Chapter 58
fifty-eight
“Do you think he’s awake?”
Ella’s whispers pull me from my dream. A very pleasant one, where Juliet and I are back on the floor of my closet, but with much softer carpet.
Cracking my eyes open sends a jolt of pain through my skull. Right , my weak mind rasps. I’m on Grayson’s couch. Because I’m the most miserable, sorry son-of-a-bitch in Manhattan. And he had to rescue my dumb ass from a bar last night .
As if on cue, my insides seize up, clutching and roiling. I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing myself not to puke all over Stryker’s white leather sofa. One unfortunate vomit incident per week is my absolute limit.
“Probably not, if he knows what’s good for him,” Grayson mumbles back. “I thought he sobered up a bit after you made him dinner, but that last fifth of scotch really knocked him out. I haven’t seen him that fucked up since his whole spring-break-jellyfish thing.”
Usually when my friend brings up his favorite embarrassing memory, he laughs. But his voice is quiet. Troubled.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Ella murmurs. “He’s wearing a hoodie , Gray.”
My best friend sighs heavily. “There’s something going on with his father’s company and his brother. He told me some of it about last night, but he was wasted, and it’s… a legal matter. I promise I’ll tell you more when I can, Ellie.”
I hear her kiss him. Jesus . Maybe it was a mistake to come to their love nest while distinctly lovesick.
More kissing. Then Ella gives a quiet hum. “I’m so worried about him, Gray. Are we sure this is all about work? There isn’t something else? Look at him.”
A long, ominous pause proves I look as shitty as I feel… and Grayson is suspicious.
My gut clenches. If waking up here proves anything, it’s how much Stryker means to me. He’s the brother I chose—the one who chose me.
With my father worse than a stranger, Juliet gone, and Christian fucked-up... Grayson is the only family I have.
Once he finds out I’ve been fucking Juliet, will he finally give up on me? Who would blame him?
Finally, Grayson speaks again. “I’ll figure it out, baby girl. I don’t want you to worry.”
I hear a quiet sigh. “You know I’m bad at not worrying,” Ella admits, resigned.
A smile warms Grayson’s voice. “That’s why I love you, Ellie.”
“I love you, too.”
I never got to hear Juliet say those words. Because she doesn’t love me.
Somewhere around my fifth scotch, I realized—all that time I spent falling deeper and harder? To her, I was just a paycheck and a hard dick.
The bitterness of that thought strikes me, burning through my haze like a hot coal melting gauze. The flicker of outrage flares under the heap of ash where my heart used to be.
I grab it eagerly, using it as motivation, dragging myself upright with a loud grunt. The unfamiliar room spins on its side, blurring as my stomach lurches again.
Right , my feeble brain murmurs. I’ve never been here before . This is their new townhouse .
Honestly, what the fuck? How many things can I screw up in one month? Waking up hungover and heartbroken on their couch was not the housewarming I had in mind for my best friends.
“Christ,” I mutter, dropping my face to my hands.
Grayson settles onto the sofa beside me. He passes me a mug of coffee. “Keep your eyes closed and drink this fast.”
Too weak to argue, I snap my eyes shut and gulp. The contents of the mug are lukewarm, but they still scorch a path down my throat.
Whiskey . I nearly gag.
“I told him not to put liquor in there,” Ella mumbles, coming to sit on my other side. Her hand brushes over my arm, the gesturing comforting. “He insisted it’s the only thing to help your hangover.”
I feel Grayson shrug. “Unless he wants an IV. I can call someone.”
My insides protest violently for a long second as the coffee blazes its path to my stomach. There, the warmth flares out and settles. Languid numbness smothers my nausea.
Relieved not to blow chunks all over their brand-new living room, I tilt my head back and chance cracking my eyes open. Blinding white, the stark, high ceiling reflects morning down at me. I cringe. “Damn it, Stryker, why is your house so bright ?”
“I like natural light,” Ella chirps. “The windows are my favorite thing about this room.”
My retinas burn. “Remind me to look around when my retinas regenerate.”
“You’re not missing much,” Grayson claims. “We’ve only been back for thirty-six hours. The movers did what they could, but going from four rooms to twenty-four makes for a whole lot of empty. Doesn’t help that the lady of the house refuses to shop for furniture.”
Holding my breath, I force myself to sit up and look around. The Upper West Side townhome is a magnificent find. Pre-war but fully renovated, it has classic charm and modern amenities; Ella’s warmth and Grayson’s trademark minimalism.
We appear to be in a living room of some sort. I spy a balcony out back and realize we aren’t at ground level. Off to the right, there’s an elevator disguised as a set of gilded mercury glass doors.
“How many floors do you guys have?”
Ella groans, “Please don’t remind me,” at the same moment Grayson clips, “Seven.”
Obviously, this is a sore subject.
“One of them is a basement,” she rushes to add, obviously chagrinned. “And the top is an outdoor living area.”
Grayson smiles into his own coffee while he points out, “A basement with a five-car garage, a theater room, a gym, and a security office for Marco. Kitchen, dining, drawing room, and formal living on the first floor. Master bedroom, bathroom, dressing rooms, and sunroom on the third. This is the second floor—informal living, Ella’s library, and the solarium.” He rolls his shoulders again. “The other floors are just my office, guest rooms, and a terrace each.”
Jesus . No wonder he dropped thirty-five mil on the place.
I note the sheer size of the one room we sit in. They must have a quarter of the block . “Where the fuck are we anyway?”
“West 75 th and Amsterdam,” he says. “Ish. We have a good chunk of the block, so it’s hard to determine which cross street is actually closest.”
Ella’s cheeks pinken while she fidgets with her homemade sweater. “I once told Gray I liked the view of the San Remo,” she murmurs.
I can’t fault her for that. The San Remo is a famous New York co-op facing Central Park. The building itself is beautiful. I’ve always secretly liked it, despite growing up on the East Side.
And then something horrible happens.
For a few seconds, my stupid, sluggish mind forgets . And I find myself picturing what it would be like if I took a cue from my best friend, sold my bachelor pad, and bought a real family place.
Jules would like the San Remo , I think stupidly. She could have her own office. All purples, if she wants.
Like a bucket of frigid water, reality rushes back over me.
I swallow hard, hoping neither Ella nor Grayson noticed my expression. My friend is watching his fiancée, but, unfortunately, she has her eyes on me. The hand resting on my arm slides down to grip my hand. She lays her blonde head against my shoulder.
“Oh, Graham,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t be talking about all of this right now.”
I want to laugh it off, stuff it down. I mean, am I seriously so fucked that I can’t be happy for them? But every time I try to reassure her, I can’t speak.
Grayson coughs. “Right. Sorry.”
Ella pats my cheek. It reminds me of Abuelita. Another blade of pain slices through me, followed by a staggering wave of guilt.
I all but promised to take care of her granddaughter. And I failed. Just like the other men that failed them before me. I need to call her .
That’s the right thing to do. I also have to deal with the Valentine’s gift I already purchased.
While that stone sinks into my center, Ella stands. And—I swear—I’m so fucking depressed I can’t even enjoy the way her sweater rides up in the back when she stretches.
“I’m going to go start breakfast. Do we want waffles or pancakes?” she asks no one in particular, then answers herself, “You know what? I’ll make both. And eggs.”
She pauses, looking around the big room before shaking her head at herself, stomping over to the elevator and muttering, “Ridiculous to have to use a damn elevator to make my fiancé breakfast.”
Grayson stares straight ahead, doing his best to keep his lips straight. Once Ella disappears behind the mercury glass doors, I drink another burning mouthful of cool coffee and sarcastically quip, “So it’s going well, then?”
His good humor gets the best of him for a beat, turning his mouth up at the corners. “She’ll get used to it. Yesterday, she wouldn’t even use the elevator. Spent the entire day walking up and down the stairs. By dinner, her legs were shaking.”
That sounds like Ella. She would never complain about Grayson’s largesse. She’d just stage a peaceful protest and inadvertently martyr herself in the process.
“Well, she got in it today,” I point out. “Wonder what changed her mind.”
That time, he can’t get a hold of his grin. “Something must have gotten into her…”
I know that look. Smug, but trying to be a gentleman. It’s the same one I had when Christian asked why my back hurt.
“You bastard,” I mumble. “Seducing that sweet girl to the dark side. You should be ashamed. So did you do it in the elevator, or…?”
“Mind your own business, shithead.”
My mind whirls, wondering what my business even is anymore. “Hard to do when you don’t have any. No career, no family.” No Jules. “And, soon, no money.”
Grayson and I have been friends for a long time. We don’t need a lot of words. Instead, he sits back and settles in, making it clear he isn’t going anywhere.
And— fuck —I can’t tell him.
I won’t.
It’s better this way, isn’t it? He’ll just continue pitying me instead of hating my guts—and Juliet won’t lose everything she’s worked so hard for.
For some reason, that’s the thought that solidifies my decision. She isn’t mine and maybe never was—but I love her. I will always protect her when I can.
I drink another slug of coffee, staring out the window with Grayson. It’s a nice view. Trees, other beautiful townhomes across the street, the San Remo’s towers beyond.
“Hey, Grayson?”
“Yeah?”
“What does pinchao mean?”
He smirks at the memory of Miss Rivera handing me my own ass. “Pretty boy.”
A hopeless laugh scrapes up my throat. Because, damn it all, she’s funny . And brilliant and sharp and beautiful.
And all of the things I’ll never have again.
Bittersweet hits my heart like an arrow.
What a fucking bitch.
I miss her already.