Chapter 1 #2
My gut twists and I regret having coffee on an empty stomach.
Most of my mail goes to my parents’ apartment since they live in a much nicer, albeit still modest, area. Only things I don’t want them to worry about land in the box on the wall.
I offer Mr. Carter a smile and a thanks and unhook my keys from the ring hidden inside my briefcase. After pinching the tiny metal key between my fingers, I unlock my mailbox and pull the single envelope from the darkness. Mr. Carter grunts again, nods, and turns back toward the office.
I shut and lock my mailbox before striding past the out-of-order sign stretched across the elevator doors and starting up the stairs.
Although windowless and narrow, the staircase is brightly lit all the way up to the third floor.
I fit my apartment key into my fist and step into the hall.
With four doors on the left, an exposed brick wall on the right, and skylights in the roof, the hallway has its own worn-out charm.
My feet drag as I open my door and lock it behind me.
I drop my keys into my briefcase and hang it on the hook by the door as I kick off my shoes.
Tired and sweaty from walking all day, I strip as I cross the studio apartment and drop my underthings in the pile by the futon before taking a hanger from the thrifted clothing rack.
With rote motions, I hang my suit and reach for the pins holding my bun at the back of my head, but the shimmery fabric peeking out from all the gray, black, and dark blues of my barebones wardrobe catches my eye.
With a sigh, I abandon my hair and lift the dress from the rack.
It’s pretty, even if it isn’t my style.
I glance between the hem and my naked legs.
Biting back a groan, I shove the hanger back on the rack, grab my only pair of matching bra and panties—a lacy white monstrosity—out of the plastic drawers, and stomp into the bathroom. I hate shaving, but with every pass of the razor, I replay my mother’s excited words.
She beat cancer. She’s a survivor.
She won.
She fell in love again and has nothing but happiness on the horizon.
I can neither forgive nor forget my biological father’s betrayal, but I’ll never drag my mom back into the trenches with me. She’s free.
Tonight is all about her.
I finish my shower, doll myself up, pull on the lingerie, and step into the dress.
It’s a little tight across the chest and hips, but I expected it to be. When my mom gifted it to me a year ago, I was stick-thin from stress, depression, and overworking myself. I’m proud of what little curves I have now, so long as the seams of the dress hold.
I transfer my phone, keys, and wallet into my purse before carrying the strappy sandals to the futon—my only place to sit besides the toilet—and secure them to my feet.
My head spins when I rise, but I slip on my thin shawl just in case of wardrobe snafus, swing my purse onto my shoulder, and text my mom before exiting my apartment.
After exchanging hearty hugs with my mom and stepdad, we follow the waiter into the ritzy building and settle at a table covered with a fabric cloth.
Dinner is amazing. I eat more than I have in weeks.
My stomach hurts, but I smile and laugh with my parents.
I give my all to them as we sit in the candlelight and chat about their plans for the next few years.
Bittersweet and surreal, I lose myself in the discussion, my heart threatening to burst as I study my mom.
She’s gorgeous. After fighting so hard for so long, she deserves every ounce of joy in the world.
When Gary orders a glass of wine to share with my mom and offers me one as well, I accept. As casual as though I’ve done it a million times, I sip my first taste of alcohol and enjoy the warmth slowly spreading through my veins.
Between studying, working, and caring for my mother, I never had the time or the interest to drink, but in this laid-back setting, I like it. It’s nothing like the parties my college classmates bragged about.
Gary normally whisks my mom away at the first sign she’s tired, but with both of us watching her closely, we stay at the table a few more minutes, savoring our time together.
By the time we rise, the wine buzzes in my veins, highlighting my fatigue and dulling my senses.
My brain throbs. All I want is to drop onto my futon and sleep for days.
I hug my mom and pass her to Gary after he opens their cab door. He settles her into the seat before turning, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, and tugging me tight against his side. I return the half-hug and fight unexpected tears.
He’s done so much to help, but his protection ended today. I’m on my own now.
After a quick but heartfelt goodbye, I shoo him away and blow kisses to my mom through her window as the cab pulls away.
I stand on the sidewalk staring after them long after they disappear into traffic, warring with emotions too big to label. When my shawl slips to the crook of my elbows, I fill my lungs with city smog and prepare to walk home.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Terror ices my spine. I turn my head, and for a moment, my heart leaps into my throat with instinctual joy. Every nerve ending in my body lights with delight, but then I realize the familiar features don’t belong to the boy I had a crush on in high school.
This isn’t Matteo Ricco, my academic rival, first and only love interest, and ex-best friend.
These features belong to his older brother.
And by older, I mean by a mere eleven months.
Angelo Ricco, the man smiling down at me, was in the same grade as us, but since his brother and I were in advanced classes and he was not, we never shared the same classroom.
The few times we met were random chances on campus or at whatever event his brother and I were competing in.
Mortification squashes my disappointment as I recall the last time I saw Angelo’s brother. In a fit of madness and despair, I gave Matteo Ricco my first kiss only for him to shove me away and call me a shallow, selfish bitch. Even my father’s betrayal didn’t cut so deeply.
“Holy hell, it’s really you. Look, guys, I found Brook Prescott!” Angelo shouts over his shoulder.
Hatred spears through me as he directs my father’s last name at me, even though I know he has no way to know I’ve changed it. Nausea grips me as other familiar faces gather around us.
Fuck. I haven’t seen these people since high school graduation. I hoped to never see them again. They represent the worst days of my life.
I smile politely but can’t help scanning the area in search of an escape.
“How did you know it was Brook? She looks nothing like she did in high school,” Trevor, Angelo’s best friend, says with a gross look down my body.
I reach for my shawl, but Angelo shrugs and slings his beefy arm over my shoulders before I can fix it. Worms crawl under my skin.
“Some people are hard to forget.”
His suggestive smirk is worse than his touch. I wedge my arm between us and elbow his side, but he pulls me tighter against him.
“I don’t know what’s more surprising; that the nerdy top student became fine as hell or that Brook Prescott came to our high school reunion,” Trevor laughs.
Double fuck. Class reunion.
I need to leave. Now. Before—
“She wasn’t the top student. I was.”
All the blood drains from my face. It’s too late. He’s here.
I turn my head and look up—and up—to the most handsome face in the world.
Matteo Ricco is no longer the lanky teen I fell in love with.
Instead, he’s the tallest man on the street with a build to rival his older brother’s.
Dressed in a tailored suit with his hair perfectly styled and icy indifference shining from his hazel eyes, he commands the space around him without even trying, and despite my best attempts to stop it, my heart squeezes with want.
He lifts a brow and slips a hand into his pocket, but despite the casualness of the gesture, my nipples pebble and heat pulses in my veins at the leashed power in his body.
Holy triple fuck, I’m doomed.