Chapter 9 #2
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Inappropriately honest for a conversation with a stranger. The kind of thing I'd never said to anyone, not even Tristan.
But there was something about the darkness. The anonymity of it. The way his face was just angles and shadows, impossible to read.
He considered the question for a moment. "Used to."
"What changed?"
"Made a choice. Wasn't easy. But it was mine."
I looked at him then. Really looked. His profile was sharp against the night sky, jaw set, expression unreadable. He looked like a man who'd made hard choices and lived with the consequences.
"How do you know when it's time to choose?"
"You don't. You just do it." He paused. "Waiting for the right moment is usually just an excuse not to act."
The words landed like stones in still water, rippling outward, disturbing everything.
I thought about the wedding. The altar. The vows I'd be saying in four weeks.
The right moment.
Had I been waiting for it? Telling myself that someday, somehow, things would change? That I'd feel what I was supposed to feel, want what I was supposed to want?
Or was I just making excuses?
"You should get some sleep," he said after a while. "The venue walkthrough tomorrow."
"Yes. The walkthrough."
He almost said something else. I saw his mouth open, saw him hesitate. The moment stretched between us, full of something I couldn't name.
Then it passed.
"Good night."
"Good night."
He'd walked away. I stayed on the terrace for another hour, watching the stars wheel overhead, reflecting on choices, excuses, and the burden of a life that wasn't mine.
The terrace felt warmer after that. Less empty.
"You told me to make a choice."
His voice brought me back to the present. "What?"
"On the terrace. That night." I turned to him, and the candlelight highlighted the angles of his face, the same face from my memory.
Older now, more familiar, but still those gray eyes.
Still that jaw like granite. "You told me to make a choice.
That waiting for the right moment was just an excuse. "
"I remember."
"I made one."
His throat moved as he swallowed. "I know."
We were close. I hadn't realized how close until now. Our shoulders touched, our faces only inches apart. The candlelight flickered between us, casting shifting shadows.
"Tell me about growing up," he said quietly. "If you want."
So I did.
I told him everything.
About the Langfords. About Langford Development Group—three generations of building Manhattan's skyline, reshaping neighborhoods, turning empty lots into empires.
About privilege and comfort, everything handed to me on a silver platter.
About expectations, legacy, and the weight of a name respected for generations.
I told him about Tristan, my older brother. The heir apparent. The one destined for greatness while I floated in his wake, the spare son, the insurance policy, the one with no real purpose except to exist in case something happened to the first.
"I did everything right," I said. "Columbia.
Architecture and real estate development, double major.
Graduated with honors, joined the family company like a good Langford.
" I swirled the bourbon in my glass. "But Tristan was being groomed to take over.
I was just... decoration. Three years of attending board meetings where no one asked my opinion.
Reviewing blueprints that had already been approved.
Sitting in on client dinners to fill an empty chair. "
"You have two degrees and they made you a placeholder?"
"I had ideas. Good ones, I think. A historic preservation project in Brooklyn, adaptive reuse of old factory buildings.
I put together a whole proposal." I laughed, but it came out bitter.
"My father said it was 'charming' and put it in a drawer.
Tristan got the real projects. I got event planning and photo opportunities. "
"So why the wedding?"
"Because I thought if I couldn't contribute like Tristan, at least I could do this. Be useful. Make the alliance my parents wanted. Give them something they could use."
"Alliance?"
"The Ashworths. Old money, good connections, a daughter who needed a husband. Elizabeth was perfect on paper." I stared at the candle flame. "Kind, intelligent, beautiful. Everything I should have wanted."
"But you didn't."
It wasn't a question. He'd figured it out—maybe from the beginning. A man doesn't run from his wedding to hide in another man's apartment without a reason.
"I couldn't." I took a breath. "I've never wanted women. Never felt that spark, that pull everyone talks about. I dated them because I was supposed to. Kissed them because it was expected. But there was never anything there."
Vance was quiet for a moment, processing. "Does Elizabeth know?"
"That I'm gay?" I shook my head. "No. Nobody knows. Except for my brother Tristan."
"He knows?"
"I told him junior year of college. We were drunk, and he was going on about some girl he was seeing, and I just..." I took a long drink of bourbon. "I told him I'd never felt that way about anyone. About any woman. He looked at me and said, 'Yeah. I figured.'"
"He suspected?"
"He's observant like that. Noticed things I thought I was hiding." The memory was warm, even now. The relief of finally saying it out loud. The way Tristan had just nodded, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "He told me it didn't change anything. That I was still his brother."
Vance's hand found mine in the darkness. He squeezed.
"And your parents?"
"They don't know. I never told them." I traced a finger along the rim of my glass. "I thought about it once. But my mother—she has these ideas about what a Langford should be. And my father only cares about legacy, about the family name. I knew they wouldn't understand."
"So you hid."
"I hid. For years. Dated women I felt nothing for, smiled at parties, played the perfect son." My voice was steady, but my chest was tight. "I thought if I performed well enough, the feelings would go away. Or at least stop mattering."
"Did they?"
"No." The word came out raw. "I felt nothing for Elizabeth. For eighteen months, I dated her, held her hand, kissed her goodnight. And I felt absolutely nothing. Just guilt."
We sat in silence. Vance's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, a steady point of contact in the darkness.
"Tristan didn't come to the wedding," I said finally.
"Because he knew?"
"He was the only one who knew the truth. When I told him about the engagement, he just looked at me with this expression—" I shook my head. "Disappointment. Not at me. For me."
"What did he say?"
"He asked if I loved her. I said love wasn't the point. He said love was always the point." I finished my bourbon. "He refused to attend. Said he wouldn't watch me do this to myself."
"Smart man."
"I hated him for it at the time. Thought he was abandoning me when I needed him most." I set down the empty glass. "Now I think he was the only one trying to save me."
The candles had burned low by the time I finished talking.
Vance hadn't let go of my hand. His grip was warm and solid, an anchor in the dark.
"You're out now," he said quietly.
"Am I?" I looked at him. "I'm hiding. I gave up everything—family, money, my entire life. And I don't even know if it was the right choice."
"Do you regret it?"
The question hung in the candlelit air.
I thought about Elizabeth's face at the altar, waiting. My father's cold fury, my mother's confusion. The life I'd left behind—the money, the name, the carefully curated existence that had suffocated me for twenty-six years.
"No." The word surprised me with its certainty. "That's terrifying. I should regret it. But I just feel lighter."
"That's not terrifying. That's the point."
"You really believe that?"
"I believe you're braver than you think." His voice was rough. "Anyone who folds napkins that precisely has their life together."
A surprised laugh escaped me. The tension broke.
"That's your assessment? Napkin-folding as a measure of psychological stability?"
"It's as good as any."
I shook my head, still smiling. "You're ridiculous."
"Probably."
We were very close now. Close enough that I could see the candlelight reflected in his gray eyes. Close enough to count the individual lines at their corners, the faint scar above his left eyebrow.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Just for a moment. Then back up.
Something electric passed between us, making my breath catch and my heart slam against my ribs.
"We should sleep." His voice was rougher than before. Strained.
"Yeah." I didn't move. "We should."
Neither of us moved.
Then Vance stood, offering his hand to help me up. I took it, and when I rose, we were standing too close. Chest to chest. His hand still holding mine.
The moment stretched.
His eyes were so gray. So close. His mouth was right there, inches away, and I could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of my shirt.
Kiss me, I thought. Please.
The power came back on.
The sudden blaze of light was blinding. We both flinched, stepping apart instinctively. The TV flickered to life, showing a late-night infomercial at full volume. The refrigerator hummed. The microwave clock blinked 3:00 AM repeatedly.
Normal. Everything was back to normal.
Except nothing felt normal at all.
"3 AM," Vance said, checking the microwave. "You should get some rest."
"So should you."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've been working all day and talking all night."
He almost smiled. "Bossy."
"Organized."
"Same thing."
I went to the bedroom. But I didn't sleep.
I lay awake, listening to the sounds of Vance settling onto the couch, and thought about the way he'd looked at my mouth. How his eyes had darkened. How his hand had felt holding mine.
Something had cracked open between us.
There was no going back now.