Chapter 24
The memory of James’s hands and what they did to me in that hotel lingers long after the conference. Weeks have passed, but the imprint is still vivid, impossible to ignore.
I know how he sounds in the morning. How he looks without a stitch of clothing. The small involuntary flex of his jaw when I tease him past the point of patience.
But we are back to our routine of office etiquette.
James is nothing if not disciplined. He looks at me in staff meetings exactly as he looks at everyone else: polite and a little distant. I tell myself I like it this way. That I need the distance, the plausible deniability of being just another associate in this office.
Except sometimes late in the day, I’ll catch him standing in his office, thumb pressed to his mouth in thought, gaze flickering to my office. Not every glance is for me, but every so often one is. And when it lands, I feel it everywhere.
I try to throw myself into my work, resetting my focus and priorities where they should be. But I can’t stop thinking about them.
Both of them.
I walk into the employee lounge to grab a breakfast bar and find Nash already there. He doesn’t see me at first, squinting intensely at the drip machine.
“You willing it to brew faster?” I ask, my voice sounding tired.
Nash looks up, and his whole face changes. That’s the thing about him: nothing subtle, every reaction obvious.
“Hey, doll,” he says.
“Hi, trouble.” I move around him, shoulder brushing his, and the energy between us is so different from what James conjures.
He grins and pours me a cup before I can reach for one.
“Am I gonna see you this weekend?” he asks, handing the coffee to me.
“Sure, I don’t think I have any other plans,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
He looks at me, puzzled. “Did you forget this weekend is the Fourth of July?”
My eyes widen. I most definitely forgot what this weekend was.
“Ugh. I did. The thing at James’s family lake house? Are you gonna be there?”
“Yep. It’s a firm-wide thing every year. You going?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Didn’t you just say you didn’t have any other plans?”
“I did.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you there.” He turns to leave the lounge. “Bring a swimsuit,” he says with a wink.
***
The drive to the lake house is a two-hour trek, the landscape changing from strip malls to back roads only lined with pine trees. The road curves and widens, the air shifting from smoggy to something fresher. I crack the windows and let it in.
Despite Nash’s instructions, I decided against wearing a swimsuit in front of my coworkers.
I told myself I’d treat this like any other work event, but the truth is, I’ve spent a week rehearsing casual hellos in my head, preparing for the collision of James and Nash and the rest of the office, with me as the pinball.
The Sterling lake house is not a house so much as an estate. All glass and cedar beams, with a dock that looks like it could moor a small yacht. There’s a circular drive with cars already lined up, a mix of luxury and more modest vehicles, and one motorcycle.
I pull in behind an aggressively red sports car and kill the engine. I step out of my car, the July heat hitting my skin before I ever get the door closed.
My sunglasses slip as I walk toward the house, the bridge of my nose already slicking with sweat.
Inside, the entry is enormous. The living room is cozy and calm, but beyond the windows the backyard is pure chaos: kids bombing into the water, partners and associates in various states of undress around the pool, drinks in hand and voices loud.
People from the firm are scattered everywhere, cliques arranging themselves on Adirondack chairs on the covered deck.
In the kitchen, there’s an entire countertop lined with salads and desserts and multicolored Jell-O shots. I spot Teresa over by the fruit tray, carving a watermelon with the focus of a woman who has three children and no patience for nonsense.
I say hello to her in passing as I make my way to the back deck.
When I step outside, Nash spots me from across the pool immediately.
He’s with a group of other paralegals, shirtless and barefoot, spearing a strawberry with a toothpick and grinning like he’s in his element. He starts toward me, not bothering to towel off the beads of pool water slicking down his chest.
A couple of the associates turn to look, following his line of sight, and I feel their eyes flick from Nash to me and back.
“Look who finally showed,” Nash says, sliding up next to me.
He smells like coconut sunscreen and the sugary punch they’re serving in Solo cups.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
“With the free food and open bar? Not a chance,” I joke.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “You look good. Like, ‘get-fired-from-my-job’ good.” His eyes dip down, then back up, and he bites his lip.
Before I can admonish him, I hear an announcement from behind me that it’s time for dinner.
I find my place at the table next to Kevin and his family, thinking it’s safest if I don’t sit next to Nash or James.
The spread is absurd even by Sterling standards. There’s pulled pork and burgers, and every kind of salad imaginable: potato, egg, pasta, and fruit.
I fill my plate and try to make small talk with Kevin’s wife, a woman whose name I’ve forgotten three times already and who is valiantly corralling two mashed-potato-smeared toddlers.
It’s a relief, this frantic domesticity, something to anchor my attention while Nash and some other employees get progressively rowdier on the far side of the patio.
I’m halfway through my meal when a hush falls over the table. I look up, and there’s James, standing at the head. He’s in a pale blue oxford, sleeves rolled, dark sunglasses still in place even as the sun hovers slightly above the trees.
He waits until all eyes are on him, then lifts his glass. Without ceremony, he speaks just loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Thank you all for coming out. Enjoy the food, the fireworks, and each other. And try not to break anything or burn the place down.”
The last bit earns a ripple of laughter, and the ice is officially broken.
He sits at the far end, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know the exact moment his gaze lands on me. I feel the heat of it, more intense than the July air.
I turn my attention back to my plate and resume eating.
By the time the kids have peeled away from the table, and the adults have started in on the pie, Nash is two beers deep and debating someone about the easiest way to sink a Jet Ski.
I slip away under the pretense of refilling my drink, ducking into the kitchen to escape the rising swell of voices.
Inside, the house is empty. I drift, glass in hand, along the picture windows until I find myself in a gallery of old family photos: generations of Sterlings posed at the water’s edge, some faded in color.
The oldest photo shows a boy with James’s features, a man with his father’s rigid posture, and a beautiful blonde woman standing on the same dock that’s visible beyond the glass.
A low voice startles me from behind. “That’s my mother.”
I turn. James stands just inside the threshold, hands in his pockets, head cocked.
“She’s beautiful,” I tell him.
“Yeah. She was,” he agrees as he makes his way over to me.
“You have her eyes.”
“Thank you.”
The moment is weirdly intimate, as if we’ve slipped outside the party into a blind spot. He brushes his hand against mine, and the contact is enough to snap us back to reality. This is neither the time nor the place for us to be this close. We take a step apart and look at each other.
For a moment, our time in Nashville flashes through my mind.
It’s his body straightening that breaks my train of thought. I straighten in response and turn to leave through the sliding back door, James following close behind me.
The speaker outside blares some Fourth of July jams playlist on Spotify as the sun continues to sink behind the trees. I look around, contemplating my next move. People are mingling, some still eating, and the kids are back in the pool swimming.
I spot a couple of empty Adirondack chairs by a firepit and decide to ride out the rest of the evening there.
I take a seat, extending my legs and crossing them at the ankles.
Settling back into the chair, I breathe in deep, taking in the sight before me as the last bit of sunlight dances across the water.
A body filling the chair next to me draws my attention. I turn to see who is joining me, and I smile when I see Nash.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, doll,” he replies, resting back into the seat. “You hiding from me?”
“Not from you. Just…from the general chaos,” I say, gesturing toward the patio, where two of our coworkers are arguing about the physics of fireworks.
Nash’s mouth quirks sideways.
For a while, we just sit side by side, staring out at the dark lake, the cicadas sawing through the silence. Nash props his feet on the fire pit and balances his beer precariously on one knee.
“So,” he says, “not to sound like a total psycho, but I missed you the last couple weeks.”
The words land with a little more weight than I expect. I open my mouth to answer, but all I have are excuses.
“I just needed a little space to reset after the trial,” I say, not quite meeting his eyes. “And then there was the conference, and—”
I trail off, feeling a pang of guilt and the impulse to apologize, but Nash is already smiling, softening the air between us.
“It’s cool,” he says, and the words land like a hand on my knee, steadying. “I just like hanging out with you.”
He leans back, tilting his head to look at the deepening sky.
“I like hanging out with you too.”
At that admission, I feel my chest warm, and all I can do is smile at him.
We hear a crowd of people behind and turn to see everyone gathering to watch the fireworks.
“Shall we?” he asks.
I nod my head, and we join the others as the first fireworks shoot off.
They come in bright, sequential bursts: flashes of red, then blue, then a fizzing gold that hangs over the water before falling.
People cheer, some kids scream with delight, and for a moment, there’s a silence while everyone waits for the next round.
I stand at the edge of the crowd, but close enough to feel the thump of the explosions in my chest.
To my right, Nash is a silhouette, hands in his pockets, face to the sky. The bursts light his face. He glances at me, and I can tell he wants to put his arm around my waist, but doesn’t, and it’s that hesitation that sends a tiny loss spiraling down my spine.
I look left and James is there, almost close enough to touch, a faint outline in the darkness.
He stands with the partners, hands clasped loosely in front of him, posture so rigid he might as well be another post in the deck railing.
His eyes are up, but I know from the line of his jaw that he’s aware of me, that he’s clocked my every movement since I stepped onto the lawn.
For a minute, the world compresses to this small wedge of night. Nash on my right. James on my left. And I am the negative space between them, filled with a sudden loneliness.
The fireworks continue to explode in the sky, but inside me, it’s just static silence.
How is it possible to stand between two men who have seen me undone, who have rewritten the geography of my body and my rules of engagement, and still feel more alone than I ever have in my life?
I’m unraveling.
When the finale comes, it’s a grand display of gold and electric blue. I close my eyes against the radiance, feeling the noise in my bones. When the last fireworks fade, the quiet returns, like the world is holding its breath.
I stand there, suspended between Nash and James, unsure which direction to lean.
The crowd disperses, parents wrestling damp children into towels, partners retreating inside. The lake glows in the moonlight, smoke drifting across the surface in slow, painterly wisps.
And I am left utterly alone.