Page 20

I’ve seen Dad console Mom for dozens of reasons probably a hundred times during my lifetime, and he always has the same look on his face while he holds her close.

I call it his revenge face.

Ed Trent is seen as an affable, easygoing kind of a man by the public.

In his almost forty-year career he has never had a scandal involving him getting angry.

The only scandals, really, were when it was discovered they were pregnant with me, and when he was seen out with some other woman during one of the times they’d broken up when they were still a lot younger than I am today.

That one caused a stir only because I saw the picture.

Mom didn’t give two shits who Dad spent his time with for a good three years, if I remember correctly, but she did care that I saw it.

He ended up consoling her that time too .

I’m well aware of how much grief and worry I’ve brought to their lives. Even if it’s not really my fault, it still makes me sad whenever it becomes so clear.

Right now is not an exception.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them, then reach up to take off my earbuds.

I only half heard Mom’s rant, but I didn’t need to in order to know the gist of what she was saying.

“Not your fault,” Dad tells me in a clipped tone. His revenge face is still firmly on.

It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s not my fault. I’m the one who fell for Dirk’s act for more than a decade. I’m the one at fault here.

“I’d agree that it’s that dick’s fault,” Carter mutters from behind me, and I turn in my seat to look at him.

In my gut, I know Carter is far from anything resembling Dirk, but the doubt he put in me for so long isn’t something I’ve managed to get rid of. In fact, it’s something I’m positive will never leave me.

But still, Carter’s actions today speak for themselves.

He defended me.

Quite fiercely, actually.

He protected me even after he’d inserted himself into a very uncomfortable situation, brought me back home, took care of dinner, and as far as I could tell, didn’t believe anything Dirk said.

Even though some of it was true.

“And it’s not your fault either.” Dad speaks again, this time to Carter.

I turn back just in time to see him release Mom and stand tall, looking at all of us for a moment.

“I’ll call Duch,” he says, referring to their lawyer.

“Tell him what happened and see if there was any breach of the NDA. And you two need to prepare for the ball next Monday. For now, though, we probably all need our rest. Take those down.” He nods to the bag of takeout I’m only now realizing Carter must have brought.

“Your brothers and sister will help you with this, Liam.”

His eyes bore into me, and I don’t look away.

It’s only with him, Mom, and London that I can keep eye contact, and I’m grateful for all the work I did as a child to be able to do it because I see his love for me shine through them. I see how sorry he feels too.

For what, I have no fucking clue, but that’s something I can ask tomorrow.

I nod and stand, take one container of lasagna out of the bag, and then nod at the door so Carter will follow me.

“Bye,” he tells my parents softly, and then he turns quickly, walking out of the apartment before me.

I have no clue what, how, and when we’re going to talk about everything he heard from Dirk, or everything he said to him.

He told him we’ve been dating for two years.

Why? Why two years?

“That’s just a number that came to mind,” Carter mutters from next to me while we wait for the elevator.

I realize I asked out loud.

“I panicked after, having no clue if you’d been together two years ago,” he continues, speaking low.

“We weren’t,” I assure him. “We broke up six years ago.”

“Okay, then,” he says simply, and I have no idea how to interpret that .

I think about asking, but I’m drained enough to recognize that if I get stimulated any more tonight, I might go dark for a week.

“I need rest,” I inform Carter as we step into the elevator.

“And your siblings,” he says quietly. “And probably silence, right?” I can feel him turning to look at me, but can’t bring myself to move, even while wonder fills me at his words. He knows me so well already. He’s so damn perceptive.

“I need you to tell them what happened, please.” I need him to do it and don’t mind asking as the doors open two floors down.

“Of course. Everything?” he asks, and walks next to me to my apartment door.

“Yes, they know all of it.” I open the door and let him walk through first.

“You got it.”

We find London, Logan, and Larson sitting in my living room. I don’t stop walking, just move right along to my bedroom, and before the door closes I hear Carter’s deep voice.

I know my siblings will probably have a similar reaction to Mom, so I undress quickly, start the shower, then take the two minutes to answer the questions so my algorithm can make me the playlist I need.

Once that’s done, I connect it to the speaker I have in the bathroom and get into the warm shower.

I’d laugh at the first song that comes on if I had the energy, it’s Darth Vader’s march, and I do feel like building a planet that kills other planets would be useful right about now .

A smaller scale one of course. I could point it at Dirk and make him stop existing all together.

Dad always says I have a homicidal streak in me, and if I’m not careful it’ll be cut loose someday. Mom always looks proud when she retorts that I got it from her.

I get lost in the idea, thinking how it could be done nowadays, and even think there should be a sound-ray that could incapacitate any person who hears. That would be more practical than a Death Star for sure.

When I’m on the third Tchaikovsky track on this list, “Swan Lake,” I realize I’m perfectly clean and really need to get out now.

I don’t stop the music as I dress in my perfectly worn-in sweatpants and soft tee—the perfect combo that’s reserved for hard days.

Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons: Winter,” begins as I walk to the door that leads to where I’m going to have to talk, most likely.

My siblings mean well, they always have, and they accommodate me to the point of annoyance, but they probably have a lot of questions.

I can only hope Carter already answered most of them.

I’m enjoying “L’inverno,” though, so I look down at my phone and decide to wait until that’s done, and check my messages.

There’s a confirmation from Tristan for Monday’s stupid ball, where I’ll talk to Michelle Blackwell and try to convince her to be an investor for ESoothe.

She’s the person who runs Broadway—her family has for as long as Broadway has existed—and therefore she not only has the money needed to be an investor, but also an extensive knowledge of music and the effect and appeal it has on the public.

Also, as far as my parents can tell—the only opinions I trust in this world—she’s a good person, so it feels like she’s the only real option to help us get the deals with the streaming services done.

There’s also an unexpected text that has me raising my eyebrows, asking for sessions on Thursday and Friday.

I think about it for only two seconds then text back that I’ll be there.

That work is, after all, what’s paying for ESoothe.

And who knows, maybe I’ll only get a sheet and not have to interact with anyone but the producer. That’s always the best case scenario.

The crescendo of the violins makes me smile and tells me exactly how much I need some time away from people. Hopefully The Storm will accomodate me.

I wait until the last whisper of the violin to pause the song, and then I walk out, ready to ask my brothers to have pity on me. I won’t ask London because she would never take pity on me, something that makes me feel loved, accepted, and furious all at once.

When I walk into the living room, though, it’s empty. I hear murmurs from the kitchen, so that’s where I go, and I find them all eating like starving animals.

I have to wince at the picture they make, and then get them all paper towels.

“Where is Carter?” I ask in a quiet tone, hoping they get the message that quiet is the only thing I can take right now.

“He left, but he asked us to give you this.” Larson pushes a piece of paper toward where I’m standing by the head of the table. “It’s his number. He told us to ask you to text him when you can so you can get your story straight.”

I don’t know if he’s being respectful of my needs or is just too engrossed in his food to speak any louder, but I appreciate it either way.

Though he’s the one I clash with the most, I still love him, and I still know my life is better because he’s in it. I don’t feel that way about anyone who isn’t family?—

Except Carter , my brain whispers to me, but I dismiss it.

Am I avoiding thinking any further about the way Carter acted today? Or about the reason why we need to meet and get our story straight ?

Of course I am.

Just like I’m going to avoid any instinct to look further into how it made me feel.

Doing so would mean acknowledging how nice it was, how in that moment I got a front row seat to how good a man Carter is.

I won’t acknowledge the attraction that I’ve only ever felt once before.

It’s way too intense.

That more than anything had me reaching for my earbuds once Dirk finally left us alone.

It hits me then, that I can’t not go to the Mayor’s Ball. And now that I know Dirk will be there, I can’t not go with Carter.

We’re going to have to pretend he’s my boyfriend and has been for two years.

“Sit, Liam.” London’s soft voice brings me back to the present. They’re all staring up at me with worried frowns. I sigh and pull out the chair.

“Pass me the lasagna?” I ask Larson.

“We gave Carter two big squares to take home,” he says as he does.

“We like him,” Logan says for some reason I can’t figure out right now.

Still . . .

“I like him too.”

I was going crazy at home, waiting for the time to come for me to leave so I’d be at MP on time. So ... I came early.