“I do know Declan, I just didn’t want anyone to know.”
Her thumb strokes the top of my hand, looking over me, and finally concludes, “It was him. He’s the love you lost.” She doesn’t question, only states what she’s figured out.
I nod and apologize once more for pretending to not know who he was the other day.
“I’m confused though. I thought you told me he died?”
And now I must lie, because I can’t possibly tell her the truth.
“I guess it was easier to pretend him dead. The thought of living in a world where he existed without me was much too painful.”
With a tilt of her head, her brows tug in sorrow for me.
“I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Shaking her head, she affirms, “Don’t be. You’re heartbroken; it’s understandable.”
“But it’s not excusable.”
“It is, dear.”
We sit for a while as she continues to hold my hands before adding, “He seemed quite angry.”
“He is. But if it’s all right with you, I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Of course not,” she responds. “Is there anything I can do? Anything I can get you?”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.”
“Okay then. Well, I’ll leave you be. Good night.”
“Good night,” I say as she walks out of the room and closes the door behind her.
I remain on the bed, unmoving, and alone with my thoughts. Exhaustion presses down on me as I turn my head to the side and eye my luggage.
Maybe I could stay a little longer.
I know I shouldn’t. I know I need to need go and erase myself from Declan’s life so he can move on and heal. It’s a lost cause trying to explain all of this to him. But maybe it doesn’t even matter, because in the end, he’s right. I’m fucked up and none of this makes any sense.
“WHAT ARE YOU doing here?” I ask when I pull up beside Lachlan’s car sitting outside the gates to my house.
Holding up a file, he calls out, “Property closing. I need you to sign.”
Christ, all I want is to be alone with a bottle of Aberfeldy. To try my best to relax and calm the nerves that Nina has so intensely provoked.
Lachlan pulls in behind me and follows me up to the house. I’m on edge, still unable to even think about what just happened and the things she told me. If I allow myself to go to that place in my head right now, I’ll completely lose my shit. So when I get out of the car, I exert control and compose myself.
“You couldn’t have emailed this to me?” I complain as we walk inside.
“They won’t accept an electronic signature.”
Flipping on the lights, I head back to the library to go over the final contract on the property in London I’ve been contending to acquire.
“You have any plans on selling this place?” Lachlan asks, and when I take a seat on the couch, he sits opposite me in one of the chairs.
“Why?”
“It’s pretentious.”
“Fucking dobber,” I breathe under my breath.
“I heard that, you bastard.”
“Good.”
I’ve known Lachlan since our college days. He was working on his PhD while I was working on my master’s at Saint Andrews. We were both a part of the OxFam Society and worked on many campaigns together. We’ve remained linked because of his relationship with my father. When Lachlan was my age, he worked in wealth management at one of the top firms in London, where my dad keeps his investments. Lachlan was his advisor for many years before he opted for a less demanding position and started advising small companies independently.
While I was still living in Chicago, I knew I’d soon be back here. Since I was already involved with purchasing the property in London, my father put in a call, and now Lachlan works solely for me. He handles my business finances and also a children’s education foundation I’ve had for many years now.
“Everything should be as we discussed with the bank,” he tells me as I read through the document.
“Looks good.” I sign the papers and slip them back in the file. Handing it over to Lachlan, I say, “Life’s about to get busy.”
“Good thing?”
“Very. After Chicago, I’m ready to dive into this project.”
“You ever gonna tell me what the hell happened?”
Standing up, I don’t respond. Instead, I walk across the room to the liquor cart, pull the crystal stopper from the decanter, and begin pouring myself a glass of Scotch.
“Declan?”
“Drink?”
“No,” he responds. “So, tell me. What happened?”
“Nothing to tell.”
I take a sip, relishing the twenty-one-year-old single malt. I allow the smooth smoke of the Scotch to settle on my tongue before swallowing. I appreciate its offering as it makes its way down, heat spreading through my chest.
“She leaves tomorrow, you know?”
“And your point?”
The boyish, smug look on his face grates me, along with the way he relaxes himself into the chair.
“She’s stunning.”
Tossing back the glass of whiskey, my face pinching against the burn, I set the glass down, and the clank of crystal against glass reveals my frustration.
“Remind me again why I’m friends with you.”