Chapter 2
September
Seven Months Until The Wedding
“I…I…” Words, Libby, words.
The feet disappear from the armrest and a man sits up, facing away from me.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck and kneads his thumb over the trimmed hair there, as though working out a kink.
In one smooth motion, he rises from the couch and walks toward the fireplace, where he braces his hands against the stone mantel.
“Sorry, I—”
He won’t face me, which makes it hard to get a read on him.
His dark cashmere sweater is pushed up to his elbows, revealing a hint of a tattoo on the back of his forearm.
Casual, but the material must have cost a fortune.
And he can’t hide the excellent cut and fit of his dress pants.
They hug his hips flawlessly, and when he turns slightly, I see the pleats are perfectly creased, despite the fact he was just stretched out on the sofa. Who is his tailor?
It’s the type of outfit that makes a statement. One that says, I’m not your typical three-piece-suit Mr. Moneybags, though the fabric says otherwise.
I pull myself up to my full height, which for a woman, and in heels, is quite substantial. Putting my hands on my hips, I clear my throat and remove any waver from my voice. “You could’ve let me know you were there.”
Still gripping the mantel, he glances over his shoulder at the door, then at me. There’s a flicker of what is possibly confusion in his eyes before he finally turns to face me, leaning against one of the bookcases and crossing his arms.
He scratches at the five-o’clock shadow across his jaw, his hair the color of dark chocolate. It’s cropped at the sides but longer on top, with his wavy locks styled to be swept away from his forehead. A glint in his right ear reveals a small hoop earring. Oh lord.
His eyes rake over me in an assessing kind of way, like he’s matching my appearance to the delusional woman he just heard giving herself a pep talk. He purses full lips I would kill for. Why is beauty like this always wasted on men?
“Hello?” I drag out the last syllable.
He’s seriously standing there, staring at me, and straight-up ignoring me.
“I’m sorry for intruding with my…I thought this room was empty. Are you at least going to acknowledge me?”
His thick eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and he presses his pointer finger to the center of his chest. “You heard me?”
“Um, yes. Uh, did you hear me?”
Maybe there’s a chance this guy is totally oblivious and I’ll be saved from the shame of my little rant. He tugs on his ear and steps toward me, away from the bookcase. There’s something in the glint of his eyes. Hope?
“Can you…see me?” His voice is a deep baritone.
Okay, maybe I totally misread this guy. I thrive in the world of awkward social interactions.
It’s where I live. Example A: Getting caught giving myself a pep talk by this man with the build of a water polo player, who looks like he came out of the womb discussing rare art pieces, stock options, and whatever else rich people talk about.
Except now he’s asking if I can see him, which means he’s either having some kind of mental episode… or he’s high.
LSD, probably. Some classmates took it in undergrad and said they felt like they became part of the floor and people were walking on them.
Maybe this guy thinks he is the floor and is therefore amazed I’m seeing his corporeal form?
In any case, this is way too much for a day that feels like it has already lasted about two centuries.
“Yeah. I’m”—I swallow and cock my thumb over my shoulder—“gonna go. Again, sorry for coming in here like this. I thought I was alone.” I retrieve my blazer from the desk. “And if you did hear anything, maybe let’s keep this one between us?”
I’m covering my bases here, but also not too concerned about my word against a man who thinks he’s invisible. Even a man who looks like that.
“No—don’t.” He reaches toward me, but immediately retracts his hand as though hitting an invisible wall. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. Like I said. I didn’t know you could see me. But you can. Which is just…” He puffs his cheeks out and releases a breath.
“Right. I also usually assume people looking me directly in the eye—when we’re the only two people in a room—aren’t speaking to me.” My head is spinning again. I need to get out of here.
“Well, to be fair, you were talking to yourself five minutes ago. Extensively.” He tucks his hands into his flawless pants pockets and the corner of his mouth tugs upward.
My jaw drops. “Okay, Cashmere. That was private.”
“You mean your diabolical but deeply lacking plan to break up my cousin’s wedding?” One eyebrow arches.
Cousin. This man is Carter’s cousin. Which means I could be in deep shit if he heard everything I just said. But also…
“Wait—what do you mean by ‘deeply lacking’?”
He chuckles. “Have you met Carter, by chance?”
“Well, let’s see. I’m twenty-eight, which means we’ve been friends for about fifteen years. Not sure you can say the same…um, what was your name again?”
He looks like every other prep school heartthrob. Someone with a big trust fund and a name like Fletcher, Tanner, Wells, or…
“Trip. Or at least that’s what people call me.”
Yup. It’s a classic nickname for someone with a series of Roman numerals after their given name—an oddity I didn’t encounter until my time at St. Midge’s. But the name registers somewhere in the back of my brain. A flicker of a memory, buried deep.
“So, what’s the deal? You in love with him?” His voice is like velvet, but his tone is mocking.
“Excuse me?”
“With Carter. What’s your motive for ruining his every happiness?” The words drip with sarcasm.
“This is seriously none of your business.” I turn toward the door.
“You don’t seem like his type.”
It’s a punch directly to my gut and I have to press my lips together to stop myself from snarling. I’m sixteen again, hiding in a bathroom stall, my classmates’ voices ringing in my head.
Carter is a total Prince Charming.
What does he see in her?
Maybe she’s his Cinderella fetish.
Looks more like the evil stepsister if you ask me.
“What does that mean?” I say through bared teeth.
“Just that I know Carter and he—well, he cares a lot about his image and what people think of him. He’s a bit of a pushover.” Trip shrugs his shoulders. “You don’t seem like someone who’s easily influenced. Like you have your own opinions.”
Huh, that’s new. Still, I won’t let him insult my best friend. “Carter’s not a pushover.”
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy. Lots of fun.” He shrugs. “Just not always the most authentic person.”
Oh, and you’re the expert on authenticity because you have a piercing but still use your daddy’s Amex to buy your cashmere? “And you would know this how?”
“Related, remember? We basically grew up together.”
“Then how come Carter never mentions you?”
His full mouth stretches thin. I’ve hit a nerve.
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, unfortunately, I’m short on time. I should be getting back to the party.”
“Are you going to go through with it?” Trip steps around the back of the couch, and goose bumps pop up on my arms at his proximity. There’s a weird energy coming off this guy. The library is crackling with it.
“What?” I’m impatient to get back to the rooftop and to Zuri, so I can tell her all about Carter’s weird, admittedly hot cousin.
He moves across the rug until he’s in the middle of it, studying the letter opener mere feet away from me. His eyes lift to meet mine. “Your plan.”
My heartbeat ratchets up under his gaze. I could never do something that would hurt Carter, let alone break up a wedding. But Trip is eyeing me as though I’m a real threat. “Listen. I was just…”
“Don’t do it.” His eyes bore into mine, but there’s something like desperation in his deep brown irises. “Pack up your sword. Go home. It’s not worth saving the damsel in distress.”
“Uh…huh. And Carter is the damsel?”
“Carter is one hundred percent the damsel. That man has never made a decision for himself in his whole life. People show him the path forward, and he obeys.”
“Why do you care, then? If you’re as bothered by Carter as you seem to be, why do you care about his wedding?”
“Family is complicated. Again, it’s a long story.”
“Well, so is mine. I have my reasons for this.”
Like Carter taking me to the old-fashioned movie theater downtown to keep my mind off not knowing where my mom was. Carter thumbing a tear from my cheek and whispering into my hair after some classmates were particularly cruel.
“I get that I might not be Sabrina Carmichael—”
Trip huffs out a laugh. “I don’t even know you, but I can tell you right now you’re nothing like Sabrina Carmichael.”
“That’s it.” I launch myself from the door in his direction.
“Wait, Libby. All I meant was—”
I move toward him, pointing my finger like a schoolteacher scolding the class clown.
“Stop right there. Please.” He legitimately looks terrified.
A bubble of pride swells in my chest that I’ve successfully intimidated him. “No, you stop.”
He scrambles against the back of the couch but is blocked in either direction by me or the desk.
“You probably think you’re so clever. Like you’re the first man who’s told me how I don’t measure up. Maybe you see me as some kind of coward who’s going to roll over and let you say whatever you want to me.”
“No that’s not—”
“Well, I’m not. I’m sick of it, frankly. I’m friends with Carter because he is kind. Generous.”
Trip looks left and right, but I’ve cornered him by the desk.
“I’m used to people trying to make me feel small. People like you—” I punch my pointer finger into the flawless knit of his sweater. His eyes go wide as plates, and my finger goes directly through his chest.
“What the fuck!” I pull my finger away fast as a whip and take a step backward. The pulse in my throat picks up speed and my body turns to ice with adrenaline. “What’s going on? What was that?”
It’s not that my finger went inside him. It went through him, like he was made of air. Kind of like static electricity during a thunderstorm. Instead of a solid body, there was an energy that made the hairs on my arm stand on end.
“I can explain.” Trip pants for breath, his chest heaving.
“Can you?” I bring my hands to my forehead, pulling my hair back as though clutching my scalp will help my brain make more sense of the situation.
I never should’ve come back to this library.
Maybe this is a stress response, a hallucination my brain cooked up to avoid everything else happening tonight.
“When I asked if you can see me”—he swallows—“it’s because you’re the first person who’s been able to.”
I blink once. Twice. What in the holy hell. “Is this some kind of joke?”
This would be the cherry on top of an already humiliating evening.
How strong were those martinis? Is it possible I imagined what just happened?
My eyes fall to the letter opener on the floor, its polished quartz handle.
Is it truly some kind of crystal or summoning stone? I shake my head at the impossibility.
Trip’s studying me, waiting for my reaction, waiting for me to process.
Against my better judgment, I press my palm to his chest and watch as it moves right through him.
Again, that feeling of pure energy, a crackle, but nothing of actual substance meeting my hand.
Oh, this is officially freaky. Is he real?
A hologram? A ghost? No. Ghosts aren’t real.
They’re for movies, campfire stories, and conspiracy theorists.
I shut my eyes. You are a logical, educated woman.
There is an explanation for this. But the only two options are I’m either hallucinating or this is somehow real, and I’m not sure which is worse.
What I do know is if I am having a mental breakdown, I can’t let it happen on the Coldwell family estate. Time to get out, pronto.
I whirl around and my hand closes on the brass doorknob.
I barely register Trip’s deep voice saying my name, like a plea, before I’m out the door.
I walk at a fast clip—but don’t run because appearances still matter—down the long hallway.
Descending the seemingly five thousand stairs to the bottom floor, I burst through the front entryway and bathe in the fresh air.
Sucking in a lungful, I steady myself on a stone barrier next to the sidewalk.
The sounds of the city come into focus around me, and it all feels blessedly real.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt like this leaving the Coldwell household.
Something about that centuries-old townhome and its inhabitants feels like they occupy a different stratosphere.
In high school, returning to Babcia’s apartment with the noise, the bustle, the smells pouring out from the shops and restaurants along our street, was like returning to reality, while my time spent with the Coldwells was a dream world, a fairy tale.
Except this is beginning to feel more like a ghost story.