Oh, my sister owed me so, so big for this night. But that, of course, was the irony. Before she asked me, all I could think about was my annoyance that Finn hadn’t responded to whatever it was that made me so different from Lia. And that was held up in strange juxtaposition with our interchangeability in all this.
I could’ve been any of the four Ward sisters, and Adele probably wouldn’t have cared. Who I was didn’t matter to her in the slightest. The dishonesty in what I was doing faded slightly when I thought about the evening in those terms.
Because even if I’d introduced myself as Claire, told her I’d come in Lia’s place, it wouldn’t have mattered. Probably to Finn either, sadly.
All I wanted was to have some time with Finn, and now I was basically being pimped out because of my last name. Who I was didn’t matter, and sitting at that big table, I suddenly felt very alone.
I took another sip of my wine as Adele turned to speak with her husband. Up on stage, they were explaining … something. About works of art for sale, displayed around the ballroom. But I couldn’t hear a word over the yawning sense of disappointment unfolding behind my chest. I tried to stop it, but it was inevitable. From the moment someone else turned around, to that conversation with Adele, I was just … disappointed.
Bauer leaned in again, and I gave him a sideways look.
His voice was low, meant to be intimate and secretive. “Now why did that make you look so sad, princess?”
I cleared my face instantly. “I’m not sad,” I disagreed. “Just wish it was time for dessert so I could forget this chicken ever existed.”
His eyes, a deep greenish gray, searched my face. “Mm-hmm.”
What did he see that made him look at me like that? My heart thumped once, twice. Hard.
When Bauer was looking at me like that, I didn’t feel alone. I felt exposed.
I found myself pushing my chair back. “I’ll be right back.”
Adele glanced up at me. “Don’t be gone long, honey.”
She meant well, and I knew it. This was important to them. Important to Finn.
WWLD.
She’d wink and then promise that it was in the bag. She’d get it done for them simply because they’d asked it of her, this family she was a part of because of her best friend.
And all I wanted to do was leave.
I couldn’t dredge up whatever words my sister might have used. “Excuse me,” I said softly and walked away from the table, clutching my purse in my hand like it could teleport me away from that place.
Weaving steadily through tables of well-dressed elite who were laughing and drinking, I felt like I couldn’t breathe deeply until I was clear of the doors. My hand pressed against my stomach as I felt my diaphragm expand with a slow breath to calm my strange reaction. A few people were milling through the hallways, looking at large black and white photos displayed artfully along the stretched-out hallway outside of the ballroom.
They were a perfect distraction because I didn’t really want to dissect why I was so bothered by Adele’s—and Tom’s—interactions with Bauer. I’d come for Finn. To spend time with Finn. And instead of being disappointed, my wheels were spinning as thoughts of stepchildren and unwanted children and some strange quarter-life crisis about not being seen as my own unique person tangled through all of that.
My steps slowed as I reached the first photograph, and I froze. It was beautiful and sad. Strangely appropriate for what I’d just been thinking about.
A small boy sat on a broken curb, looking down at a dirty, smudged ball in his hands. It was worn from play, clearly overused. His hair was dark and messy, his lashes long against the pale skin of his cheeks. You couldn’t see his eyes, but in the background, two other kids played together. They were out of focus, not meant to be the focus of the shot.
Staring at his shoes, also dirty and worn from use, I found my eyes welling up unexpectedly.
“Goodness, that’s depressing, isn’t it?” a deep voice came from next to me.
I glanced over my shoulder. A gentleman with a shock of silver and brown hair was staring at the photo, his head tilted to the side as he frowned at the image.
I clasped my hands in front of me. “It’s moving, I think.”
He hummed, tucking his hands into his pockets.
The disbelieving sound made me smile. “You disagree?”
“I’m shit with figuring out art, young lady.”
That made me laugh. “I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
He was the kind of man who was hard to gauge how old he was. His face was gently lined, like he laughed a lot, and his brown hair was streaked liberally with gray. But he was tall with broad shoulders, a strong nose, and a wide smile.
“What do you like about it?” I asked him.
He grimaced, staring again at the image. “Not much. It makes me uncomfortable.”
That made me give his face a second look, a longer, assessing one. “Strong reactions aren’t bad, though. The point of good artwork is to make you feel something.”
The smile he gave me was lopsided. “Fair enough. What do you feel when you look at it then?”
Staring at the little boy’s face, I answered without thinking. “The role of perceived maternal favoritism in sibling relationships in midlife,” I answered without thinking. I felt my cheeks flush hot when he gave me a curious look. “Sorry, that was terribly specific.”
His gaze sharpened. “And I’m terribly interested in why.”
For the first time since Lia handed me that yellow dress, I felt like myself. My ribs expanded easily as my heart settled into a normal rhythm.
“It’s a, a study that I read recently for school,” I told him.
He nodded, a gentle nudge to continue.
There was no expectation to be someone else or talk like someone else. Just a genuine interest in what I had to say, and that made the words come easily.
“There’s something very lonely about him,” I said. “There are people—other kids—right behind him, yet he’s separate. That ball, his shoes, he’s obviously very active. Loves sports. But he’s sitting in stillness for some reason. It makes me wonder what his family life is like. How he’s loved, if he feels separate when he goes back in that house too. Or if being outside,” I paused, and Bauer’s face flashed in front of me, “if finding something he’s good at, something physical and tangible and independent, gives him the affirmations he’s craving.”
In the silence that followed, I felt a slow flush of embarrassment crawl up my skin. I might as well scream
Beware of Psych Major for everyone in the hallway to hear. When I grimaced, he stepped closer to the photo, assessing it carefully.
“No wonder you looked like you were about to burst into tears,” he mused.
Under my breath, I laughed and felt my embarrassment wash away. “I can’t help it, unfortunately. I’m about to start my master’s in developmental psychology.”
“Ahh.” He grinned and looked younger when he did. “An art connoisseur masquerading as a therapist. You’ll be able to fix the world with that brain, young lady.”
I ducked my head, unsure what to say.
“No, no, don’t be embarrassed. It’s a wonderful thing, that you can look at that child and see all of that.” He sighed. “He probably makes me uncomfortable because he reminds me of myself as a young boy.”
His face was distant now, not seeing me or the photo, and I watched him carefully in silence. A few people milled around us, but no one interrupted.
“Maybe if I’d had someone like you helping me understand those sorts of things when I was younger, I wouldn’t be so damn stubborn now.”
“Stubborn isn’t a bad thing,” I said. “Determination is a wonderful trait, especially if you’ve found success.”
“Everyone in this overpriced room has found success, haven’t they?” he asked dryly.
“I suppose.”
He blinked. “My manners, where have they gone.” He turned, his hand held out in my direction. “Richard.”
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.