gone nearly a full month.” A man’s voice sends a jolt to my heart, causing me to drop my phone on the floor. Burke chuckles as if he finds amusement in scaring the daylights out of people.
I retrieve my phone and set it face down on my desk. “Just settling back into a rhythm.”
“Did you get my calendar invite?” He sips his coffee, his piercing eyes homing in on me.
“Yes, I’ll be there.” I wouldn’t miss it for the world—not because I’m contractually obligated to appear as his fiancée but because there’s a chance I could see Dorian again.
“You can ride with me.”
“As opposed to taking the subway?” I wink, entertained by the thought of him showing up in his chauffeured town car and me stepping over subway rats to meet him at some fancy law firm downtown. If Nicola happened to see any of that, the jig would be more than up.
Burke looks me up and down, clearly finding zero humor in my question.
