Chapter 19
Rows of handwritten notes swim in front of my vision. I reach for the cup of coffee that turned cold a few hours ago, wincing as a sip of the forgotten liquid settles in my empty stomach.
My phone buzzes, and I reach for it, thrilled about the interruption. I’ve been studying nonstop since this morning.
“You free for a drink?” Keira asks, skipping a usual greeting. “’Cause I could really use one.”
I laugh. “Sure. You’re in the city?”
“Yep. Had to meet with a couple of suppliers and do some wedding stuff. Juliet suggested meeting at The Adams Club?”
“Yeah, I know where that is. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Perfect,” Keira replies. “She’s bringing Gavin, by the way.”
The nudge, nudge in her voice comes through loud and clear. I roll my eyes, but don’t respond to it. “Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up and head upstairs to get changed.
Prescott and I are … good. We’ve worked through most of the awkwardness following my trip to Martha’s Vineyard that I neglected to tell him about. He apologized for overreacting. I apologized for not mentioning the trip to him. On the surface, our relationship is back to no ripples. We’ve gone out to dinner together twice this week. Wednesday afternoon, we met up with a group of law school friends to study-slash-commiserate about bar prep and talk about our approaching jobs. Most of them are set to start as first-year associates in late August, same as me. A couple are doing clerkships.
But beneath the surface, I’m treading water. I’m working to keep my head up. It’s not effortless or easy.
All relationships require work.
This silent struggle feels like something else. And it would be an easier battle to fight if I stopped falling asleep with a paper flower in my hand, dreaming about playing tic-tac-toe in the sand.
I finish getting ready, then call Prescott.
“Hey, babe.”
I grit my teeth, irrationally irritated by the endearment. Haven’t I told him I hate being called babe? I must have. But I can’t think of a concrete example, all of our conversations, recent and otherwise, one big blur in my head with no details standing out.
“Hey. You busy?”
Prescott sighs. There’s rustling in the background, like flipping papers. “Just studying. Couldn’t be happier about the interruption.”
I smile as he echoes my sentiments. “Feel like grabbing a drink with a couple of friends of mine? Keira is in town, and Juliet is bringing her boyfriend.”
“Yeah, that sounds great.” Pres’s response is genuine and immediate. I’m not as excited by his willingness as I should be, but I push my reservations away. Keira was right; it’s weird they haven’t met him yet. “Want me to pick you up?”
“Sure. We’re meeting at The Adams Club though. It’s out of your way.”
“I don’t mind. See you soon.”
“See you soon,” I echo, then walk toward the back door to let Scout out.
He sniffs around his favorite bush in the backyard for a few minutes, then finally lifts his leg. I feed him an early dinner, change out of the leggings I’ve worn all day, then load dirty dishes into the dishwasher until the doorbell rings.
“You look amazing,” Prescott says, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to my mouth before we head outside.
It’s the perfect temperature tonight, the June air warm but not hot. I doubt July and August will be this pleasant.
“Thank you,” I reply, pushing aside the awkwardness he appears oblivious to. He’s sunny and warm, and I feel like the dark cloud hovering. “You clean up pretty well too.”
He smiles. “I was in sweatpants twenty minutes ago.”
“Same.”
“You still on contracts?” he asks as we walk toward his car.
“Yeah. You?”
“Civ pro today.”
I groan, and Pres’s grin grows.
The drive to the bar is filled with easy conversation, no lags or lurches.
That’s the thing with Prescott—sometimes, it is easy. We are easy—for him. Prior to our argument about Martha’s Vineyard, I can’t remember the last time we fought. We were platonic friends for over two years before he asked me out on a date.
It makes me feel foolish—for craving challenge, for creating problems in my own head simply because uncomplicated seems wrong and boring. Wrong can be unfamiliar. Boring can be reassuring.
We’re last to arrive at The Adams Club. Keira, Juliet, and Gavin are all gathered at one end of the bar, right by the hostess stand. I give Keira and Juliet hugs, then reintroduce myself to Gavin. I’ve only met him once before.
Keira flashes me a subtle thumbs-up as she talks to Prescott. I’m pretty sure he sees, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter for a few seconds before he regains his composure.
We place drink orders, eyeing tables that look like they might open up soon, when Keira suddenly calls, “Tuck!”
We all turn to watch Tucker look this way. His face lights up with a smile as soon as he spots Keira. My stomach sinks as soon as I see who he’s with.
“I guess they travel everywhere as a couple now,” Juliet whispers to me. “Keira’s third-wheeling in her own relationship.”
I manage a smile, feeling faintly nauseous.
I’m positive Tucker dragged Ryder here. He appears highly uncomfortable, looking around at all the mahogany and brass this place is decorated with. At the elegant woman playing piano while wearing an evening gown. This is everything he hates—ritzy and overpriced and pretentious.
And when Ryder’s eyes land on me, I’m certain Tuck didn’t mention I’d be here. He looks startled and unsure to see me, the ice I thought we’d broken through reappearing, even more so when he spots Prescott’s hand resting casually on my lower back.
Thankfully, the bartender chooses this moment to return with the drinks, providing a distraction from all of us watching Tucker and Ryder approach.
I down half my martini in one gulp, but it does nothing to settle my stomach.
I knew I’d see Ryder again, obviously.
He’ll be at Keira and Tucker’s wedding. He’s the best man. But that’s not until September. The rest of my summer was supposed to be Ryder-free.
I’m uneasy about how we left things, about how quickly he broke through walls of resentment that had taken years to build.
Suddenly, I’m self-conscious of everything I wasn’t a second ago—my hair, my outfit, my lipstick, my choice of drink even. Wondering what Ryder sees when he looks at me.
Because … I care.
I care what Ryder thinks of me. His opinion is the one that matters most to me.
That should have changed, but it hasn’t. I please my parents because I love them and want to make them happy. Our relationship was irrevocably changed after Rose passed away. It simplifies my life to go along with what they want for me. To let the current sweep me where it thinks I should go rather than fight to swim in the opposite direction.
But I meant what I told Ryder on the beach. If I’d had a different dream, I would have chosen it, no matter what my parents thought of that choice.
If he’d let me choose him, I would have.
“Hey, man. I’m Tucker.”
The guys have reached us.
“Prescott,” Prescott replies, smiling at Tucker. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too. Congrats on graduating.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you working at the same firm as Elle?” Tucker asks him.
“Nope,” I answer, smiling. Standing silent isn’t an option, not with Ryder a few feet away. I desperately need a distraction.
Prescott shakes his head. “I’m working at one of Gray’s main competitors. We might have to go up against each other at some point.”
“My money’s on Elle,” Keira says from her spot tucked under Tuck’s arm. “No offense, Prescott.”
“None taken,” he replies, glancing at me. “My money’s on Elle too.”
“This is my best friend, Ryder,” Tucker says.
I hold my breath, for some reason, when Ryder and Prescott shake hands.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Prescott says.
Ryder nods, not saying anything.
I think Pres interprets his silence as shyness because he asks, “You live in Boston?” like he’s trying to coax Ryder out of his shell.
“No. Fernwood.”
“James is my best main contractor,” Tucker boasts.
“I’m your only main contractor,” Ryder replies. “It’s a stupid title you made up to annoy me.”
Tucker grins widely. “Bingo, buddy.”
I experience a swell of affection toward Tucker Franklin. As far as I can tell, he’s the one person who’s always been there for Ryder. Who Ryder has always allowed to be there for him.
“Ryder James. Why does your name sound so familiar?” Prescott muses.
The vodka in my stomach hardens to ice. “I think I see a table opening up,” I blurt. “We should go?—”
“I just got released from Leavenworth,” Ryder says quietly. “It was in the papers.”
Prescott snaps his fingers, nodding enthusiastically. “Right! That’s it. It must have been in the Globe.” The satisfaction of solving his little mystery fades slowly, somberness replacing triumph. “How, uh, how long were you in for?”
“Seven years.”
“Wow. I—wow. Must be nice to be out.”
I’m certain Prescott has never met anyone who’s served time in prison before. His childhood was as sheltered and privileged as mine. The closest he’s gotten to criminal law is taking classes on it. It’s obvious he has no idea what to say to Ryder.
Maybe I’m being too harsh. Most people would have a difficult time navigating this conversation.
“At least friends can’t spring happy hours on you in the inside,” I say, attempting to lighten the uncomfortable moment.
“Oh, Ry picked this place,” Tucker says quickly, nudging Ryder with his elbow. “Soon as we packed up for the day, he was begging to go somewhere fancy.”
Ryder rolls his eyes. “I need a beer.”
“Wait till he sees the prices here.” Tucker grins, then follows Ryder toward an opening halfway down the bar top.
“I didn’t think Tuck would want to drive into the city after work,” Keira tells me quietly. “He finished early, wanted to surprise me.”
I hear the subtext loud and clear. She didn’t know Ryder would be here.
“You got a good one,” I reply, smiling so she knows I’m not upset with her.
I’m so happy for Keira. But, God, my life would be a lot simpler if she were marrying anyone else.
Keira’s gaze follows Tucker, her expression softening. Her smile turns dreamy. “I know.”
“How did you and Tucker meet?” Prescott asks.
Keira glances at me before answering. “We, uh, went to school together. We both grew up in Fernwood. Just … found each other, I guess.”
“Table, guys! Table!”
We all look at Juliet, who’s pointing toward an open booth in the back.
I grab my drink and follow Prescott over to the table. Keira pauses to tell Tuck where we’re headed.
None of my dread dissipates as I slide across the cool leather of the booth, next to Juliet. Gavin’s arm is draped casually over her shoulders as he types something on his phone. I find his lack of attention annoying, but Juliet doesn’t seem to care. And I’m just as senselessly irritated by Prescott’s polite conversation with one of the waiters as he orders another cognac.
“Want anything, babe?” he asks me.
My nails dig into my palm before I answer, “Sure. Another martini, please.”
Our second round of drinks arrives at the same time as Keira, Tucker, and Ryder.
Keira ends up sitting on the other side of Prescott, their polite conversation easily audible as I sip on my martini. She’s asking if he’s from Boston originally.
“No, I’m a West Coast guy,” Pres replies. “My dad works in tech. I grew up in San Francisco.”
“Oh, cool,” Keira says. “I went to Stanford for college.”
“I loved Stanford. And I was playing tennis, so I was very tempted to go there. But I wanted to get a little farther from home.”
“Where did you end up?”
“Michigan.”
“My brother went there! He loved it.”
“Yeah, it’s a great school.”
“Do you have any siblings?” Keira asks.
“Nope.” Pres picks up his beer. “I’m an only child, like Elle.”
A very awkward silence falls, making it obvious I wasn’t the only one eavesdropping on Keira and Prescott.
Everyone here—with the exception of Gavin and, I guess, Prescott—knows I’m not technically one.
Prescott’s brow wrinkles as he tries to figure out what the sudden undercurrent of tension is.
Ryder’s expression is stony as he takes another sip of beer. I have no idea what he’s thinking. Is he judging me for not telling Prescott about Rose? I never told Pres I was an only child. He just assumed, logically, from the lack of siblings in my life. Rose’s death isn’t a topic that comes up naturally. I’m used to the important people in my life already knowing about my late sister.
Since I can’t come up with any natural way to redirect the conversation, I blurt, “Could I get out? I need to grab a water.”
“We can flag a waiter,” Prescott says.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve been sitting all day. Standing sounds good.”
He nods but frowns slightly at the flimsy explanation. I hastily slide out of the booth and hurry toward the bar.
It takes a minute for the bartender to work his way down to me.
“An ice water, please,” I request.
“Make that two.”
I stiffen at the sound of his voice, but Ryder says nothing else. When I gather the courage to glance over, his eyes are on the television behind the bar, focused on the baseball game. The Sox are losing.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I tell him.
“That makes two of us.” His gaze falls to the varnished wood of the bar top. “Cormac’s mentioned wanting me to see his campus, so when Tuck said he was headed into the city, I thought …” He shrugs. “I should get going soon. Cormac thought he’d be done at his internship at six.”
I’m taken aback—stunned really—by the strong urge that slams into me.
I want to see it. I want to be there to witness when Cormac proudly shows off his accomplishments to his big brother.
But Ryder has no idea that I’ve kept in touch with Nina or Cormac. And he doesn’t care, not the way I do. He never did.
“You’re a good brother,” I tell him.
“You’re a good sister,” he replies softly.
Cutting to the chase, like always. Not letting me hide. He knows exactly why I left the table.
I scoff. “Not really. I never talk about her. I only go to her grave once a year, on the anniversary of her death.”
“So?”
“So, shouldn’t I go more?”
“Why should you go more?”
I shake my head. “Stop asking questions. You only got the one.”
“We could play again,” he suggests.
“That’s a bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Another question. And you know why.”
The bartender appears with two glasses. “Here are the waters.”
I thank him, then take a long sip of one.
Ryder doesn’t touch his. He’s staring at me, and I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a diving board, having to decide whether to walk back or jump. I’m so, so close to admitting what I’m afraid Ryder has already realized—I’m not over him. I don’t trust myself around him. Not even here, in a busy bar with my boyfriend nearby. I’ve never had to be alone with Ryder to feel like I am.
“That guy, Elle? Really?”
I freeze, my mouth full of icy water as my veins surge with heat.
I’ve been careful. To keep us in the past. To coexist. To support Keira and Tuck without causing any conflict.
With four words, Ryder blew it all up.
How dare he?
I’m furious, but I’m even more stunned. Smacked straight in the face with a foul ball.
Ryder walks away before I can manage a single word.
I watch him until the door shuts behind him and he’s out of sight.
Keira’s drunk. Giggling as she leans heavily against a grinning Tucker. Juliet’s spinning on the sidewalk, Gavin’s full attention on her.
Prescott and I are the awkward, squeaky wheels tagging along with two happy couples. Standing with a foot of space between us.
Any buzz from the two martinis I drank has long since faded. I’m somber and sober.
Keira stumbles toward me with open arms. “So glad you came.”
“Me too,” I lie, hugging her back. Glance toward Tucker. “Get her home safe.”
He grins. “Always. Ry took my truck, so I’ll drive her car home.”
Juliet gives me a hug too. “See you in two weeks. Maybe sooner.”
“Two weeks?” I try to do some quick mental math on dates. Now that school has finished, all my days look the same. I barely know what day of the week it is.
“The Fourth of July!” Keira exclaims. “You said you’d come to the beach house.”
“And to celebrate your birthday,” Juliet adds.
Crap. I remember committing to that, back before graduation. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Hopefully you can join us, Prescott,” Keira says, glancing at him.
“I can’t, unfortunately,” he replies. “I’m going home to visit my parents.”
Immediate guilt. He never mentioned the trip again, so I assumed he decided against it.
“Oh. That’s nice,” Keira comments.
“Come on, Parker,” Tuck says, tugging on her hand. “We gotta get home.”
“Past your bedtime?” she teases.
“Yes,” he replies. “Crew’s showing up at six tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay.”
We all exchange goodbyes, and then Prescott hands his ticket to the valet. Neither Prescott nor I say anything until we’re in the car, driving toward my neighborhood.
“Your birthday is in two weeks?”
“Um …” I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth. Out of everything that happened tonight, that’s not what I was expecting him to bring up. “Yeah. July 5.”
A pause.
“Do you know when my birthday is?”
“Also July 5?” I joke.
“Nope.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. I’m not just apologizing for not knowing his birthday.
“Don’t apologize. Makes me feel better about not knowing yours.”
“Well, we’re both past twenty-one,” I say. “Birthdays don’t matter as much. All downhill once drinking is legal.”
My attempt to lighten the mood falls flat.
Prescott brakes at a red light, then looks over at me, his expression very serious. “When is Ryder’s birthday?”
I flinch, and there’s no way Prescott misses it.
“Answer isn’t I don’t know, right?”
“It was high school,” I tell him. “Another life.”
“Were you dating when he went to prison?” Prescott asks.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was hard to … watch it happen. He’s a good person. People make mistakes.”
Prescott snorts. “A mistake? He served seven years. That’s a hell of a lot more than a parking ticket.”
I sigh. “Can we not talk about Ryder?”
The light changes to green, and Prescott turns left. “Yeah. Sure. What do you want to talk to me about, Elle? Because lately, it’s not anything except the fucking bar exam. It’s not visiting my parents. It’s not your ex. You sure don’t want to have sex with me. So, it’s getting real hard not to read into all that.”
“Pres …”
“I’m trying to be understanding. I am. I’m just … do you even want to be in a relationship with me?”
“Of course.”
He shakes his head. “There’s no of course, Elle. Not after the way you’ve been acting lately.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
Prescott exhales heavily. “I don’t want you to apologize. I want you to … care, I guess. I want to feel like I’m not the only one invested in us.”
“I do care, Pres. You’re important to me.”
“Important …” He muses on the word like he’s never heard it before. “I’m important to you, but you’ve never looked at me the way you were looking at Ryder tonight.”
“We have some history, is all.”
“And what was the only child thing? What did I step into there?”
I close my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
This isn’t how I want to tell him about Rose, as part of an argument.
“Has anything happened between you and Ryder?”
“I’m not a cheater.” And two martinis were enough to punctuate that statement with plenty of righteous indignation.
“Felt like I was getting cheated on most of tonight.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Wow.”
“Not just … Ryder. All of your friends. You’ve kept us totally separate from your world. All the inside jokes and the awkward silences when they figured out how fucking clueless I was …”
“You’re making it sound way worse than it was.”
“Am I?”
Is he? I don’t know. I was distracted by Ryder the entire time, his parting words bouncing around my head the rest of the night.
Prescott stops the car in front of my brownstone a couple of minutes later. “I think we’re done, Elle,” he tells me quietly. “Just … done.”
The words hurt, but not the way they should. Not the searing agony I’ve experienced twice before.
It stings like salt in a wound. Unpleasant, but not life-threatening. Temporary. I know the pain will be gone soon.
I feel guilty for hurting Prescott.
And I’m angry with myself for my inability to be normal. To move on.
But I’m not heartbroken.
“That guy, Elle? Really?”
The gall of him to judge my relationship. To take one look at a nice, reliable guy and decide he’s wrong for me. And worse, for that snap judgment to be right.
“I’m so sorry, Pres,” I say softly. “Truly. I-I never meant to hurt you.”
Prescott heaves a sigh. “I know.”
I hope he does. Hope he’s not just saying so.
I offer him a final weak smile, then step out of the car and carefully close the door behind me. Watch his taillights disappear down the street.
As soon as I’m inside, I flop down on the couch and pull my phone out. Scout jumps up to snuggle against my side. Stroking his soft fur usually calms me. Not right now. I hold the phone against my ear so tightly that it hurts, listening to it ring. His number might have changed. But, for some reason, I don’t think it has.
He answers after two rings, yet says nothing.
We sit in silence, me glaring at the empty fireplace and petting Scout, until I can’t take it anymore.
“‘That guy, Elle? Really?’ What the fuck was that, Ryder?”
My imitation of his voice is awful, but neither of us laughs at the bad impression.
Yelling at him feels good. Right, as wrong as that sounds. I’ve tried so hard to be polite. To rise above. And that civility has done nothing to release the simmering resentment and rage I’ve held on to for years.
“It was a question.”
He’s not being glib, just literal. Still manages to just piss me off more.
“You don’t get to ask me that sort of question. Who I date is none of your damn business.”
His exhale is heavy. “I’m sorry I overstepped. I just want you to be?—”
“I don’t give a shit what you want me to be. I stopped giving a shit when you broke up with me.”
“Elle …”
“Actually, you didn’t just break up with me. You abandoned me. Twice! So, you don’t get to have any say in how I move on or who I move on with.”
A long silence, followed by a soft, “Okay.”
And I hate him for being agreeable. For not doubling down. For not yelling back.
For not fighting. In the moments I really need him to, he sets down his sword.
It makes me feel even worse about my conversation with Prescott in the car. Because I know exactly how he feels. Because praying someone else will care more is draining and exhausting and, in the end, pointless.
“You thought I’d stay single for seven years?”
There’s a pause as Ryder absorbs the poison in my words.
My thoughts and feelings are too snarled to sort out if the acid is unfairly aimed at him or not. If he deserves it or if I’m simply searching for an outlet for my own demons and shortcomings. Ryder’s always been the one person who seems equipped to handle my darkness. Who has never expected anything and only accepted.
“No. I didn’t think you’d wait,” he finally answers.
The change of phrase pummels me. Because in so many ways, I did wait. I still am.
“What the hell was there to wait for?” I snap.
“We’re over, Elle. We were never going to work. I’ve accepted that. You should too.”
“A guy who cares more about you than his golf score or his college frat.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Okay, fine. I don’t know him. Why are you calling, Elle?”
Anger is draining away, leaving pure exhaustion behind.
“Because you said I always could,” I whisper.
“Ryder?” a woman’s voice says.
There’s a muffled scuffle on his end, like a hand placed hastily over a speaker. Followed by a muted, “I’ll be right there.”
His hand doesn’t manage to block the woman’s answer, “Okay.”
I hang up.
Ten seconds later, he calls. I watch it ring, then roll over and stuff my face inside the crease of the couch, deep enough that I can’t hear or see and can barely breathe. Scream until my throat hurts.
Then, it dawns on me that he’ll probably be part of the Fourth of July celebrations, and I’ll have to start all over again.