Chapter 12-The Sister
He was already awake when I opened my eyes.
Not in the kitchen making coffee. Not checking his phone in the living room. In the guest room doorway.
Watching me.
The space between us felt wider than twelve feet of hardwood floor.
"Coffee's ready," he said.
Not good morning. Not did you sleep. Just—coffee's ready. Like we were strangers sharing an Airbnb.
I sat up. The sheets smelled like him even though he'd slept in the other room. "Thanks," I said.
He disappeared down the hallway.
I sat there for a moment. Staring at the empty doorway where he'd been. Yesterday I'd called it a mistake. Called us a mistake. And he'd walked away. Taken the guest room.
Given me exactly what I asked for. Space. Distance. The careful, controlled separation I'd spent years perfecting. I hated it.
He was pouring coffee when I walked into the kitchen.
Two mugs. The same ones we'd been using all week.
He handed me mine without a word. Our fingers didn't touch.
Richard looked up from his coffee. "Dinner's still on for Friday night," he said.
It took me a second to follow the shift.
"With Emma." His jaw tightened slightly.
"Yeah." I set my mug down carefully. "How are you feeling about it?"
A humorless breath left him. "Like my father managed to lie to two families at once."
The bluntness of it landed heavily between us.
Richard didn't talk about his father often. Usually, only in polished fragments. Controlled ones.
But this—this cut deeper than betrayal. "Emma said he kept an apartment in Boston for years," he said quietly. "Separate holidays. Separate life. Half the time he told us he was traveling for work, he was with them."
Them. Another family. Another daughter. I couldn't decide which part hurt more—the deception or the fact that Richard was still trying to make sense of it like there was a version he'd somehow missed.
"Do you still want me to go with you?" The question left me before I could pull it back.
"Yeah," he said quietly. Then, after a beat, "But if you don't want to, I understand."
His eyes lifted to mine then. Steady. Tired in a way I didn't think many people ever saw.
"I'll go." Something shifted in his expression. Small enough that most people would have missed it.
"Good," he said softly. And somehow the quiet acceptance of it felt more dangerous than persuasion would have.
"Richard—"
"You don't have to explain," he said. "Yesterday. What you said. I heard you."
I know you did, I wanted to say. That's the problem. Instead, I just nodded.
He pushed off the counter and headed toward his laptop on the coffee table.
"We should leave at seven," he said over his shoulder. Not we should talk. Not about what I said yesterday.
Just—logistics. Safe. Controlled.
The restaurant was the kind of place where the napkins were cloth, the waiters moved silently, and the menus arrived without prices.
Richard's hand settled at the small of my back as we walked in. I didn't pull away.
Emma was already there. Corner table. Early thirties, dark hair, guarded smile. She stood when she saw us.
"Richard."
"Emma."
They hugged. Awkward. Uncertain. Like two people who shared DNA but not history.
She turned to me. "Blaire," she said. "When Richard said he was bringing someone, I wasn't sure you'd actually come."
"Why not?"
Emma's smile turned measured. "Because meeting the secret half-sister seems like a lot for a first dinner."
Richard's hand pressed slightly against my back. "She wanted to come," he said quietly.
Emma looked back and forth between us. Reading the space. The way I hadn't moved away from his touch.
"Well," she said. "I'm glad you did." She gestured to the chair across from her.
Richard pulled it out. I sat. He took the seat beside me. Close enough that our knees touched under the table.
Emma watched us. Noticing the small movements. The way Richard shifted slightly toward me. The way I didn't move away.
"So," she said. "This is weird, right?"
"Extremely," I said.
Richard's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"Good," Emma said. "I was worried it was just me."
She had ordered wine. Red. The expensive kind that came in bottles without screw tops.
Richard poured. Three glasses.
"I don't really know how to do this," Emma said. "The whole—meeting the family thing."
"We're not exactly family," I said. Richard's knee bumped mine. Deliberate this time.
"Blaire."
"What? We're not."
Emma was watching me again. That measured smile is still in place.
"No," she said slowly. "I guess we're not." But something in her voice said she didn't quite believe it.
She talked about her mother. About growing up in Boston. About finding out six months ago that her father had another family.
Richard listened. Really listened. The way he did in depositions. In negotiations. When someone was telling him something that mattered.
But this was different. His shoulders were tense. His fingers wrapped too tightly around his wine glass.
I'd seen him face down hostile witnesses. Opposing counsel who played dirty. Senior partners who thought volume equaled authority.
I'd never seen him look this uncertain.
"Did he—" Emma stopped. Started again. "Did your father ever talk about my mother?"
Richard's jaw worked. "No."
"Right. Of course not."
The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Heavy.
I watched Richard's hand on the table. The way his fingers drummed once. Twice. Then stilled. An old habit. One I hadn't seen in years.
He was drowning.
"My father's an asshole," I said. They both looked at me. "I mean, I assume yours is too," I said to Emma. "Since he had two families and told neither of them about the other."
Emma blinked. Then laughed. Real this time. The kind that reached her eyes.
"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, he really is."
Richard's hand found mine under the table. Squeezed once. I didn't pull away.
Emma ordered dessert. Chocolate something with too many syllables. Richard got coffee. Black.
I watched them talk. Watched the way he leaned forward when she mentioned law school. The way his entire face changed when she said she was thinking about family law.
"You'd be good at it," he said.
"You don't know that."
"I know the gene pool. You've got the instinct for it."
She smiled. The measured one again. "Is that what you tell yourself? That it's genetic?"
"I tell myself it's practice."
"And her?" Emma glanced at me. "What does she tell herself?"
Richard's hand was still holding mine. "She tells herself it's control," he said quietly.
I should have pulled away. Should have made some sharp comment. Instead, I just sat there. Hand in his. His thumb making those same unhurried circles.
"And is it?" Emma asked. She was looking at me now. Direct. Unflinching.
"I don't know," I said. It was the most honest thing I'd said in weeks.
We walked Emma to her car. A rental. Black sedan.
She hugged Richard again. Less awkward this time. Then she turned to me.
"Thank you for coming," she said. "I know you didn't have to."
"Richard asked."
"He said you'd say that too."
I looked at Richard. He was studying the parking lot. Very carefully, not looking at us.
"What else did he say?"
Emma smiled. "That you were worth the wait."
She got in her car before I could respond.
We stood there. Watching her drive away. Richard's hand found mine again.
"She seems nice," I said.
"She is."
"You were nervous."
"I was terrified."
I looked at him then. Really looked at him. His jaw was still tight. His shoulders still tense. But his hand was steady in mine.
"Why?"
He turned. Met my eyes. "Because she's family," he said. "Because I want to do right by her. Because I don't know how to do this and I'm terrified of fucking it up."
The confession hung between us. Raw. Unfiltered. The kind of thing I never let myself say out loud.
"You didn't fuck it up," I said quietly.
"No?"
"No."
His thumb moved against my palm. That same unhurried pressure.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go home."
Home. Not your apartment. Not the safe house. Home.
We didn't talk on the drive back.
Richard's hand stayed on the gear shift. Mine stayed in my lap.
But when we got to my building, when he parked and turned off the engine, when we sat there in the quiet dark?—
His hand found mine again.
"Thank you," he said. "For tonight."
"You didn't give me much choice."
"I gave you every choice." He was right. He had. I could have said no. Could have stayed away. Could have let yesterday's mistake be the end of this.
But I didn't.
"She likes you," I said.
"She likes you, too."
"She doesn't know me."
"Neither do most people." It should have stung. Should have felt like the accusation Rowan used to throw at me. Instead, it just felt—true.
"I don't know how to let people know me," I said. The words came out before I could stop them.
Richard's hand tightened on mine. "I know."
We sat there. Engine cooling. My hand in his.
"I saw a different side of you tonight," I said finally. "With her."
"And?"
"And you were—" I stopped. Trying to find the right word. Richard waited. "Real," I said.
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I'm always real with you," he said finally.
My throat tightened. "I know."
We got out of the car. Walked to my building. Up the stairs.
Inside, I headed toward the kitchen. For water. For space.
For something to do with my hands that wasn't reaching for him.
"Blaire."
I stopped. Turned. Richard was still by the door. Watching me.
"I didn't check the lock," I said.
"I know."
"I always check."
"I know."
Eight mornings. Seven nights. And now this. I couldn't remember the last time I'd walked through that door and hadn't immediately turned back to make sure the deadbolt was locked.
"What does that mean?" I asked quietly.
He took a step toward me. Then another. Until we were standing inches apart in my kitchen.
"I think it means you feel safe," he said.
"With you?"
"With me."
The admission hung between us. I should have brushed it off. Should have made some joke. Should have put the distance back.
Instead, I stepped toward him. Put my hands on his chest. Felt his heartbeat under my palms.
"I'm sorry," I said. "For what I said yesterday."
"Don't—"