33 - Isa #2
Marisol mutters something about a ‘damn gargoyle’ but settles back into her alcohol-free wine with gusto, letting the conversation turn to business.
Gunner says nothing. Never does when words would be redundant. But he lifts his glass slightly when I look his way. The gesture so small someone else might miss it. A nod toward Adrian and me together. His wordless blessing lands heavier than any eloquence could.
Across the table, Daphne has been sneaking glances at me between sketches all evening.
"Your shirt," she starts, then her fingers flutter to her collarbone, tracing the neckline of her own dress.
"The way you move in it. I kept watching you across the table and thinking—" She stops, laughs once at herself, quietly.
"Sorry. That sounds strange. I just mean the lines of it.
I sketch a lot of clothing." She turns her notebook slightly, just enough.
A page of figures in motion, one of them unmistakably me.
"It doesn't sound strange," I say, and watch her shoulders relax fractionally. Her fingers return to the notebook, but she offers me the smallest smile before looking away.
Adrian's hand slides from my back to my thigh under the table, possessive and warm, his thumb finding the spot where my jeans are worn thin. The touch sends heat straight to my core, making me shift in my chair. He knows exactly what he's doing. The bastard always knows.
Wren notices a bruise on my wrist. She catches me looking and as our eyes meet, I see it immediately.
That recognition between people who carry darkness inside.
Wren knows exactly what that bruise really is, what it means, what kind of woman lets herself be marked that way and finds peace in it.
Her gray blue eyes hold understanding that goes bone deep.
Wren's mouth curves in the slightest smile.
But even as Wren's knowing look lands, the old reflex stirs: did Adrian ask her to be kind tonight? Did he arrange this too?
Old question. New arrangement. I lean into his shoulder. "Did you put Wren up to that?" Quiet enough for only him.
"No." No performance in it, no charm. Just the flat truth, delivered the way I taught him to deliver it, with a knife between us.
I nod and let it go. That's the strangest miracle of the new terms — not that he answers. That I believe him.
"To survival," Wren says quietly, lifting her glass just enough for me to notice. The words carry weight. We both know what we've survived, what we've done to keep breathing.
"Wait, wait, if we're doing toasts, I need the spotlight!
" The Siren rises from her chair dramatically, every movement calculated for effect.
"To our beautiful disasters!" She throws her arms wide, performing even here, even for us.
"To the family that breaks apart and comes back stronger!
To love that survives even our spectacular attempts at sabotage! "
"You're mixing metaphors," Logan observes.
"I'm mixing everything, darling. It's called art."
"Jesus Christ," Marisol mutters, but the Siren continues with a performer's inability to be stopped.
"And sometimes that's exactly what two people need." She raises her glass high, and somehow light catches her face perfectly, like even the universe arranges itself for her performances. "To Adrian and Isa. To choosing each other with eyes wide open."
Eyes wide open. The phrase echoes as I drink the wine Adrian selected. Something expensive and blood red that coats my tongue. In my jacket pocket, flat against my ribs, ten years of blank pages answer her toast better than words could.
The Siren drops back into her seat, and my muscles melt and relax.
Movement beside me draws my attention. Juliet drops into the empty chair at my right, no announcement, no hesitation. Just suddenly there, alive and whole
"Speaking of terrible choices," she says.
She's late, hair still damp but clean. Fresh from a real shower, not harbor water.
Though she still looks tired, shadows under her eyes that weren't there before Santiago's island.
But she's here. Alive. Not floating in Miami harbor because I sent her to confront Santiago Zayas.
Not dead because of my advice. She bumps my shoulder with hers, casual intimacy from the woman I was certain I'd killed.
"You look like you're thinking too hard. "
"At least I’m not out swimming overnight like someone with a death wish," I tell her, relief making my voice crack slightly.
"I swim like someone who learned in a Hamptons pool and thought three miles was doable." She steals a plantain from my plate without asking, the gesture so normal it makes my chest tight. "Next time I confront my demons, I'm taking a proper boat back. With a captain who actually waits."