Isabelle #2
Julian chuckles. "I've lived in Barcelona for a long time. I lost a lot of whatever Jersey accent I had in the military, moving around, and then living in Spain for so long, I guess some of it bled in."
"Do you have siblings?"
"No. It was just me and my mother."
I decide to push slightly. "Was?"
His lips press together, and I think he's going to stop the conversation, but instead he downs the rest of the glass, pours more, and lets out a sharp breath. "Go grab another bottle."
Eagerly, I obey. If it means learning more about him, I'll sit out here and drink wine with him all night. I would anyway, honestly.
When I come back out, he tops off both of our glasses, sinking down onto the concrete balcony with his back against the railing. I sit down beside him, and he turns to look at me.
"Your turn. Then I'll tell you more."
"My turn, what?" I blink at him, and he rolls his eyes slightly.
"To tell me something. Do you have siblings? Both parents still married?"
I chew on my lower lip and take another drink. The wine is hitting me quickly, and I feel a fuzziness around the edges, a warmth that doesn't match what I tell him next.
"No, I'm an only child, too. And my mother died when I was young. A car accident."
Julian winces, his eyes widening slightly before he takes another deep drink of his wine. "Shit. I'm sorry." He lets out a breath. "Me too."
"You…"
"My mother. She died when I was twenty-three. Cancer." His jaw clenches. "We tried everything we could, but nothing was going to save her."
For the first time, I see a clear, blatant emotion on his face. Pain. Such deep, heavy pain that I'm not sure what could ever fix it.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"It was a long time ago. Fifteen years, actually." He swallows hard, then drains his wine like he's taking a shot and refills the glass. "I've just been on my own since then."
There's a moment of silence, and then I find the courage to speak.
"It's hard, isn't it? For them to just be…
gone. I never knew anyone close to me who died before that.
Even though I was old enough to understand what had happened, it was so hard to wrap my head around the idea that hours before my mother had been alive, and herself…
and then she was just… not. My father always tried to be loving, but he was more the type to love by giving things.
My mom loved by giving people herself. She was always there if someone needed to listen.
She volunteered a lot, I think because a lot of the people in our circle didn't need the kind of help she wanted to give. "
Julian swallows hard. "Yeah, my mom did that, too.
She had her hands full raising me on her own and keeping us afloat, but she still helped out everyone.
She volunteered every weekend. We had this tradition of her taking me to help at the homeless shelters on Christmas Eve, and then we spent Christmas Day together.
She always donated books we didn't read anymore, clothes I'd grown out of—if there was anything we had that we weren't using, she wouldn't throw it out.
She always said someone else could use it if we weren't. She brought people food if they were sick, if they'd had a baby…
" He breaks off, his throat moving as he swallows again, the corners of his mouth tight.
"She wouldn't be very happy with how I turned out," he says quietly, looking away from me. His voice is thick, with sadness as well as the wine, I think, and I wonder how much it's affected him to make him open up. But maybe he needed someone to talk to. And I don't want him to stop.
"I don't know if mine would be, either," I whisper.
I want to reach out and touch him, but I'm worried it will break the moment.
"I worry sometimes she'd think I'm spoiled, that I don't try to do enough for other people.
And I am spoiled… I know I am. But I hope she'd also understand how hard it's been to be without her, and grow up with just my father and stepmother instead.
Julian nods, still looking at me. "I don't think mine would understand," he murmurs. "I think—"
He breaks off, letting out a heavy sigh, and I can feel him closing down again. "Sorry," he mutters. "It's not something I talk about."
"It's okay," I say softly. "I don't talk about that much, either. But sometimes, it helps, I think."
"Yeah," he echoes. "Maybe."
I lick my lips, and I see his gaze flick toward my mouth. Normally, I'd try to take advantage of it, but right now seems like the wrong time for seduction, so instead I hurriedly take another drink of my wine. "You said you were in the military?"
"Army. Special forces. Didn't pay very well, though, so when I was almost twenty-two I didn't re-up and found… something more lucrative, instead."
I blink. "The business you do now?"
"You could say that."
What the fuck does that mean? I want to ask, but I feel like I need to be careful about how I ask things. The wrong question will shut him down completely, and I'm not ready for this to end.
"Do you regret it?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "Sometimes. The work I do... it's not clean. It's not honorable. But it's what I know how to do."
I laugh. "What, do you work for some tech corporation?"
Surprisingly, he laughs at that, that sharp sound that I remember from Ibiza. "No. Worse. But we'll say it's classified."
"Oh, you're government. You're right, that's worse." I snort into my wine, and I see his mouth twitch. We lock eyes, and for a moment, I can feel the air thicken between us. I see his shoulders tense.
"If you don't like it, you could do something else," I whisper.
"Could I?" He chuckles grimly. "When you've made the choices I've made... there's no going back, Isabelle. You can't just walk away and pretend you're someone else."
"But you're helping me. That has to count for something."
"Does it?" He shakes his head. "I'm keeping you alive, yes. But—" He stops himself, jaw clenching. "It doesn't matter."
I don't understand what he means, but I can hear the self-loathing underneath the words. "You're not a bad person," I say quietly.
He snorts, taking another drink. "You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." I set my glass down and move closer to him. "A bad person wouldn't be risking his life to protect me. A bad person wouldn't care if I lived or died. But you care. I can see it every time you look at me."
"Isabelle—"
"Tell me why." The words come out more desperate than I intended. "Tell me why you're doing this. Why are you risking everything for someone you barely know?"
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the struggle between what he wants to say and what he thinks he should say.
"Because I couldn't let you die," he says finally, his voice rough.
"Because the thought of someone hurting you makes me…
. Because you looked at me in that nightclub in Ibiza like I was someone worth knowing, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since. "
My breath catches. "Julian—"
"Your turn." He cuts me off, his voice tight. "You said it was you and your father. What's he like?"
The change of subject has me reeling. The alcohol has me warm and lightheaded, and I feel my heart beating from what he said a moment ago.
But I can see from the hard lines of his face that I've gotten all I'm going to out of him for the moment, so I take another drink of my wine, breathing out before I speak.
"He loves me." My chest tightens. "But since my mother died, he threw himself into his work, and he tends to show it more with money than actually being around.
After she died, I got maids and tutors, and he was gone a lot.
He's still gone a lot, even since he married my stepmother. "
Julian looks at me curiously. "And she is…"
"Vivienne." Just saying her name makes my stomach tighten. "She married my father when I was twelve. I think he thought I needed a mother figure, someone to guide me. But Vivienne never wanted to be my mother. She wanted to be my father's wife, and I was just... in the way."
"She was cruel to you?"
"Not overtly. Nothing I could point to and say, 'this is abuse.
' Just... cold. Contemptuous. Like I was a burden she had to tolerate.
" I drain my glass and reach for the bottle, pouring more for both of us.
"She'd make little comments about my weight, my clothes, my friends.
She'd deliberately schedule things when she knew I had other plans.
Small things that added up over time. And she's always on my ass now about all the things I do.
Wanting me to be more proper, more ladylike, et cetera, et cetera… " I wave my hand.
Julian snorts. "You, ladylike?" He takes another drink, his tone turning serious again. "Your father didn't notice?"
"My father didn't want to notice." I drink, too. "It was easier for him to pretend everything was fine. To believe Vivienne when she said I was being dramatic or difficult. To focus on his business and let her handle the 'domestic issues.'"
"That's why you ran to Ibiza."
"That's why I've been running my whole life.
" I laugh, finishing off my glass and pouring more.
"Parties, clubs, anything to avoid being around her, feeling like I'm suffocating under the weight of all those expectations.
And now I'm running again." I swirl the wine in my glass. "But I guess it feels different now."
"More dangerous?"
"No." I bite my lip. "You see me differently, I think. You don't treat me like a burden, even though you could. I don't feel like an heiress or a spoiled party girl with you, despite how we met. I just feel like… me."
Something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens. "Isabelle," he says, his voice strained. "You should go back inside."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."