Chapter 2
There is nowhere like New York City. Especially New York City at the start of summer, waking up from a long stretch of frigid winter, followed by damp spring.
April rain washed away the salt that was sprinkled on the sidewalks during freezing temperatures.
This is the cleanest the worn pavement will ever look.
A warm breeze ruffles my hair as I roll up the sleeves of my button-down.
Tonight is a perfect May evening—warm, but not hot or sticky.
The sidewalk isn’t radiating heat akin to an open oven door the way it will in a month after baking in the bright sun all day.
The familiar, frantic pace of the city pulses around me.
Energy full of immediate possibilities. I’m home, and I’m free, through the three years of law school in Boston that were foisted on me by my father.
I pass the end of the line that stretches halfway down the block, heading straight for the club’s entrance. Jacob is the one manning the door tonight. I’m friendly with him—I’m on a first-name basis with most of Proof’s staff actually. I’ve spent a lot of time here.
Jacob grins when he sees me, holding out a fist that I bump with mine. “My man. How’s it going, Flynn?”
“Better now,” I reply, glancing at the queue of New Yorkers waiting impatiently. “Busy night?”
Jacob nods, then adds, “Always have space for you though.”
“Appreciate it. I—” My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, sighing when I see the name on the screen. “One sec, Jacob.”
He nods, turning back to the next person waiting to enter and asking to see their identification.
I stride a couple dozen feet down the sidewalk, stopping in front of a closed bakery and accepting the incoming call. “Hey, pretty girl.”
“Hey, pretty annoyed girl, you mean. Why aren’t you coming to Boston this weekend?”
I exhale. I shouldn’t have answered. “I told you we were going to see each other a lot less once I graduated, Molly. I live in New York. You could have come here this weekend.”
“In the fourteen hours I have between shifts?”
I sigh again. “You’re busy. I’m busy. I’m unpacking. About to start a new job.” Trying to escape my dad’s thumb.
Molly doesn’t know the extent of the dysfunction with my parents, so I don’t add that last bit.
The sole upside of moving to another state was being farther from Julian Parks.
It didn’t feel like much freedom, however, since my father micromanaging my life was the reason I was stuck in Boston in the first place.
“You weren’t too busy to go to Rory Kensington’s graduation party.”
I frown at that random comment. “So?”
“So, you two looked cozy. Maria sent me a photo.”
Maria Lopes was in my International Law course last fall.
She’s how I met Molly, her roommate at the time, and Maria is clearly more loyal to Molly than me, despite copying my notes the entire semester.
I’m annoyed with Maria for stirring up shit and unreasonably curious what photo she could have taken of me and Rory Kensington that could possibly be described as cozy.
Every time Rory looks at me, a crease appears on her forehead. It’s kind of cute—and rather insulting.
Rory likes everyone.
Everyone likes me.
Yet Rory and I have never had an interaction I would consider casual or entirely civil. There’s this tension between us, always, and I have no clue why or how to remove it. I’m not sure Rory does either. If she does, she’s never attempted to.
“Flynn. Hello?”
I catch another sigh just before it escapes my mouth. “She’s Kit’s cousin. If we looked cozy, it’s because I’ve known her forever.”
It’s annoying—and amusing—that I even need to explain that. A little strange, too, because Molly isn’t the only girl I’ve dated who has acted resentful toward Rory.
“I can’t believe she invited your entire class.”
I doubt Rory did. She’s never appeared entirely comfortable as the center of attention. I’m sure it was her proud parents who suggested renting out Atlantic Crest Country Club to host close to a thousand guests, including our entire graduating class of five hundred something.
“Maria said there were custom napkins and signature drinks?” Molly laughs. “So pretentious.”
My jaw tics with irritation. I resent the obvious judgment in her tone.
I have this peculiar impulse where I enjoy taunting Rory, but can’t stand when anyone else says anything remotely demeaning about her. Doesn’t matter if Rory herself didn’t hear. Whether it’s a comment about her endless poise or her bossiness or her family’s wealth.
The urge to defend her has appeared repeatedly, over the years, and my close relationship with her cousin is a convenient excuse for how I react every time.
But honestly, I’m not sure the two are connected.
I’m never personally offended on Lili’s behalf or Wren’s, even though I wouldn’t hesitate to defend either one of them.
I’m protective of Rory in particular, which makes zero sense.
She proves, every time we converse-slash-argue, how capable she is of fending for herself.
“I have to go, Molly,” is the least aggravated reply I can come up with.
My girlfriend scoffs, then hangs up.
A final sigh leaves my lungs, this one pure relief. I shove my phone back into my pocket, raking a hand through my short hair before I turn back toward Proof’s entrance.
We should have broken up before I left Boston.
I’m not afraid of commitment or incapable of it.
I just don’t like it. It’s constrictive, like wearing a shirt that’s a size too tight.
Kit says that feeling doesn’t appear with the right person, but I’m not sure I believe him.
If he is correct, Molly is not the right person because I feel plenty stifled by our relationship.
Jacob takes the hundred I slip him with a grateful smile, clapping me on the shoulder and saying to let him know if I need anything.
Proof renovated over the winter. They were closed when I was in New York for the holidays, so this is my first visit since last fall.
The new design is less open, the overall effect more mysterious and secretive.
Each room I pass through has a different decorative theme to it—Hollywood or casino or masquerade.
I continue walking until I reach the farthest section, another bouncer I recognize opening the velvet rope to allow me into what appears to be the new VIP area, complete with its own private bar and a section of booths hidden by sleek, silky curtains.
A casino influence is apparent in here, with several poker tables set up between the bar and the booths.
I beeline for the bar.
Plenty of top-shelf liquor was on hand at Rory’s graduation party, but I only had one drink.
The Kensingtons have served as my family on the many days my own was disappointed in me.
I’m closest with Kit and his parents, but Rory’s parents have always welcomed me too.
I think I would have been invited to the party earlier even if I hadn’t happened to graduate alongside Rory, and I wasn’t about to get blitzed at the hidebound country club to repay their hospitality.
There’s no need for propriety in Proof. In fact, it’s discouraged here.
I order a scotch, then rest an elbow on the mahogany bar to survey the crowd.
Lots of familiar faces. New York might be a big city, but the elitist segment of it is very tiny.
Those who reach or are born into a certain stratosphere of privilege tend to live in the same neighborhoods, go to the same schools, have the same friends, summer in the same places, work at the same companies, date the same people.
Kind of incestuous, if you really think about it.
My phone buzzes. I hesitate before pulling it out, concerned it’s Molly. If she’s apologizing, I’ll feel guilty. If she’s berating, it’ll put me in a worse mood.
It’s not Molly. It’s Gideon Rhodes, who I’ve been friends with since high school.
Rhody: Can’t make it tonight.
Rhody: Claudia’s parents are visiting.
I roll my eyes and shove my phone back in my pocket. Everyone got boring while I was in Boston. Before then, in Kit’s case.
I tried to plan a homecoming-slash-housewarming party for myself last weekend.
Kit couldn’t get a babysitter while his girlfriend, Collins, was at rehearsal.
Rhody was at a mandatory corporate retreat up in the Adirondacks.
Leo Sinclair, the fourth member of our crew, was scheduled on call at New York General and couldn’t get another resident to cover his shift.
After three rapid rejections from my closest friends, I got the message—life at twenty-eight looks different than life at twenty-five did.
For most people at least. Mine looks roughly the same as the last time I lived in this city, plus a degree I didn’t want and a long-distance relationship that might set a record for only lasting a week.
“I heard we’ll be at the same firm, Flynn.”
I glance left, at George Archibald. Archie, as his friends refer to him as, but I’ve never considered George to be one of mine.
He takes himself too seriously, walking around with an air of inflated importance.
It reminds me of my father. I’m surprised George is here; our paths normally cross exclusively at stuffy events.
Maybe Proof has changed too.
“Will we?” I reply, genuinely wondering. I don’t know—or care—where George works.
“I’m on the partner track at Locke, Grey, and Lee,” he informs me. “I suppose you’re taking the summer off and won’t be in the office until September?”
“Nope.”
I mouth a heartfelt, Thank you, to the bartender as she delivers my drink. Immaculate timing. She flushes before turning away.
“I selected an early start. Orientation is right after the bar exam.”
George harrumphs, adjusting his watch so the face is on better display. Aggravated by my audacity to be an occasional overachiever, I guess.
He regains his haughty composure while I sip some scotch. “We should get lunch.”
“I’d love to. But Simon Grey already asked me out. If we don’t start going steady, I’ll give you a call.”