“New beginnings,” I echo.
We clink glasses and drink, eyes locked. He’s handsome, in the candlelight. Strong jaw, perfectly symmetrical features. And yet, not one single butterfly flutters in my stomach. My skin isn’t on fire from just the weight of his eyes. My heart isn’t having arrhythmias.
“Have you always lived in the city?” he asks after a beat of silence.
“I grew up on Nantucket, mainly, but my father sent me and my brother to boarding school in Rhode Island when we were old enough.” I absently touch the gold pendant hanging around my neck. A gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday — a small, shining sun on a thin gold chain. Simple but beautiful. I remember the day he clasped it around my neck; he hugged me and whispered into my ear that it was a good omen to carry the sun by your heart.
I would’ve worn it even if it were bad luck.
It’s one of the only gifts he’s ever given me that wasn’t picked out by a secretary or personal shopper. I rarely wear it out of the house, never wanting to risk losing it, but I was in such a rush tonight I didn’t have time to swap it for one of my more elaborate pieces.
“At least you had your brother there with you.”
“What?” My eyes lift back to Cormack.
“At boarding school.”
“Oh.” My cheeks heat. “Well, the boys’ and girls’ campuses are separate, actually. There were social hours and mixers, of course, but Parker’s four years older than me. Our extracurricular activities rarely meshed.”
“An all-girls school?” He grins wolfishly. “I’m sure you have some interesting stories.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t all naked pillow fights and painting each other’s nails.”
More like two hundred snotty, materialistic bitches who pray at the altar of gossip and sabotage. There’s a reason Lila is the only one I’ve kept in touch with, after high school.
Cormack laughs and it isn’t rusty at all. Like he does it often, freely.
It’s a lovely sound — one that doesn’t make my stomach clench or my breath catch.
I smile and pretend not to notice how empty that makes me feel.
To my surprise, the night passes easily. We drink crisp wine and eat delicious seafood and Cormack’s charm keeps conversation light, putting a smile on my face and a warmth in my belly. There’s no verbal sparring. We don’t spit barbed comments back and forth. Our eyes never clash with so much intensity I think I might shatter.
It’s all very normal. Exactly as a first date should be. As close to perfect as it gets.
I try to be happy about it.
After all, that’s the goal, right? That’s what we’re all supposed to be striving for in this life.
Happiness.
But if this, here in this moment with him, is what happiness feels like… I’m afraid I don’t like it half as much as my misery.
***
We walk along the waterfront after dinner. Rowes Wharf glows in the distance, the trees on the promenade strung with white lights. Not many people are out walking — it’s Sunday night, and chilly for May.
The wine in my system keeps me warm enough. When I came back from the bathroom after our entrees were finished, I found Cormack had refilled my glass to nearly the brim. I took a few small sips to be polite — it was a two hundred dollar bottle — but didn’t come close to finishing it.
Still, I must’ve had more than I meant to, because the after-effects of the alcohol are hitting me. Hard. My gait is unsteady as I maneuver the cobblestones in my four-inch heels — jet-black Manolos with killer silver accents. On a normal day, I can walk a tightrope in these.
“Whoa, there!” Cormack’s hand lands on my arm in a firm grip, steadying me when I bobble. “You all right?”
Actually, no. I’m not. My head is foggy and my toes are numb.
“I’m fine,” I murmur, pressing two fingertips to my temple. “Maybe a bit too much wine.”