Isabelle’s cheeks flush a bright red and she shifts uncomfortably as I shake hands with her father. No doubt, seeing me is a reminder of what we did in that closet. Or maybe she feels bad for running out. Personally, I’m over it. I don’t need or want to think about sex at a time like this. I just want my best friend back. If she’ll have me.
“I’m about to head inside,” I say to wrap up the pleasantries. “Pops is waiting inside.”
“Oh, here at Chez Maurice?” Joseph asks and smiles, seemingly oblivious to all the tension flowing between his daughter and me “I shouldn’t be surprised. We have reservations here tonight as well. We should all catch up over dessert or coffee later.”
Small talk? Not a great idea. Pops is dying.
I want to tell him another time would be better, but the Senator is a persistent man. If he so chooses, he’ll inject himself into our somber dinner with no problem. Pulling the door open, I motion for Isabelle and her family to enter ahead of me, and we follow Joseph as he heads over to Pops’ and my table.
Isabelle slows down halfway there and turns to me. “I’m sorry… about last week,” she whispers for just me to hear. “And sorry about tonight, for dad. You know how he is.”
“It’s fine. Pops will be glad to see him.”
There’s an awkwardness between us that wasn’t there before. A discomfort that makes our conversation seem forced. It’s because we crossed the line. As much as I enjoyed it, I should never have gone that far.
“We should probably join them,” I tell her, hating the tense, formal tone of my own voice.
Isabelle nods. “Yes, of course,” she says, and continues toward our table.
I’ve really fucked up.
7
Isabelle
This must be what hell is like.
I’m sure of it.
Ten years passed and I didn’t see Knox’s face. Not even one time.
I let my guard down, let him fuck me one time—just once, and since that night after I bolted, I see him everywhere. Every. Damn. Place.
It’s been a week and this is the fourth time I’ve laid eyes on him. Each of the last three times, I managed to dodge being seen. Like over lunch on Saturday when he sat outside a bistro near his condo, having coffee with Foster. That time, I was out for a run, so I quickly crossed the street and doubled back, taking a different route to avoid him. Then three days ago, on my way into the office, I saw him jump out of his limo to head into Steele Industries’ corporate head office. I turned up an alleyway to ensure we wouldn’t cross paths. And last night, well at least last night I was on a local bus when I saw him walking outside his condo.
It’s hell. A nightmare. Torture.
I think that’s why I bit the bullet just now when I caught sight of him outside the very same restaurant where my father made dinner reservations. Maybe if I face the music, face him head on, then the Gods of bad decisions will allow me to redeem myself so that I can finally stop seeing him everywhere I go.
Unless I move to the other side of the country like my sister, Bethany did.
But seeing him tonight is different. This time, his composure is off. When I meet his eyes, he looks shell-shocked. And not because of what I did to him last week, either. Something is going on. I got the sense that he was about to tell me something but stopped when he realized my parents were with me. It’ll be a relief if that’s the case and he’s still open to confiding in me. It’ll mean that our one casual hookup and the ten years he went silent didn’t permanently ruin our friendship. If we do manage to steal a moment alone tonight, I plan to find out.
I don’t want to be forced to turn and run every time we bump into each other. I need to make it right. I want my friend back.
On my father’s request, a server pushes a table next to the one where Knox and his grandfather are seated, making room for the three of us. Dad pulls out the chair beside Knox and motions for me to sit beside him. Okay, fine by me. This can work, even though I can tell that Dad has other ulterior motives. What he wouldn’t give to hook me up with one of New York’s elite families. Whatever. I’m just thankful he doesn’t know about our one-night stand. I wouldn’t hear the end of it.
“You’ve made some good strides since you won,” Mr. Steele tells my father as they continue their small talk. “Being a senator suits you.”
I brace for him or Dad to walk down memory lane and mention the tremendous amount of campaign support that came from the Knox’s family by way of monetary contributions. Dad brings it up every time the Steele name comes up in conversation. Mr. Steele smiles politely, but he doesn’t seem too interested in the topic. He and Knox aren’t talking much at all tonight. I get the impression that we—we as in my father—butted into their evening out at the least convenient time.
“What have you been up to, Morris? It’s been ages since we sat down like this.”
At Dad’s question, Knox’s hand tightens into a fist on his lap. It’s not a typical reaction to such a general question, and it doesn’t appear to have any effect on Mr. Steele, who has warmth in his eyes as he chats with Mom and Dad. Paying no attention to their conversation, I let my gaze move up to Knox’s face and know for sure there’s a lot more at play here. He’s tense, agitated.
