by Violet Duke
âWonderful,â Richard sighs.
âYouâll be joining us.â Camille turns to Hunter. Itâs not a question.
He looks thrown. âI donât know, I have work at the ranch, andââ
âYou canât even take the time to have dinner with your family, after everything?â Camille glowers at him.
Hunter slumps, like a kid whoâs being scolded. âOf course, Iâm sorry.â
She gives a brisk nod. âIâll have the maids make up your room. You can stay a few days, spend time with your father. Iâm sure you have a lot to talk about.â
Again, I wait for Hunter to object, but he just hunches his shoulders and accepts her plan. Thereâs silence. Camille is studiously ignoring me, acting as if Iâm not even in the room. I understand, I feel like an intruder here in the middle of all their family drama, but at the same time, I donât want to leave Hunterâs side.
âDid you drive?â Camille finally turns to me.
âI… came up with Hunter,â I reply, selfconscious.
âIâll have someone take you home,â she replies in a clipped tone.
I look to Hunter. âNo, itâs OK, I can stay.â
âNonsense,â Camille proclaims. âIâm sure you have plenty to be getting back to. Iâll call our driver now.â She pulls out her cellphone and moves to the corner of the room, murmuring instructions.
I feel a twist of doubt. âHunter?â I prompt softly, tugging on his hand.
He finally looks up, into my eyes. My heart catches to see the expression on his face: blank with tired resignation. âMomâs right,â he says, pushing his hair back, distracted. âYou should get back. You have work.â
âGarrett will cover for me.â I look back at Camille, watching us like a hawk. âCome outside a sec,â I tug Hunter into the hallway, out of listening distance, then take both his hands, looking deep into his eyes.
âIâm staying with you, as long as you want. Iâm here for you.â
Hunter looks away. âYou donât have toââ
âYes, I do.â I hold his hands tighter. Heâs not in this alone, I need him to understand. âYou need me. Thatâs all that matters.â
âIâll be fine.â Hunter lets go of me and takes a step back. âYou donât need to deal with this. I promise, Iâll be fine,â he adds with a weak smile. âItâs just a couple of days, to get everything straightened out with them. Momâs right,â he sighs. âItâs been too long. We need to talk, all of us.â
I watch him, anxious, but helpless to argue. I have this terrible feeling now, like if I say goodbye, itâll be for the last time. But thatâs crazy, I remind myself. Iâm just being insecure. It makes total sense for Hunter to go back and visit with his family, after everything theyâve just been through. It isnât my place to stay and get in the way. âIf youâre sureâ¦â
Hunter nods. âCall me when youâre home.â He leans to press a kiss to my forehead, but I reach up and catch around his neck, pulling him down into a longer kiss. Our bodies melt together, his mouth sweet and searching against mine, and for a moment, everything goes away. Itâs just us, suspended in our own private world, with no fears or drama or demands.
Perfect.
Hunter pulls back, his smile stronger now. He gently traces my cheek. âThank you, for coming with me,â he murmurs. âFor putting up with them.â
âAlways,â I swear.
âThere you are,â his mother interrupts, stalking out of the room. âPerkins is waiting for you downstairs, heâll drive you home. Hunter, come help your father with his things. He needs a wheelchair.â
âI do not!â Richardâs voice calls.
Camille ignores him. âAnd see about his medications too. They say the prescription is for two pills a day, but Iâm certain I read an article saying three was best.â
Hunter gives me a rueful look. âIâll call you later.â
âOK.â I swallow. âBye.â
I RIDE BACK to Beachwood Bay in the comfort of the Covington chauffeur-driven BMW, but despite the plush leather interior and gentle AC in the backseat, I canât relax. Walking away from Hunter in the hospital felt all wrong: like the bad dreams I get some nights, when Iâm walking the halls of a haunted house. My feet keep moving, taking me towards danger, but I canât turn back, even when I know that nothing good lies ahead of me.
Miss you. I tap out a text, and then stop, my thumb hovering over the âsendâ button.
No.
I hit âdeleteâ instead. Hunter has enough on his mind right now; the last thing he needs is me getting clingy and emotional. Iâm not that girl. Iâve always hated those girls.
Itâs just a few days, I tell myself, watching the coastal road sail past. Itâs like I promised him, everythingâs going to be OK.
Back home at the beach house, I say an awkward thanks to the driver then let myself in. I pause a moment in the doorway, looking around the empty house. Signs of Juliet and Emerson are everywhere, from the black-and-white photos sheâs taken of Beachwood and her mom framed on the walls, to the old throw over the back of the sofa, passed down thought her family since when her grandparents lived here, years ago.
Iâve been staying here for three months now, but this is the first time I realize, it doesnât feel like home.
Because itâs not. This place is temporary for me, like every other part of my life. Temporary job, temporary dreams. I just have to hope to God Hunter doesnât turn out to be temporary too.
I shake off the whispers of self-doubt rising in the back of my mind. I flip on all the lights and the radio too, heading to the kitchen to grab a carton of ice-cream from the freezer before I settle in at my work-station in the living room. I need to keep busy, I decide. Itâs not like I didnât know what to do with myself before Hunter came around.
The fabric I bought from Emilia is still sitting there, wrapped in tissue paper on the table. I feel a bolt of self-doubt, remembering Maxwellâs cruel comments in our interview, but I force myself to reach for it all the same. I trace my fingertips over the soft silk, and like magic, the criticism seems to melt away. I left my sketchbook at Hunterâs in the rush, but I donât need it: I know my designs by heart. I grab a loose sheet of paper and my pencils, and start drawing again, letting my imagination take shape on the page. I see the dress clearer than ever now: the curve of the bodice, and the sweep of the long, elegant skirt, the way the fabric will drape and slither when I walkâ¦
Before I realize, itâs past midnight. Iâve broken the main design down into its component parts now: sketching out the pattern Iâll need to cut from plain canvas to test the shape. Thereâs nothing more I can do tonight.
I stretch, my shoulders aching. I check my phone again, but thereâs no messages or calls.
Hope everythingâs OK, I text Hunter. Goodnight.
I wait, my stomach twisting, until his reply flashes up.
Sweet dreams. Thinking of you.
I exhale, a long breath of reliefâand regret. Never mind the logic, I should be there with him, by his side; curled in his arms, the way we slept last night.
God, it feels like a lifetime ago, not just a few hours, but as I get ready for bed and slide in between the sheets of my room upstairs, I canât help but feel the absence of him beside me, as real a force as if he were lying there himself.
How can it be, that I miss him like this already? When did Hunter become so damn necessary in my life that just one night without him makes me feel lost and set adrift?
When he was moving inside you, making you feel so safe, so complete. When you opened your heart and let him see everything y
ou are, and gave it to him, despite all the risk.
I reach out, tracing the empty space on the pillow, remembering his face beneath my fingertips, so beautiful and at peace. This is what I was scared about, all those years I kept my heart so protectedâkept the world at armâs length with my sharp barbs and carefree comebacks. Because now Iâve opened myself up to him, and I know what it feels like to truly connect to another soul, Iâm even more terrified that something might happen to tear it all away. I stepped off the edge for him, but now Iâm here in freefall, hoping so desperately that heâll be there to catch me when I hit the ground.
He loves you, I tell myself, repeating the words like a lullaby. Heâs not going to leave you like the others do. Heâll stay.
But still, I fall asleep with a tight knot in my chest, alone and miles from the one man Iâve ever needed to be there when I wake in the morning.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HUNTER
TWO DAYS.
Thatâs how long itâs been since I held her. Forty-eight hours away from Brit, and Iâm already losing my damn mind. Every minute Iâm not with her is like an eternity, back in this house, surrounded by my parentsâ passive-aggressive judgment and the crushing weight of my guilt. I need her with me, to taste her lips, touch her soft skin, lose myself in those kisses that somehow set everything to rights in the world. But each time I pick up my phone, ready to dial, something stops me.
This is my bullshit, not hers. Sheâs had enough family drama in her life to last a thousand years. The last thing she deserves is all my crazy, too.
But thatâs not it, not everything. Because despite the bliss of coming clean to her, seeing the understanding and forgiveness in her eyes when I finally told her the truth, I canât shake the fear that itâs not real. That once she has a chance to think about itâreally recognize what Iâve doneâsheâll see how wrong I am, how I donât deserve her love. And every report about my fucked-up family will remind her, Jace is gone. I did that. Me.
âYouâre wearing that?â My motherâs voice stops me as I walk through the front atrium. I turn.
âItâs just dinner.â I look down. I havenât had a chance to get my things from the ranch, so Iâm stuck wearing what was left in the closet of my old room here. Jeans, a shirtâI look fine.
My mother walks closer, tutting. âI laid out a suit for you, Armani. And wear that blue tie, it brings out your eyes.â
I look at her, realizing sheâs dressed to the nines in a cocktail dress and pearls. My heart sinks. âWhoâs coming?â
âJust a few people.â Mom makes an absent gesture. âThe Kellermans, you know he just moved his accounts to the firm. Bitsy Tremaine, and her husband. The Feinbergs, oh, and some of the senior partners and their wives.â
âYouâre hosting a party,â I state, through a clenched jaw.
âWell, of course I am.â My mother stares at me, like this shouldnât be a surprise. âYou havenât been back in months, and there are important people for you to meet.â
I try and control my temper. âUnless theyâre looking to sell horses, or have them trained, Iâm not interested.â
My mother sighs. âHonestly, Hunter, this ranch business is a foolâs errand. Itâs time for you to face up to your responsibilities.â
âTheyâre not my responsibilities!â I burst out angrily. âTheyâre your obligations, and I donât want any part of them!â
Her face changes. âHow can you say that, after what happened with your father? Donât you care what happens to this family?â
I catch my breath. âIâm sorry, Mom. I do care. But that doesnât mean Iâm going to give up my life to live yours.â
Momâs lips press together in a thin line. âIâm not going to have this discussion now. We have guests arriving soon. Go and change, and be ready for drinks at eight.â
I feel rebellion thunder, hot in my veins. I donât want to do as she says. I want to bolt right out that door and drive nonstop to Beachwood Bay. I want to tear open Britâs door, carry her up the stairs, rip off her clothes and not get out of bed for a week.
But Iâm just about ready to turn and walk out the door when my motherâs gaze slips past me, to the framed portrait of Jace thatâs hanging in the entryway. Her expression softens; her eyes watering. âI remember the day he started at the firm. Your father was so proud, I thought heâd never stop smiling.â
Guilt crashes over me, a hundred-ton weight.
The only reason my mother is ambushing me is that I didnât give her any choice. They had their perfect son: the company man, my motherâs dinner party host. They had him, and I took him from us forever.
Iâm a poor second choice, and we all know it.
âIâll go put the suit on,â I agree, resignation smothering my plans to get away. Itâs just another night, I tell myself. You can head back home tomorrow.
My mother brightens, moving to kiss me on the cheekâand smooth back my hair. âWeâll need to get you a haircut, you look like a vagrant.â
âSure,â I sigh, turning to head back upstairs.
âAnd donât forget the tie!â
DINNER IS UNBEARABLE, like every other damn party in this house. My parents laugh and make small talk with all their society friends, gossiping about local scandals and politics while I pick at my fancy food and wish desperately I was a hundred miles away, eating burgers at the bar with Brit, just hanging out, messing around to make her laugh, stealing kisses between her shifts.
Watching the look in her eyes when she comesâ¦
I feel a buzz in my pocket. I check my phone, sneaking a glance under the table.
Howâs it going? I miss you.
Warmth seeps through my body, melting my tension for one brief, blissful moment. Even from a hundred miles away, Brit can make all this bullshit go away.
I start to tap out a response.
âHunter?â my motherâs voice comes sharply.
I look up to find her giving me a deathly glare. Cellphones at the dinner table are strictly forbidden. I grit my teeth, and tuck my phone back in my pocket.
âYes, mom?â I ask in a fake-polite voice. I look at the clock on the mantle. Jesus, only 8:30 p.m.?
âBitsy was just saying her niece is in town, sheâs about your age,â my mom adopts a sugary tone. âYou two could get together for lunch later this week.â
âOh yes!â Bitsy claps her hands together. Sheâs a brittle blonde with a forehead that hasnât moved all evening. âThatâs perfect.â
âSorry,â I tell them both, not even trying to sound like I mean it. âIâm not staying. And Iâm seeing someone,â I add in my momâs direction, in case she gets any more bright ideas about fixing me up.
Mom raises an eyebrow. âThat girl from the hospital?â
âHer name is Brit,â I reply, ice-cold.
âI thought she was a hitchhiker you picked up,â Mom smirks, turning to the table. There are titters of amusement from her friends. âHonestly, you should have seen her: shorts up to here and a shirt down to there. These country girlsââ
âThatâs enough.â My voice is harsh over the ring of china. I scrape back my chair.
Momâs face changes. âWhere are you going? We havenât served dessert.â
âIâm not hungry,â I tell her, striding out of the room before I lose it completely. I donât know where to go, but instinct takes over: driving me upstairs, down the hallways to the back of the house, and through a door I havenât brought myself to open in years.
Jaceâs room.
I catch my breath, my heart pounding fast i
n my chest. Itâs quiet up here, away from all the other bedrooms; the windows overlooking the side of the yard, with a tree in easy reach for all those times he snuck out to go fool around with a girl, or grab some beers with his buddies out at the lake.
I look around. They havenât touched a thing. Itâs like a shrine to him: sports trophies still lined up on the mantle, school medals and his college diploma framed proudly on the walls. The bed is made with fresh navy sheets, and his computer is sitting there with a stack of magazines on the desk, like at any moment, heâs just going to come strolling in the door, back from playing tennis at the club, yelling at me to get my ass in gear.
I sink down in the desk chair, memories hitting me like a tidal wave. Mom never let us pin up posters or photos, but there are pictures of him everywhere, framed in heavy gilt and black. Jace with the lacrosse team, celebrating a win. Jace in his cap and gown, looking bashful up on stage. Jace and I, laughing together on the docks, that last summer in Beachwood Bay.
My brother.
Damn, I miss him. I feel it every day, but nowâhereâitâs more than I can stand. Some siblings have a love/hate thing going on, but we were always tight, even when I felt like I could never live up to him. He drove me crazy with his confidence, acting like there was nothing in the world he couldnât get once he decided he wanted it. I used to joke that one day heâd meet a problem too big to charm his way out.
I guess I was proved right, that terrible night when we both discovered that all the wanting in the world wonât un-break bones, and mend torn flesh. No amount of swagger and easy smiles will restart a heart thatâs stopped beating.
A noise comes from the doorway. I look up to find my mom.
âIâm not coming back down,â I tell her, my voice gruff in my throat.
âDinnerâs over,â she says softly, stepping into the room. âThey left hours ago.â
I jolt with surprise. I didnât notice the time pass, wrapped up in memories, but the sky is dark outside, and it must be late.