Chapter 29
The woman at the hostess stand aims a polite smile my way as I approach. “Do you have a reservation, miss?”
“Yes. I’m meeting …” I finally locate Flynn in the crowded restaurant. Smile at the woman. “Found him. I’ll just …” I wave in his direction before I continue past the stand, weaving around tables until I reach the one where Flynn is seated.
He glances up, the expression on his face not the warmth I wanted—expected—to see. More disgruntled, maybe even disappointment.
“Hey. Should I …” I hover by the table, debating if I should take the chair next to him or the closer one across from him. “I guess I’ll—”
“They’re not coming.”
I halt mid-step, then sink down into the seat across from him. “Oh.”
“I tried to call you,” he adds.
“Oh,” I repeat. “My phone is off. I was in court, and even when the ringer is on silent, I’m paranoid it’s going to accidentally make noise, so I usually …” I pull my phone out and turn it back on, registering the missed calls on the screen that don’t really matter now.
I don’t have any messages from Philippa, I note, although she was the one who reached out to me to set this dinner up. I’m miffed about that, on my own behalf, but I’m mostly mad about the look on Flynn’s face.
“I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing for more than my lack of availability.
“I should have expected they’d …” Flynn shakes his head, drinking from a tumbler of amber liquid until only ice clinks against the glass. “This is typical.”
He didn’t expect it though. He showed up, thinking his parents would be here too. That makes me madder.
Flynn spins his glass so the ice inside follows the same swirling motion. Not meeting my gaze. “Sorry you came all this way.”
“It wasn’t that far,” I reply, even though he’s just aware as I am that the trip from Lower Manhattan takes forty minutes, including a train transfer.
“How was the sentencing?” He isn’t looking at me, eyes remaining on the ice in his glass.
“She got ten years.”
I was only observing the armed robbery case.
Rachel was first chair, and Louis was her co-counsel.
There was nothing I could have done to directly influence the jury’s verdict or the judge’s sentencing, but the outcome stings like a personal failure anyway.
The defendant was only twenty, caught in a bad situation, where she happened to be carrying a knife used to jimmy a lock that the prosecution argued should be classified as a deadly weapon.
The evidence against her was circumstantial, and the witnesses’ testimony offered conflicting accounts.
She had no record. Yet the next decade of her life is gone, just like that.
“You’ll appeal?”
I nod. “Insufficient evidence. Unlikely it’ll overturn.”
“Can I get you a refill?” A waitress appears beside our table, eyeing Flynn’s empty glass. And more likely, Flynn.
“Just the check,” he replies. “We’re leaving.”
“Or we could stay,” I say.
Finally, Flynn focuses on me. “You want to?”
I nod. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to this evening with his parents. I’m drained and hungry and defeated, and I’d ordinarily recede into myself until I felt more ready to face the world. I’d rather eat dinner with him. We’re both here. Might as well make the most of it.
He glances at the waitress. “We’ll need a minute before we’re ready to order.”
“No problem,” she says brightly.
“Did you want a drink?” Flynn asks, passing me the wine menu once she’s gone.
I shake my head. “I have to head into work early to prep for a deposition.”
“You’re running it?”
I nod.
He grins. “Hell yeah. Congrats.”
My smile is shy. I wasn’t intending to make a big deal out of it, but it will be the first deposition I attend in a prominent role.
“Thanks.” I glance down at the dinner menu to hide my pink cheeks.
It sort of feels like my crush just acknowledged me being named valedictorian or some other academic accomplishment that guys have never been especially impressed by before.
My bank account has always been valued over my brain because I’m in the rare position of having been born with enough money that I never have to work a single day of my life.
Very few people have understood that my last name propels me to work harder, not to simply enjoy the freedom and perks my immense privilege allows.
“I’m going to get the clam linguine,” I decide.
“Sounds clam-azing.”
“That was terrible,” I inform him.
“Then why are you smiling?”
I quickly wipe the grin off my face. “I was thinking about something funnier than your jokes.”
“Like your karaoke performance?”
If we weren’t at a fancy restaurant, I’d flip him off or stick my tongue out. I should have given Wren a harder time about sending that video to him. When I confronted her, she just laughed and called us adorable.
“You owe me an embarrassing video,” I tell him.
“You’ve seen me do plenty of embarrassing shit. I think we’re even.”
I blink at him, taken aback by that response. “Like what?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, there was the summer in high school when Kit and I were trying to make varsity lacrosse and whoever managed fewer push-ups had to sing whatever song the winner picked. Or the holiday party where I passed out in a guest room after way too much spiked eggnog. I once broke a vase at your parents’ penthouse, playing air hockey, and Bash took the blame. Or—”
“Those are not embarrassing stories, Flynn.”
“You’re right. You showing off your legs and tits in a short, tight dress, singing on-key, is far more humiliating.”
Okay, maybe I’m not mad at my sister.
“My boyfriend cheated, and everyone has seen the evidence. I think I win any humiliation contest, hands down.”
“That was humiliating for him, Rory. Not you.”
I shake my head. “It was humiliating for him and for me.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly. I was an awful girlfriend. And that’s not an excuse for what Carson did.
Nothing is. But I treated him like a prop, not a partner, and the only reason I’m shocked he was reckless enough to get caught is, I thought he wanted my money more than that.
And, yes, he was the one who cheated. But by cheating on me, he basically announced to everyone that I wasn’t enough for him, billionaire or not.
Which is about as embarrassing as it gets. ”
“Did you love him?”
We’re in a busy, loud, crowded restaurant. Yet I have no concept of where we are or anything surrounding this table that’s not Flynn as I hold eye contact.
I hesitate, but it’s not because I don’t know the answer. It’s because of how obvious the answer is.
I didn’t love Carson. That’s why I have the capacity to be embarrassed about what happened and how everyone knows it happened.
Because he didn’t break my heart. Because his sudden absence was hardly noticeable.
Because some part of me was relieved by the obvious end to our relationship, that it was all beyond my control.
I have no idea who leaked the video of his cheating, but I might thank them if I did.
“No.”
I can’t read the expression on Flynn’s face. It appears deliberately blank, like he’s schooling his reaction to my answer, which has me intensely curious as to why.
“Did you love …” I let my voice trail since I don’t know the name of his ex from Boston.
“Molly?” Flynn exhales. “If you asked her, she’d probably say I was incapable of it.”
“It ended badly, then?”
“It ended predictably. We’d had plenty of problems, living in the same city. Attempting long distance was stupid. I was clear about what I wanted. Or didn’t. She changed. When I didn’t … that’s when things blew up.”
Flynn isn’t being very forthcoming with details.
What he wanted. What he didn’t. I can make educated guesses at both, although I’d rather hear it directly from him.
I can make an exact guess as to why I’m so curious.
And that certainty convinces me not to ask any more questions because I shouldn’t need Flynn to explicitly say what I don’t want to hear.
I can convince myself I don’t like or want him—I’ve done it before.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Flynn holds my gaze. “I’m not.”
He breaks eye contact to flip his phone over. I think he’s getting a call, until he taps the screen a few times, then slides the device over to me.
I peer at the photo on the screen, spine straightening when the details register. “Where did you get this?”
“Molly. I met her through one of our classmates. Maria was at your party and sent that to Molly. It was part of what convinced me we could pull this off. So, like I said, I’m not sorry. It all worked how it was supposed to.”
“Did you decide what you’d like?” Our attentive waitress reappears, interrupting our conversation, which has veered far off the topic of this restaurant’s menu.
I swallow hard, stealing one last look at the photo of us at my graduation party before shutting the phone off. Flynn is ordering for us both, same as he did at the diner.
“I’d like the black sea bass. And my girlfriend is going to have the clam linguine.”
My girlfriend. His parents aren’t here to hear it, but he said it anyway.
The waitress nods, scribbling on her pad. “Any appetizers or just the mains?”
Flynn waits, watching me. I shake my head.
“Just the mains,” he replies.
“Okay. Any allergies?”
“Peanut.”
“Got it.” She writes something else on her notepad. “Those entrées will be out shortly. Let me know if you need anything else in the meantime!”
“Thank you,” I say before she departs.
I unwrap my silverware, dropping the cloth napkin in my lap, then glance around at the occupied tables. “Have you been here before?”
“Yeah. It’s my dad’s favorite, so this is where we always meet in the city.”
“Sounds shellfish.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Yours was worse than mine.”
“Worse than clam-azing? You’ve got to be squidding me.”
Flynn is full-on grinning now. “I had no idea you were so punny, Florence.”
I open my mouth, fully intending to say, There’s a lot you don’t know about me.
Then shut it.
Because I’m not sure that’s true any longer. Or … that it was.