I open my eyes to Elijah’s knowing, rueful smile. He was there that day too, the day our families went from beyond close to something else. Something cold and distant. Elijah and I had stayed close—we’d bonded over Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in kindergarten, and a TMNT bond is a bond for life—but the rest of our families peeled apart, as if there hadn’t been two decades of shared barbecues and Pictionary nights and babysitting and slumber parties and late-night card games filled with wine for the adults and as many snacks as could be quietly snuck up the stairs for the kids.
“It’s fine,” I say. It’s only a half-lie, because even though Dr. Iverson reminds me of that day—of the awful hole my sister’s death punched through my life—we’re always civil and polite when we see each other, which is often enough in a city as small as this.
“Hey, the event looks great,” I add, mostly to change the subject. The Iverson-Bell schism is an old wound, and Elijah’s under enough pressure tonight as it is. It’s his first big hurrah as the event coordinator for the Kauffman Center after leaving the art museum where he started out, and I know he’s anxious for tonight to go well. And the fact that it’s also the one event of the year his father and all his father’s colleagues attend…I know I’m not imagining the lines of exhaustion and stress on Elijah’s brow and around his mouth.
He nods faintly, whiskey-colored eyes scanning the room. With that efficient, peremptory gaze and squared jaw, he is a striking twin to his father—tall and black and handsome—although where Dr. Iverson frowns, Elijah has always been a person of smiles and laughs. “Everything seems to be running smoothly so far,” he says, still assessing the space. “Except I lost my date.”
“You brought a date?” I ask. “Where is he?”
“It’s a she,” he says, sending a grin my way, and then he laughs at my face, because Elijah hasn’t had a she date since he came out in college. “I’m teasing, Sean. It’s actually—”
A harried woman in a catering uniform scurries up to Elijah brandishing a seating chart, interrupting whatever he was about to say. After a flurry of whispers and a muttered dammit from Elijah, he gives me an apologetic wave as he runs off to put out whatever fire is igniting behind the scenes of the benefit, leaving me alone with my scotch. I glance back over to Dr. Iverson, who is staring at me. He gives me a nod and I nod back, and I don’t miss the cool compassion in his expression.
I know exactly what that cool compassion is for, and a screw tightens somewhere deep in my chest.
Get yourself together and get back to the victory lap, Bell.
Except I suddenly don’t feel like the victory lap right now. I feel like more scotch and some fresh air, and even with the massive glass wall overlooking the glittering skyline, I feel claustrophobic and restless—and the trilling melody of the string sextet in the corner is so fucking loud right now, expanding like gas to fill every alcove and balcony. I work my way to the terrace door almost blindly, frantically, just needing
out
out
out—
The night air drenches me in an abrupt cool quiet, and I take a deep breath. And another. And another. Until my pulse slowly rambles back to normal and the screw in my chest loosens. Until my brain isn’t a juxtaposed mess of casserole dishes and flowers, some from fourteen years ago and some from last week.
I wish it were just the memory of Lizzy’s death doing this to me. I wish there was no reason for Elijah’s dad to look at me with pity. I wish that there could be one shower, one meeting, one fuckfest with a gorgeous woman when I didn’t need to have my phone close by and my ringer turned up in case of an emergency. I wish that I could just be happy that I landed this Keegan deal, that I have obscene amounts of money and a sleek new penthouse, and a nice body and an even nicer dick and hair that does a thing.
But it turns out there are some things money and great hair can’t fix.
Surprise.
I drink the rest of my scotch, set the glass down on a high-top table, and venture deeper onto the grassed terrace. In front of me, the city rolls up a hill in a gentle flutter of lights; behind me is the stark curtain of glass and steel that marks my kingdom. Where I live, work, and play. And the air is filled with the summer music of cicadas and traffic, and I wish, just for a fucking moment, that I could remember what it was like to listen to those noises with a sense of peace. That I could stare at these lights and not remember the blare of hospital fluorescents, the beep of monitors, the smell of Chapstick.
There’s hardly anyone else out on the terrace—although the night is young, and I’m certain drunk socialites will be laughing and tippling here as soon as the dessert plates are cleared away. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for the moment of solitude before I head back into the victory lap, and I suck in one final grass-scented breath before I go inside, and that’s when I see her.
It’s the dress I see first, actually, a glimpse of red, shivering silk, a flicker of a hemline dancing in the breeze. It’s like a red cape waved in front of a bull; within seconds, I’m Sean Bell again, victory lap and all, and I reverse direction, following the seductive glint of red silk until I find the woman it belongs to.
She’s facing away from the glass and the milling rich people on the other side of it, leaning against one of the massive cables anchoring the top of the building to the terrace. The breeze plays with the silk along her body, ruffling the skirt and painting mouthwatering outlines of her waist and hips, and the city lights gleam along the warm brown skin of her exposed arms and back. I follow the groove of her spine down to where her dress sweeps over the swell of her ass and then back up to the delicate wings of her shoulder blades, which are crisscrossed by thin red straps.
She turns at my footsteps, and I almost stop walking because fuck, she’s pretty, and double fuck, she’s young. Not like jail-young—but maybe college-young. Too young for a thirty-six-year-old man, certainly.
And yet I don’t stop walking. I take a spot leaning against the thick anchor cable next to her and put my hands in my pockets, and when I look at her, both our faces are completely illuminated by the golden light spilling out from the benefit.
Her eyes widen as she looks at me, her lips parting ever so slightly, as if she’s shocked at my face, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing, but I quickly dismiss the notion. More likely she can’t believe how great my hair is.
Unless—do I have food on my face or something? I surreptitiously run a hand over my mouth and jaw to make sure, and her eyes follow the movement with an avidity that kindles a hot, tight heat low in my belly.
In this light, I can finally see her face properly, and I see that she’s not just pretty. She’s stunning, she’s incredible. She’s the kind of beautiful that inspires songs and paintings and wars. Her face is a delicate oval of high cheekbones and wide brown eyes, a slightly snubbed nose with a stud glinting at the side, and a mouth I can’t take my eyes from. Her lower lip is smaller than her upper one, creating a soft, lush pout. The entire picture is framed by a spray of corkscrewed curls.
Jesus Christ. Pretty. What a stupid word to have used for her, what a bland shadow of the truth. Cakes and throw pillows are pretty—this woman is something else entirely. Something that makes me blink and glance away for a moment, because looking at her does this weird thing to my throat and my chest. Looking at her gives me this feeling like my hand is on a veil shrouding some powerful mystery, the way I used to feel looking at the stained glass windows of my church.