Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vivian
I got exactly zero hours of sleep last night.
Zero.
Not “I dozed off around 3 AM and woke up groggy.” Not “I got a solid four hours but felt like death.”
Zero.
Because at 11:47 PM, Fitz Lovejoy—that absolute menace—decided it was the perfect time to start texting me about Quinton’s impending confession to my brother.
Fitz: Just left Quinton’s flat. He’s telling Julien tomorrow. Thought you should know.
Fitz: Very noble of him, really. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.
Fitz: I’m thinking about nominating him for a knighthood. “Sir Quinton Wesley, Knight of Terrible Decisions.”
Fitz: Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Fitz: Although “Knight of Shagging His Best Friend’s Sister,” is more accurate.
Fitz: Do you think the Queen would approve? She’s dead, but still.
Fitz: I’m workshopping titles. “Duke of Piss-Poor Judgment?” “Earl of Emotional Catastrophe?”
I blocked his number around 1:30 AM. But the damage was done.
Quinton was going to tell Julien.
Today, which meant I had approximately, because I checked the clock on my dashboard, forty-seven minutes to get to the clinic, intercept Quinton, and stop him from committing what could only be described as emotional suicide.
Not that Julien would actually care.
My brother and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. We weren’t siblings who called each other for advice or had heart-to-hearts over wine. Julien tolerated me. I enjoyed annoying him. It was a perfectly functional love-hate dynamic that had worked for twenty-eight years.
But Quinton didn’t know that.
Quinton thought Julien was going to murder him.
Which—okay, fine—Julien might murder him. But it wouldn’t be because of some overprotective big brother nonsense. It would be because Quinton interrupted his perfectly organized schedule with unnecessary emotional drama.
Focus, Vivian.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter and glared at the silver sedan in front of me that had been going exactly the speed limit for the past three miles.
“Move,” I muttered. “Move, move, move!”
The sedan slowed down for no reason. There was no stop sign. No red light. No pedestrian crossing. Just a perfectly clear road and this asshole deciding that 6:47 AM was the perfect time to test my patience.
I honked.
The sedan didn’t move.
I honked again.
Still nothing.
“Oh, you want to play this game?” I said, my voice rising. “Fine. Let’s play.”
I switched lanes, accelerated, and pulled up alongside the sedan. The driver, a middle-aged man in a polo shirt, glanced over at me with the kind of bland, unbothered expression that made me want to ram my Honda Civic straight into his rear axle.
Instead, I smiled. Sweetly.
Then I flipped him off and sped past.
Mature, Vivian. Very mature.
But I didn’t have time for maturity. I had approximately forty-three minutes to get to the clinic, find Quinton, and convince him that telling Julien was a terrible idea.
Not because Julien would care. But because Quinton would spiral, Julien would be annoyed, and I would be stuck in the middle of a completely unnecessary emotional explosion that could’ve been avoided if everyone just kept their damn mouths shut.
My phone buzzed.
I glanced down.
Fitz: Unblocking me won’t change the fact that Quinton’s going to confess.
Fitz: But it will allow me to provide live commentary.
Fitz: Which I think we can both agree is the real tragedy here.
I groaned and tossed my phone into the passenger seat.
Forty-one minutes.
I could do this. I had to do this. Because if Quinton walked into Julien’s office and confessed, my brother was going to look at him with that flat, unimpressed expression he reserved for people who wasted his time, and say something like, “Is this really necessary?” or “I don’t care who you’re sleeping with, Quinton. I care about the schedule.”
And Quinton—sweet, overthinking, catastrophizing Quinton—would interpret that as rage.
Which would lead to panic. Which would lead to him avoiding me.
Which would lead to me losing the one person who made me laugh so hard I cried and who looked at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.
Nope. Not happening.
Not today.
I pulled into the clinic parking lot at 7:04 AM, my heart pounding and my hands shaking from a combination of sleep deprivation and caffeine.
And there—right there—was Julien’s car. Parked in his usual spot and the driver’s side door open as the man himself stepped out with his tablet, his coffee, and that expression of mild irritation he wore like a second skin.
Perfect.
I whipped my Honda into the spot directly next to his, slammed on the brakes, and turned off the ignition in one smooth motion.
Julien looked up and his eyes narrowed.
I jumped out of the car, plastered on my brightest smile, and called out, “Good morning, Julien!”
He stared at me.
Then at his watch.
Then back at me.
“What are you doing here so early?” he asked, his voice flat.
Think, Vivian. Think.
“I—uh—wanted to talk to you!” I said, walking toward him with the kind of forced enthusiasm usually reserved for people trying to sell timeshares. “About Mom and Dad’s anniversary dinner!”
Julien’s expression didn’t change. “Their anniversary is in three months.”
“Exactly! Which means we need to start planning now.”
“We don’t need to plan anything. Mom already planned it.”
“But what if she didn’t plan it right?” I said, stepping closer. “What if she forgot something important? Like—like the seating chart?”
“There’s no seating chart. It’s a dinner.”
“But what if there should be a seating chart?” I pressed. “What if Aunt Carol and Uncle Dennis end up sitting next to each other and they start arguing about politics again? Remember last Thanksgiving?”
Julien closed his car door and locked it. “Vivian, I have a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“This will only take a minute!” I said, following him toward the clinic entrance. “I just think we should coordinate. You know how Mom gets when things aren’t perfect.”
“Mom doesn’t care.”
“She absolutely cares. Remember her fiftieth birthday? She cried because the cake was vanilla instead of chocolate.”
“That was Dad’s fault.”
“Exactly! Which is why we need to take charge of it this time.” I was talking faster now, my words tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to keep him distracted. “We should pick the restaurant. And the menu. And the guest list. And—oh God—what about the gift?”
Julien stopped walking and turned to look at me. “Vivian,” he said slowly. “Why are you really here?”
Shit.
“I told you. Mom and Dad’s anniversary.”
“Is in three months,” he repeated. “And you’ve never cared about planning family events before.”
“That’s not true! I care!”
“You forgot Mom’s birthday last year.”
“I didn’t forget. I was just late.”
“By two weeks.”
“I was busy.”
Julien’s eyes narrowed further. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing! I just—” I scrambled for something, anything, that would sound believable. “I just thought it would be nice to do something special for them. You know, since they’ve been married for thirty-five years and we’re both terrible children who never call.”
“I call.”
“Once a month. On schedule. Like a robot.”
“That’s more than you.”
“Which is why I’m trying to make up for it!” I said, irritation creeping into my tone. “By planning this dinner! Which you are actively sabotaging by refusing to help!”
Julien stared at me for a long moment, and then he sighed. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I have a meeting.”
“But—”
“Later, Vivian.”
He turned and walked toward the clinic entrance as I stood there, watching him go, my heart pounding. How long was that? Five minutes? Six?
Not long enough. I needed to stall him longer. I needed to— “Vivian?”
I froze.
That voice. I knew that voice.
I turned slowly to find Quinton standing at the edge of the parking lot, his bag slung over one shoulder, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. “What are you doing here so early?” he asked.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Then opened it again. “I—uh—”
Julien’s voice cut through the air. “Quinton! Good. You’re here. I need to talk to you.”
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
Quinton’s face went pale.
He looked at Julien.
Then at me.
Then back at Julien. “Now?” he asked weakly.
“Yes, now,” Julien said, already heading toward the clinic entrance. “My office. Five minutes.”
Quinton didn’t move.
I didn’t move. We just stood there, staring at each other in the middle of the parking lot like two people watching a train wreck in slow motion. “Vivian,” Quinton said quietly. “What are you doing here?”
I swallowed hard. “Trying to stop you from doing something stupid.”
“I have to tell him.”
“You really don’t.”
“I do.”
“Quinton.”
“Vivian.” His voice was firm. Steady. Terrifyingly calm. “I have to do this. I want to do this.”
“He’s not going to care,” I said desperately. “Julien doesn’t care who I’m dating. He barely cares that I exist.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is! We’re not—we don’t have that kind of relationship. He’s not going to be mad. He’s just going to be annoyed that you’re wasting his time with unnecessary emotional drama.”
Quinton smiled. It was a small, sad smile that made my chest ache. “Maybe,” he said. “But I still have to tell him.”
“Why?”
“Because you deserve better than being someone’s secret.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
And for one brief, terrifying moment, I thought I might cry.
“Quinton!” Julien’s voice echoed from the clinic entrance. “Are you coming or not?”
Quinton took a breath and then he walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine, and headed toward the clinic as I stood there, frozen, watching him go.
This is it, I thought. This is the moment everything changes.
And I had absolutely no idea if that was a good thing or a terrible thing.
Probably both.