So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
She tore up my favorite book.
She tore up my heart.
I don’t know which hurts more.
More than that, I don’t know what it means. When she’d come here tonight seeking shelter from her brother, I thought we’d turned a corner. I’d taken the first step with the flowers and the note. I’d given us a blank slate. I’d listened to my fucking heart instead of my head and this is where it landed me: a vandalized book and an empty bed.
She chose that line for a reason. Because it was the end? Because there’s no happily ever after? No.
Into the past.
It’s a message. We can’t escape the current, the riptide will keep dragging us back out to sea—lost and separated, making it impossible to find our way back to one another. That’s where we were in the past.
So that’s how Adair sees it. I thought when she came here last night that she’d agreed with what I’d written on that note:
I’m all in, Lucky.
I was—until now.
“What the fuck, Lucky?” I growl. Zeus backs away a little and I force myself to take a deep breath. If I can scare him, what does she think of me? Is that why she left? Did I say something? Did I frighten her? Is that why turned away from me five years ago?
I look down at the gun heavy in my palm and realize if that’s the case, she’s smarter than I thought—and I’ve always thought Adair was brilliant. I flick on the safety and shove the gun in my waistband. There’s no danger here, except me. I should have seen myself coming.
I spin around, rubbing my palm against my neck. She can’t have gone far. I feel stupid thinking about my conversation with Percy now. He said she seemed quiet tonight. He meant when she left! I consider trying to catch him before his shift ends to see if he has a clue where she’s gone. Then, I can go after her, demand an explanation. But I know Adair. She gave nothing away. Still, it’s not like I won’t be able to spot the Roadster, even in Nashville traffic. It stands out a little. I’ll make her see that it’s not like before. I’ll prove it to her like I should have five years ago.
I reach for my phone and start to slip it into my pocket when the lock screen flashes a text notification. All the pieces fall into place in an instant when I see Sutton’s name. The conversation I’d been having with her probably read a lot differently to Adair. She wouldn’t know it was playful. She wouldn’t know it was innocent.
Because she doesn’t know Sutton is my sister, and that’s on me. I pick and choose what I let Adair see about me and my life. I always have. So why did I hand her my phone so thoughtlessly?
“Fuck!” My phone hits the wall and crashes to the ground with a loud crack before I realize that I’ve thrown it. What the fuck was I thinking? There are a dozen people I wouldn’t want her to read texts from and I just gave her my phone? Clearly, I wasn’t the one thinking; my dick was. It’s not the first time. It might be the worst time, though. Had Adair gone through them all? Snooped through my life? Does she know who I am now? What I am? I slide the message and read the thread.
Adair didn’t need to read more than this. Without any context, it looks bad—really goddamn bad. It’s a testament to how screwed up our relationship is that I’d rather she had found a message from one of my clients. That might have gone over better than me saying I love you to another woman. Anyone could have texted me while she had the phone, but it had to be Sutton. It’s just like us to get the short straw.
Adair might be my lucky charm, but the thing about luck is that it’s bad as often as it’s good. And this time? My luck is as bad as it gets.
Sterling
The Past
Cyrus leans over the bar while the bartender flirts with a few of Adair’s friends. Straightening to his feet, he holds up a bottle of West Tennessee Whiskey. He swipes a glass. “Want one?”
It’s not the first time he’s offered me a drink. I’m not sure why he keeps asking. Maybe he expects that one day I’ll take him up on the offer.
Today’s that day. “Sure.”
He grins and grabs another glass. Then, he tilts his head toward an archway. I follow him away from the party, down a hall, and into a large study. Built-in bookshelves line the walls, filled with a neatly organized library of leather-bound volumes. They’re beautiful books, their titles stamped in gold on their unbroken spines. There’s not a speck of dust to be seen as I wander around, perusing.
“Adair’s dad is a reader, too,” I note as Cyrus hands me a tumbler of amber liquid. I hold it for a moment, aware of its weight in my palm.
Cyrus laughs. “No clue.”
“He has a lot of books,” I point out, admiring his collection of Hemingway.
“So does my Dad,” he says with a shrug. “His home office looks a lot like this, and I’ve never seen him read a book. He’s too busy with contracts and stuff. I think shit like this comes with a house on Magnolia Lane.”
I start to pull out a copy of Exit to Eden.
“Don’t, man,” Cyrus warns me. “There are cameras everywhere. Her dad goes nuts if people touch his shit.”
No one touches the books, let alone reads them. I force a tight-lipped smile. That explains their pristine condition. Pretty objects to fill empty places. Books mean something else entirely to me. Mr. MacLaine doesn’t deserve this library. He doesn’t deserve this life.
“I can’t believe he left on her birthday,” I say.
“It’s better, though,” Cyrus points out. “All our parents take off so they can pretend they don’t know what we get up to.” He taps his glass against mine. “Cheers to absentee parents.”
It’s a weird thing to toast to, but I guess if daddy pays the bills and keeps you in luxury cars, you don’t care.
“What about you?” Cyrus asks.
“Huh?” The glass is hovering near my mouth, but I can’t seem to take a drink.
“Your parents. You never talk about them.” A shadow passes over his face and his eyes widen. “Fuck, I forgot. I met your, um, adoptive mom, right?”
“Foster mom,” I correct him. Suddenly, it’s easy to take a sip. The whiskey burns down my throat, igniting a deeper thirst. I take another drink.
“Sorry, none of my business.” But I can tell he’s curious.
“They’re dead,” I say flatly. It’s almost the truth. I’m only half lying, and they both might as well be dead for all I care.
“Fuck.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”
Given the worst thing that’s ever happened to Cyrus Eaton was probably dinging his BMW, I doubt he can relate. I don’t hold it against him. Why would I want another human to live through the death of their mother—let alone their mother’s murder? But I wish he didn’t feel the need to sympathize. He doesn’t get it. He never will. His platitudes are meaningless.
Silence falls between us, and I think he expects me to fill it in with the story of their tragic deaths or some shit. No way am I falling down that hellhole.