And she texts, Ha. 

She thinks I’m kidding. Hell, maybe I think I’m kidding. Because the idea of us at the Montgomery Club is so stupid it’s funny. We’ve even swapped this exact joke. There are a handful of clichés we repeatedly use, and to us, “Montgomery Club” is right up there with “Rockefeller” and “The Ritz-Carlton.” If we were making the sarcastic trifecta, I’d suggest we meet Mr. Rockefeller at the Montgomery Club, then head to the Ritz for cocktails.

Seriously. With Mason James.

Your boss? 

Yeah.

Pause. Then: Okay. Another pause. Why?

I don’t want to tell her about Riley — about why I don’t want to be around Riley without someone caustic by my side. Because this stuff with Riley is all in my head, and if I bring it up, Bridget will get the idea that it’s not. Which is natural, given that I told her all about that morning just because it was so weird. And maybe — because Bridget was mute and couldn’t compete for conversational space — I blabbed too much. She even got the idea I was somehow smitten. Although she didn’t react the way she usually does to my conquests, because I’m usually drunk when I make them and this time I was sober.

Looking back, wondering why I’m doing this, it strikes me as being like the difference between manslaughter and premeditated murder. Usually my lust life happens accidentally, in the heat of the moment. If Bridget is mistaken over what I said about Riley, I can see why she’d be taken off guard. This would be the first time in forever I’ve talked about a girl in advance of hooking up with her other than to mention the size of her boobs.

But that would only be relevant if Bridget was mistaken, which she is.

I don’t like Riley. I mean, I like her, but I’m not into her. That would be stupid. And besides, she’s just a college girl. Never mind that her LiveLyfe profile paints a compelling picture. She says she likes to see bands at the Overlook. How have I never seen her there? I go all the time, but maybe I started after she went off for college.

Where she’d be a bubbly little girl.

In her college girl clothes. Bobbing around and going to clubs. Doing all the shit that proves how different we are, even though I get this feeling we’re simpatico.

Business, I text back.

Just the three of us?

Maybe, I lie.

There’s another long pause.

Is he bringing his daughter? Bridget texts.

I’ll pick you up at 6:30.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Riley

MY OPINION OF BRANDON PLUMMETS once I see him enter the restaurant. Because he’s with someone predictable. A statuesque woman who’s almost as tall as he is, in heels she doesn’t need like I do. She stunning in such an obvious way. She has small features, a wide smile that’s not all teeth like mine, bow-like lips, and eyes that are narrow, upturned at the ends, shaped like almonds. Brown hair that shines. The kind that doesn’t get split ends.

I touch my own hair. Then I look down at this ridiculous red dress Dad more or less commanded me to wear. I thought it looked mature and maybe even elegant before I’d left, and even let a few thoughts of what Brandon might think enter my head. But who am I kidding? I bought it before I left for school. From Phoebe, in fact. And right now, I just want to head back and return it, even though it’s been almost five years, because I bought it for the wrong person. I’d thought it was sexy at the time. Now I see that it’s juvenile.

The girl on Brandon’s arm is wearing her own dress so much better. I can’t tell from the table, but it’s either very dark green or blue. Maybe black. Like almost everyone else in here. Some of the men are in tuxes; most are in suits. Brandon wore a tie, but the maître d’ holds up a house coat for him to wear because a tie isn’t enough here. Of course it still manages to fit him perfectly — and what’s more, it manages to look great beside the tall brunette.

I don’t want to stand because I’ve suddenly realized how I must look. If the maître d’ could have given me a house coat, I imagine he would have. Because some airheaded little girl came in with her daddy wearing a homecoming dress. Maybe later, everyone’s probably thinking, she’ll do a few of those wedding line dances.

As they come closer, I can barely stop myself from staring at his date. She wore her hair better than I did. She wore a more fashionable dress. She’s already tall, and yet she’s enough of a bitch to go out of her way to make me look even shorter. If anyone needs heels like hers, it’s me. And yet I kept my shoes kind of low, because this is half business.

Dammit. Brandon brought a beautiful woman. And I brought my father.

Brandon shakes his hand. I watch him do it, surprised to see that he must have done something to his beard since I saw him last, because it no longer strikes me as unprofessional. Now it seems to somehow fit.

I see movement from the corner of my eye. I look over to see the beautiful brunette holding her hand out for me to shake.

Presumptuous.

Arrogant.

She didn’t say a damned thing. She just held out her hand, like I’m supposed to bow and kiss her ring.

I force a smile and take her hand. Her pretty mouth moves. She barely exhales, but she’s said something I can’t hear. Because she’s going to play this like a diva.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”  Brandon looks over and puts his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “This is my sister, Bridget.”

Something inside me snaps. I feel my smile widen … apparently because I’ve been dying to meet Bridget? Phoebe knows her, I guess.

Bridget nods with a little smile. Then, incongruous in the posh club, she smacks Brandon’s shoulder hard with the back of her hand.

“Sorry again.” To both me and Dad, he adds, “Bridget just had vocal cord surgery. She can’t talk.”

“I can kind of whisper,” she manages to say. Then she flinches, and her hand moves automatically to her throat. Seeing her hand is all it takes to shatter my illusions. Her nails are painted, but they’re trimmed, maybe chewed. They’re not the hands of a debutante like I’d thought. They’re the hands of a worker — of someone who’s come by beauty accidentally rather than having manufactured it.

“She can kind of whisper,” Brandon says, giving her a look, “but she’s not supposed to.”

The remaining introductions circle our small table, but the rest of us know each other already. We all sit, and Brandon looks at me in a way that sizzles something inside me. It occurs to me that half of me wishes Bridget had turned out to be someone else — a date, say. Because now I feel odd in a different way. It’s like Brandon can see through me because of what I did the other day. And now there’s now no proof, here at the table, of why I shouldn’t feel embarrassed.

It’s one thing to have done something dumb and personal in front of an attached guy whom I happen to work with.

It’s another to have exposed myself so intimately to someone who …

Well, I’d rather not think about that.

We settle in and order drinks then an appetizer. Bridget makes for an odd dinner companion because she can’t order for herself, but she has some sort of sibling language worked out with Brandon that lets him act as her mouthpiece.

Watching them together makes me wish I had a brother or a sister. I know plenty of people who don’t get along with their siblings, but what I see across the table is so sweet it almost feels magical. Brandon has always struck me as standoffish, and the last time I saw him he seemed flat-out jerky — but this is a different side. It’s a Brandon I haven’t seen. One I wouldn’t have known even existed.