"Indie, I hate to break it to you, but she's dying to get you out of her hair."
"She is?"
He nods. Grabs my coat. Leads me out of the apartment. "She's an eighteen-year-old girl who always has her older sister keeping her in line."
That's true.
"She wants to invite a boy into her room, drink cheap liquor, play music too loud."
"You're not encouraging me to stay."
"You'll have to let her go soon."
"I know." I press my lips together. "I just don't know how."
We have dinner at a quiet restaurant.
No photographers to capture our moment.
No paparazzi.
No one looking at us, really. No more than the usual.
He teases me that it's because I turn heads.
Maybe it's true.
Maybe it's us.
I don't know. Or care. I just want to stare into his eyes and trade stories about family all night.
It's perfect.
And it's mine.
We go back to his place. Fuck against the wall. Fall asleep in his bed.
Our bed.
I get home after Sienna's already left for school.
There's a note for me on the table.
Good work getting laid! I'll be at the library until ten, so feel free to bring your festivities home.
Love you.
Hate AP Gov.
- Sienna
I hold the note to my chest. I love her so much. I need, so badly, for her to be okay.
And she is.
She's smart and bold and funny and strong.
She’s on her way to a great future.
She doesn't need me anymore. Not the same way she did when we were kids. When we lost Mom to grief, and I had to pick up the pieces.
When I had to get the groceries, cook our dinners, make sure she studied and made it to school on time and had enough so she could play soccer.
That was her way out. A scholarship.
If Ty hadn't stepped in—
She might have dropped out of NYU. Asked a school that gave her a full ride to reconsider, even though she'd missed the deadline.
Moved to Florida or California or Boston.
Maybe that's better for her.
But it's not better for me.
I tape her note to the fridge, go to my bedroom, pick up my guitar.
I have to take off the ring. It's too heavy. I'm too out of practice.
But when I close my eyes, and press my fingers to the strings, I slip back into scales.
Chord progressions.
Songs.
I don't sing. I'm not there yet.
But I manage this.
For a few songs, everything crashes into me. My dad laughing as he turned down You Oughta Know.
Smiling as he asked my mom to dance.
The two of them in the living room, dancing to Marvin Gaye, giggling like teenagers.
The three of us—me, Sienna, mom—at my cousin's wedding. Mom bursting into tears when their wedding song played.
As Time Goes By.
The song from Casablanca.
We couldn't watch it after he died.
I put my guitar down. Fix a cup of tea. Put on the classic film.
It still feels like home. Like a home that will never be the same.
Maybe that's life. Growing up. Leaving my parents' home. Finding my own.
But it hurts.
It really fucking hurts.
So I keep my engagement ring in my drawer.
And I don't tell Sienna anything when she gets home.
Because she has finals. Because I can't distract her.
Because I can't say goodbye to the home we've made yet.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Ty
All day, I think about Indigo.
The sound of her groan, the taste of her lips, the feel of her nails against my back.
The sweet sight of her smile lighting up her deep blue eyes.
That is real.
I do want to marry her. So what if my motives aren't entirely romantic?
I repeat the mantra again and again as I head to dinner.
This is real enough.
I want her.
I care about her.
I need her.
Tonight, I'm forgetting the other details. They're gone.
We're two people who want each other.
It's that simple.
My shoulders relax as I move into the restaurant. It's a familiar space. One of Ian's favorites. Because of the fantastic gin selection and the strong drinks.
Today, I need one.
I stop at the bar. Order a bourbon, neat. Take in the restaurant.
They're already here.
Ian, in a black suit and a fuchsia tie.
Eve, in a low-cut black dress and combat boots, teal hair in a neat line at her shoulders, makeup dark and dramatic.
They're sitting side by side, laughing over drinks.
Gin and tonics no doubt.
That's another reason he likes the restaurant. The Fever Tree selection. And his understanding with management.
They'll serve his girlfriend without asking for her ID.
Necessary, what with her being nineteen and drinking age being twenty-one in the States.
It's ridiculous—why can someone go to war before they can drink—but that's the US.
I pay the bartender. Turn toward them.
There's a half-wall separating us. They can see me, but they're not looking. They're too caught up in each other.
"She's going to be jealous." Ian runs his fingers along his girlfriend's chin. "You're intimidating."
"Uh-huh." She laughs.
"You underestimate yourself." He traces the tattoo on her right arm, the quote from The Handmaid's Tale.
He's obsessed with the thing.
It was all he knew about her for a long time. That she had teal hair and a quote from The Handmaid's Tale permanently marking her body.
He's obsessed with both.
"It's my intellect?" She leans into his touch.
He nods, curves his hand around her neck, pulls her into a sweet kiss.
It's pure affection.
I expect my eyes to roll. But I don't have a single hint of irritation in my body.
No, there's something else in my stomach.
Envy.
Not because I want her.
Or because I don't want her stealing his attention.
Because they make it look easy.
I know it hasn't been easy. I heard enough of his side. And hers even.
But right now, the way they're staring into each other's eyes, flirting over their drinks—
They're the picture of love.
Of this passionate, beautiful love.
They're crazy about each other. And they're comfortable. In the way you can only be when you let your guard down.
Let someone know you.
Love you.
The real you.
It tugs at the stitches in my heart. Not because I had it.
Because I didn't.
I loved Rory. And she loved me. But I never really let my guard down.
I was so busy trying to fit into her perfect world.
Trying to convince myself I wanted the same things she did.
"Do you think he'll bring up Rory?" she asks.
"What would he say?"
"I don't know. Sometimes… I can tell you're thinking about your ex-wife. Not her, exactly, but—"
"My inability to trust."
"You're getting there."