Page 184 of Wait for Him

They exchanged Rose stories for well over an hour, which was horrifying because neither of them believes in confidentiality, and by the time the night was winding down, I walked into the bathroom and found Jade with her hand up Macy's skirt.

Like the voyeur I am, I watched till the end credits and nearly came in my panties. Sue me, it was fucking hot.

I've also seen Michael every single day.

We've caught up on everything. The business, the baby prep, the year I missed, all the little pieces of his life I used to know before they happened. And the more time I spend with him, the more I realize my baby brother grew the fuck up while I was gone.

Like, really grew up.

He's settled now. He thinks before he reacts, which is new and frankly suspicious. He doesn't need me to clean up after him. He asks for my opinion without treating it like an instruction manual, and when I give it, sometimes he doesn't take it.

The audacity.

But I'm proud of him. So fucking proud of him.

And there's a harder truth sitting underneath that pride that I've had to deal with all week: I don't think he would've grown this much if I'd stayed.

I spent most of his life making sure there was always a net underneath him. Every bad decision, every crisis, every time he fucked up badly enough to scare himself, there I was. Big sister. Attorney. Fixer. General pain in his ass. I told myself I was making sure he never fell too far, and I was, but I also never gave him much opportunity to find out whether he could get himself back up.

Then I left, and he had to.

Turns out he could.

There's some guilt in realizing that. There's also relief, and pride, and a little grief for all the years I thought loving him meant carrying things he was perfectly capable of carrying himself. I'm trying not to turn any of those feelings into a reason to beat the shit out of myself, which is harder than it sounds. Self-flagellation has been one of my more consistent hobbies.

I still haven't told him about James.

I plan to. I just need to tell James first, and the how of that conversation has been sitting in my stomach all week. Every time I think about actually saying the words to him, my intestines attempt to resign.

I should have Pepto on tap at this point.

If I've been anxious about anything, it's that.

That, and Jackson.

I haven't seen him since he walked away from my hotel room a week ago, which is probably for the best. The few minutes we spent alone together were enough to confirm that a year of therapy did not magically remove Marcus Jackson from my nervous system.

Rude, honestly. For what I've paid those people, I expected better.

Yesterday he was photographed stepping into a charity gala with Rian on his arm. Local celebrities. The power couple of real estate. She looked perfect, naturally. Tall, blonde, beautiful, wrapped around the arm of the man I'm still trying very hard not to think of as mine. His hand was resting at the small of her back, and I stared at it long enough to remember exactly how that hand feels against my skin.

Then I closed the app.

That part matters.

I closed it, put my phone down, and got on with my evening. No spiral. No three-day disappearance into my bed. No emergency therapy session. It hurt like a motherfucker, and I kept going because I know how to do that now.

Yay fucking me.

Tonight is family and friends' night at Noctra.

It'll be the first time I've seen Samson and the family since my return, and the first time I've walked into that restaurant as a woman who isn't just there to watch from a corner table anymore.

Other than a fancy new chandelier and outdoor seating, nothing much has changed. Same low lighting, same hum of conversation, same smell coming from the kitchen that immediately reminds me I should've eaten less before I came. I spot Samson and Lauren across the room, and I'm on my feet before I can give myself time to overthink it.

The shock on their faces isn't because I'm here. They've seen me here plenty of times.

It's because I'm walking toward them.