13. Young Folks
Young Folks
After our afternoon tryst, Broderick and I make it back just in time for the bridal party to be corralled into the Rose Terrace Garden for the rehearsal.
While I’d cleaned myself up, my legs were still shaking, and I’m doing my best to pretend I hadn’t just been fucked stupid on my bedroom floor.
Broderick looks smug and satisfied in a charcoal suit with his signature black button-down—the picture of sin.
I’m dressed in a black lace number that hugs in all the right places, and by the way Broderick looks at me—hungry and possessive—I know he approves.
“You’re looking pretty hot, Mini Montgomery,” James croons into my ear.
Ew. Mini Montgomery?
Every hair on my body rises in disgust. Did he seriously think that was a cute term of endearment?
Broderick’s face darkens—thunderous.
“Jim, go stand next to Avery—she’s your partner,” Broderick says, territorial as hell, swatting James off like an annoying fly.
I chuckle into my hand.
“Alright, everyone,” Yasmin calls out, clapping her hands with the kind of no-nonsense energy that could whip a hurricane into formation. “Let’s run this from the top. Walk to the beat of the song, please.”
I’m trying to take it seriously—really, I am.
But Broderick leans in, voice low and smooth against my ear. “We should shimmy down the aisle.”
I snort-laugh before I can stop myself, earning a full turn-and-glare from Avery. Philippa rolls her eyes. Andrew looks delighted.
“Sorry,” I mumble, biting my lip, trying to keep a straight face.
Broderick, of course, looks entirely too pleased with himself.
As we line up to run it again, he bumps his shoulder into mine.
“Race you to the altar,” he whispers, grinning.
“Brody,” I shoot back, warning in my tone—but I’m smiling too.
When Yasmin calls us forward, Broderick takes an exaggerated step, offering his arm like we’re about to make our debut at a royal coronation.
“Your royal highness.”
I roll my eyes but slip my hand into the crook of his elbow anyway, the familiar spark crackling where our skin meets.
“Behave,” I hiss as we start walking.
He just grins, eyes glinting with mischief.
We make it halfway down the aisle before he gives a subtle shimmy—just enough to make me laugh again.
Yasmin lets out a long, tired sigh. “Guys, seriously—you have to do it like you would on the day.”
“Sorry,” we say in unison.
Neither of us look even a little bit sorry.
Philippa shakes her head, but there’s something in the way she looks at us.
Almost as if she’s happy to see Broderick so relaxed and carefree.
Over the last forty-eight hours, Broderick hasn’t touched his phone to check work emails, heck.
He’s living completely in the moment and I love seeing this playful side of him.
It warms my heart that perhaps I have something to do with it, that maybe our agreement is mutually beneficial for the both of us?
“Hey, Dad, you all rested up?” I ask, meeting Jack at his room.
“As good as I can be. This place is a bit posh, isn’t it?
” he says, tugging at the white button-down that hangs a little loose on him.
I’d bet money he borrowed it from Robbie, our neighbor back home.
Jack isn’t one for fancy things. When he married my mother, his “wedding best” was a clean flannel shirt and a brand new pair of flip-flops.
He offers me the crook of his arm and I take it, letting him escort me down to the Grand Dining Room.
The rehearsal dinner looks like something out of a movie—soft candlelight flickers against crystal glasses and gold-rimmed plates, the long table draped in flowers trailing between each guest like an enchanted garden.
Broderick is already there, chatting with Riley, drink in-hand.
He turns when we enter, his gaze raking over me—silk sage dress, hair swept up into a stylish updo, my mother’s earrings catching the light.
Dimples flash in his cheeks, betraying the smirk he tries to contain.
Riley notices and gives me a look far too mischievous for her own good.
“Hey, guys.”
“El—you look…wow,” Broderick stumbles, words catching.
“This must be your fella?” Jack asks, extending his hand.
“No, Dad.” I shoot him a look. “This is Broderick, the best man. You must not have seen my last email—we broke up.”
Jack regards me with one raised brow, but says nothing.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” Broderick offers quickly, hand out.
Jack takes it. “Likewise, mate. So—how do you fit in with the happy couple?”
While Jack and Broderick exchange polite pleasantries, Mortimer and Carole arrive from the far side of the table.
“Looks like we’re here, honey,” Carole says lightly to my father. She turns to the group with a gracious nod. “Good evening, everyone.”
“Things are in a strange order,” Mortimer mutters, already displeased. “I’ll have to speak to the staff.”
Trust Mortimer to find fault with something—tonight it’s the seating chart.
I notice my place card is next to Broderick’s instead of Philippa’s.
“Oh, no, Dad, that’s my fault,” Philippa chimes in sweetly. “I switched things up. I popped Broderick and Elena next to each other—as the leads of our bridal party.”
Mortimer nods like her explanation barely clears the bar. But I can tell Philippa did it on purpose.
“Aww, that’s so thoughtful, Pip,” Riley teases. “I’m sure Brody and El will love that.”
“What’s with the El?” I ask, brow raised.
“It’s catching,” Riley shoots back.
“So is the plague.”
“Told you, El,” Broderick adds proudly.
“I think it’s sweet,” Carole pipes up.
I roll my eyes.
“Is this another name I need to add to the list instead of just using your actual name, Eleanor?” Mortimer says, but his tone is light almost playful.
Eleanor, my eye twitches. What the hell is going on?…Did he just make a joke?
Soft laughter reverberates through the group, and the blood rushes to my face.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” someone announces, saving me from further weirdness.
Everyone drifts toward their seats. I brush past Jack, who’s next to Riley.
“Reckon that fella likes you, kiddo,” he says, nudging me.
“Oh my God, Dad, stop,” I hiss, cheeks scorching even more.
Taking my seat between Riley and Broderick, I’m painfully aware of the deliberate space between us. Every time his arm brushes mine, it sparks like a livewire.
Riley leans in as everyone settles, voice low enough only I can hear.
“So…I spoke with Andrew’s aunt.”
I arch a brow, sipping my drink. “The one with the diamonds the size of grapes?”
She nods, eyes gleaming. “Yeah. Turns out she owns a vast collection of Pollocks.”
“Naturally.”
“I convinced her to let us display a few at the gallery,” she says, practically vibrating. “My boss is going to lose it.”
“Riley!” I grab her arm, grinning so hard it hurts. “That’s incredible. Boss babe energy. I’m so freaking proud of you.”
I pull her into a hug, squeezing tight.
She shrugs, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, I needed a distraction. And, well…I happened to get acquainted with her during a game of croquet.”
“Croquet?”
“Mmhmm.” Her eyes flick—not subtly—across the room. Toward Luca, stoic at his post in a tailored black suit.
Something happened. But I know Riley. Timing is everything.
“You seduced your way into the Pollock deal playing croquet?” I whisper.
“Technically, I won.” She smirks. “She was impressed with my wrist action.”
I snort champagne up my nose. “Years of practice.”
She chuckles, sipping her drink. “She also mentioned needing commissioned work for her Aspen place—she wants ‘bold, feminine energy.’ I showed her a few of my pieces, and she wants something—from me!”
My jaw drops. “Riley…this is huge.”
“I know,” she says, eyes gleaming between disbelief and pride. “Feels like New York’s finally giving me a seat at the table.”
“You’re not just at the table, babe. You’re carving it yourself.”
Her eyes shimmer. She bumps my shoulder. “You’re gonna make me cry and ruin my mascara.”
“You can cry,” I murmur, raising my glass. “You’re living your dream.”
“And so are you,” she says softly, clinking flutes. “We’re doing it, babe—together!”
We hug again before easing into dinner—course after course of decadent food. I focus on Riley, refusing to glance at Broderick, who sits chatting casually like he hadn’t just kissed me breathless earlier.
As dessert arrives, Andrew has Philippa cradled in his arms. She glows in pale ivory silk.
Then Mortimer rises, adjusting his cufflinks the way he always does when he’s nervous.
“If I may.” His voice is smooth, practiced. The room hushes.
He glances at Philippa, and for a second, it’s as if they’re the only two people there.
My chest aches—envy, admiration, something messier in between.
He lifts his glass. “I want to say how incredibly proud I am of Philippa. Watching her grow into the woman she is—successful, poised, sharp—it’s more than a father could ever hope for.”
Beside me, Riley nudges my foot under the table, sensing my chest tighten.
Philippa beams, radiant. I try—really try—to be happy for her.
Mortimer’s gaze sweeps down the table and lands on me. His face softens.
“And,” he adds, clearing his throat, “I’d be wrong not to say how fortunate I am to be blessed not only with one incredible daughter—but two.”
What?
I school my expression neutral, thanks to Kylie’s training, but inside I’m chaos. Another performance? A grandstand? And in front of everyone. In front of Jack.
Under the table, Broderick catches my hand. His warmth steadies me—a reminder that I wasn’t alone.
I don’t look at him. My eyes stay on my father.
The room is silent.
His eyes stay fixed on me, gentler than I’ve ever seen. “Having both my girls home, together, means more to me than I can say.”
A lump rises in my throat.
“And I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge someone very important who should be here—Vida. Philippa and Elena’s mother.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Jack shift, uncomfortable.
“Vida was truly remarkable. Formidable. Stubborn. Graceful. And beautiful. One look at my daughters confirms that.”
Soft laughter ripples.
“Her strength, her heart—I know she would’ve been so proud to see you both become the women you are. To see you together. I’m sorry she isn’t here, but she’s with us—in all the ways that matter.”
He pauses. “I hope we can start over. As a family. I know it’s what she would have wanted.”
He doesn’t know what she would want. Did they even speak after the divorce?
I’m thunder inside.
He raises his glass. “To Vida—for raising such incredible daughters.”
After a long pause, polite applause. Glasses lift.
Philippa glows, eyes glistening. And though it stings—though I feel second—I’m happy for her. She deserves this.
I force a smile, raising mine. Inside, I’m cracked open.
Broderick gives my hand a squeeze.
“To family,” Mortimer says.
“To family,” the room echoes.
I echo too—through clenched teeth.
Across the table, Philippa watches me, gauging my reaction. For once, I let her see. Let her know it lands like a grenade. But I won’t risk another meltdown. This weekend isn’t about me. It’s about my sister.
Because as skeptical as I want to be, another part of me aches to believe him. Always on the outside looking in—it’s exhausting.
When the dinner finally ends, I slip away to my dimly lit room. The fire already going, casting gold across the walls.
My phone buzzes.
I chuckle despite myself. He always finds a way to pull a smile from me, even when I’m low.
Broderick
Want some company, Eleanor?
Elena
Not tonight, Beauford. I’ll see you at the altar.
Broderick
I’ll be the one in a tux.
Elena
I think I’m in a polka dot jumpsuit.
Broderick
You’d look sexy in anything.
Elena
And even better in nothing.
Broderick
I’ll be there in five minutes.
Elena
Behave. Good night, Beauford.
Broderick
Good night, baby.
By the time I finish a long, steamy shower, Philippa is curled up on my couch in silk pajamas, clay mask perfectly applied, tea in hand.
Minutes later, I match her—mask cracked, hair piled up, mugs of tea between us. We look as far from glamorous as possible. A welcome reprieve.
“You ready for tomorrow?” I ask, settling beside her.
She smiles softly, tucking her legs under her like when we were kids. “I think so. Honestly, I’m just ready for it to be over. I mean, I’m excited, but…” She exhales. “It’s exhausting keeping up appearances.”
I smirk. “That’s where I come in. I’ll cause a scene. Keep it interesting while you and Andrew run off into the sunset.”
She laughs quietly. “I’d expect nothing less.”
The fire crackles. My mask flakes more.
“You okay? After what Dad said?”
“I don’t know. It was…a lot. I didn’t expect it.”
She nods, eyes steady. “I could tell.”
“It’s weird,” I admit, leaning back. “Part of me wants to believe him. Another part…doesn’t know if I can.”
We fall into an easy silence—the kind that only exists between people who understand each other.
After a while, I set my mug down, rubbing at my face—then groaning when I remember the mask.
“You know,” I whisper, voice thick, “I don’t think Mom was ever broken—until she was loved by him.”
Philippa’s grip tightens on her cup.
“They ruined each other,” I say. “Whatever love they had, it tore them apart. She left to escape it, but she was so bitter. I saw it. I felt it.”
Philippa’s lashes glisten in the firelight.
“And sometimes…I think that bitterness trickled into me. Like it’s in my bones. Like maybe that’s why I can’t let people get too close.”
She sets her tea down and slides closer until her knees touch mine, taking my hand.
“Elena,” she says gently, “you are not her mistakes. You’re not his, either.”
My eyes sting.
“I know you saw things differently,” she adds. “But Mom loved you. So much. She was hurt, yes. But she wanted more for you than she had. You don’t have to carry that for her.”
I shake my head. “If I forgive him, it makes what he did to her okay—especially now she’s gone.”
Philippa is quiet for a beat. “No, I don’t think it does, but we can’t keep carrying it. I hate that they did that to us.”
I look at her, walls down. There’s comfort in that.
We sit like that a while—two sisters with shared wounds and no perfect fix, but still trying.
Philippa nudges me. “Your face mask’s peeling.”
I laugh. “Guess that’s what happens when you get too emotional during spa night.”
She leans her head on my shoulder. “Maybe we needed this weekend more than we thought.”
“Maybe we did.”
We don’t say goodnight. We just drift into sleep—curled up together like we used to, tea gone cold on the table, the fire casting its last glow across the room.
Wrapped in warmth, in forgiveness, in the fragile comfort of mending bridges and rebuilding something between us—something stronger than ever.