50. Travis
Travis
After my father died, I was washed over by a brief, brilliant wave of grief.
Almost like I was standing at the edge of the world, watching the flash of an atomic bomb move closer and closer, a wall of light I could not jump over or avoid.
Then it went around me, over me, through me, and I felt the pain of his loss for an hour before it subsided, and my brain belonged to me once more.
That is, arguably, the greatest loss I’d had in my life.
Until Serena… losing Serena has been so much worse.
Perhaps it’s the fact that I hated my father, or perhaps it’s the fact that he died, instead of packing his things and walking out the front door. Maybe the truth is that I never loved Stephen Oakley—or was loved by him—in a way that was anything close to what I had with Serena.
Now, I pace back and forth in my room, bowtie undone and hanging around my neck, my entire body feeling like a ticking time bomb. Ryan opens the door, slips inside, and tries to put a hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, man,” he says. His eyes are red and dark from another sleepless night, just like mine. “We could just not go.”
I look up at him quickly. “I’m not going to make Graham do this by himself.”
“Of course not.” Ryan winces and glances toward the door like the mess is just on the other side. In a way, it is.
If Alex is planning to make his “big reveal,” he’ll do it tonight, at Graham’s National Park Gala. There’s some sort of irony in the fact that Alex is choosing to really fuck over the brother who cared about him most and was loyal the longest of all of us.
So, as much as I want to crawl back into the hole I came out of, I won’t. I can’t. Graham is my brother, and no matter how tough he acts, he’s not ready to go through this on his own. And I would never let him.
Alex belongs to both of us. A shared responsibility.
“Let’s go.” Ryan claps his hand down on my shoulder once more, squeezes it, then we’re moving together through the hallway, into the elevator, and down to the ballroom of the downtown Onyx Hotel.
It’s the same hotel where I first followed Serena, chasing her down the halls like a kid. Now, I hate being here.
On the main level, we turn to the right and head into the ballroom, where chandeliers sparkle merrily. Champagne is already flowing, and the room is full of everyone.
Before we knew what Alex was planning, we’d figured this kind of event would be good networking.
Several of Onyx’s biggest stakeholders are here.
Ryan sent an invite to his show-runners and the publishing house for his cookbooks.
And Graham, of course, has invited half of the American government here so they can drink free wine and bubbles and learn more about the park he wants to preserve.
On the far wall, a video plays on loop, showing Graham in the park, climbing up to the grotto. Occasionally, he stops to tell the camera about a rare flower or bird. There are cupcakes with fondant and chocolate toppers shaped like native plants.
And propped up on easels throughout the room are the photos Serena took for him.
I can tell without asking that she was the photographer, can feel her on the other side of the camera like she’s in the photo herself.
Shots of the grotto, sun dappling in through tree leaves and waterfall mist. Graham turned, gazing up at her, a look of wonder in his eye. I recognize that look. I felt it the first time I saw her, then again when she burst into my office, demanding that I fire her.
That feels like a century ago, now.
I can’t help but feel numb. Ryan and I wander through the party, and my mind turns over the situation once more, feeling along the edges, looking for a solution.
In the quiet after she left, we’d stood around looking at one another. It happened so fast. I’d started for the door, thinking I could follow her, make sure she got home safe, at the very least.
But Graham caught me by the arm, said quietly, “Maybe we need to give her space.”
None of us wanted to give her space. That night, we got wasted and talked over what we could do to get her back. We came up with way too many ideas on how to make Alex stop, stopping just short of murder.
Awful or not, Alex is still our brother. Not to mention the fact that I’ve done my best to keep my hands completely clean.
The best I could do was make a call to my lawyers, asking them to look into Alex. When I got off the phone, Graham had said, thoughtfully, “Maybe it’s not just Alex we should be looking into.”
So I made a few more calls, and now I’m waiting to hear back.
Ryan and I drift through the crowd, past billionaires, lobbyists, producers, and government officials. A few socialites take pictures in a corner, their faces lit by the glittering chandelier.
There’s even a rumor that the vice president herself might appear tonight. Maybe there’s one happy ending in all of this—Graham might save this park after all.
We meander past the band, and I reach out for another glass of champagne, eyes scanning the crowd.
Security for the event is on the lookout for my brother, but I’ve not had the best luck with security recently, and I’m on high alert for a mic-tap, and an “excuse me” echoing out across the room in Alex’s voice.
“Travis.” Ryan reaches for me, tugging on my arm, and when I turn, I expect to see my youngest brother, maybe descending from the ceiling like a spy.
But it’s not Alex.
“Serena,” I whisper, blinking, then looking down at my glass like it might be spiked with a hallucinogen.
She’s wearing a shimmering gold dress that hugs her curves and warps in the light, flashing with each purposeful stride she takes through the crowd. Her hair is up, twisted and pinned like some of the other women here. Elegant.
Gold eyeshadow glimmers on her face. Her cheeks are flushed, and her gaze is locked concretely on Ryan and me.
“I just got notice that—” Graham says, appearing at our sides, looking around wildly. Ryan grabs his elbow and turns him in the direction of the stunning woman walking toward us.
“Serena,” Graham says in disbelief.
Ryan says, “Okay… so I’m not having a nervous breakdown.”
And then Serena is in front of us, her eyes bright and determined. She’s a vision, all that copper hair spilling out over her shoulders, her chin lifted. Then she takes my lapels in her hands, drags me down, and kisses me hard.
Everything jumps inside me—the acknowledgment of what this means. The fact that everyone—everyone—can see us right now. How public this is. The statement it makes.
My hands come to life and I start to reach for her, to pull her into me, cradle her body in my palms, but she pulls away, breathing hard, and reaches for Ryan instead.
I turn, watching in stunned silence as she does the same with him, pulling him in, kissing him.
He gets his hand on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, before she pulls back and turns to Graham.
Graham doesn’t wait for her to step forward. He grabs her, picks her up, and kisses her. Without even having to look around, I know everyone is staring. I can hear the frantic click, click, click of the cameras around us.
Of course, as a man who grew up semi-publicly, there’s a sense of fear. But more than that, I feel relieved.
Serena breaks away from Graham’s arms and, breathing hard, says, “I’m sorry for leaving. You were right—Ryan was right. You all make me happy. And what’s the point of working so hard if I can’t live life the way I want? If we can’t live the way we want?”
More clicking cameras, the soft murmur of a shocked crowd getting a show. But all I see is Serena, beautiful and confident, having come all the way here to do this. For us.
With us.
It doesn’t matter what Alex tries to pull now. What we’re doing is no longer a secret.
“So…” Serena’s confidence wavers for the first time since she walked into the room. Like so many times before, she looks at each of us, then swallows. “If you still want me?—”
I step forward, kiss her again, and whisper, “Of course we do. You’re the only thing I’ve ever really wanted, Serena.”
There are open mouths as we go, heads swiveling to watch as the four of us walk out of the ballroom together.
In the distance, at the front of the room, just on the other side of security, is the gaggle of Serena’s friends, whooping and whistling, creating the only other noise in the large, shocked, echoing space.