Page 111 of True Colors

A ghost of a smile touches Luther’s lips—the ones that have kissed me, loved me, oh so tenderly.

How will I go through my life without ever feeling them again?

I slump against Finn, emotionally drained.

“I do love you, Anouk. So very much,” Luther says, desperation in his voice.

“L-love without re-respect is just noise,” I tell him.

The softly spoken words hit him harder than my shouting does.

His shoulders slump. I’ve never seen him look this defeated. But I can’t help him feel better about himself. I can barely help myself right now.

“I won’t b-build my life around someone who thinks I need f-fixing,” I tell him as I snuggle into Finn, wanting his warmth and solid security.

“I understand,” I hear him say, because my eyes are now closed, my face burrowed into my friend.

After he leaves, Finn helps me into bed.

When he asks me, like he always does, to tell him one good thing that happened today, I tell him the truth.

“Luther apologized.” He’s the only person who’s ever felt guilty enough to mean it.

CHAPTER 26

Luther

When I get to my apartment, my parents are waiting for me.

The concierge did warn me about it with a text message, so I’m not surprised. In fact, I’d be shocked if they weren’t there, especially my mother, after I told Dad that I’d fallen in love and lost the girl all in a short span of time.

I’ve bungled this with all the finesse of a blind man juggling knives in a glass shop.

If you want a masterclass in losing your woman, I have the handbook for you.

My mother is sitting on my couch, a glass of what I suspect is the Dom Perignon that I had in my wine fridge, while my father is drinking what I know is my prized Yamazaki 18-year-old single malt whiskey.

They look rather comfortable.

Neither of them smiles when they see me.

“How long have you been here?” I ask as I drop the key fob in a basket on a console table by the door.

“About a half hour.” Mom raises her glass in a toast.

“If you’d called, I could’ve been⁠—”

“If we’d called, you’d never have come home,” Mom quips.

I walk up to her and kiss her cheek. “I knew you were here. The concierge let me know.”

I pour myself a drink because, why the hell not, and sit across from my parents in a matching armchair.

“Well?” I ask after I take a reassuring sip that doesn’t quite wash away the dark taste in my mouth, thanks to the apology that didn’t land—the confession of love that wasn’t believed.

“I knew you wouldn’t call and…”—she glances at my father and then at me—“we didn’t think you should be alone tonight.”

“There’s no we, sweetheart. This is all just you,” my father interjects dryly. “The boy is thirty.”