Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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After I finally gather the strength to pull myself together, I walk through the front door. I feel lighter and heavier all at once – lighter because the worst has already happened between Greyson and me, heavier because I know no apology will ever be enough. He'll never forgive me. He'll never look at me the way he used to. For twelve years, he was my best friend, the one who made me feel whole and safe and loved without condition. And now, he's the one that got away.
In the kitchen, my mother sits at the counter with the paper. Her strawberry-blonde hair is a tangled mess, dark circles shadowing her tired eyes.
"Hi, Mom."
She looks up, managing a faint smile. "Hey. What are you doing up so early?"
"I couldn't sleep, so I walked down to the beach."
"I didn't even realize you weren't home," she sighs, folding the paper and rubbing her forehead. "Mother of the year."
"It was early. You were still asleep," I say carefully, stepping closer. She'd gone straight to bed last night, angry and silent, and I'm not sure how to bridge the space between us. "Is Dad at work?"
"No. He took the day off. Your sister and Jamie are back from London, and after your father told them about the hospital, Adelaide insisted they see you right away. They're coming for dinner. Your dad's at the grocery store."
"Oh. Okay."
I grab the Keep Your Standards, Chin, and Heels High mug Adelaide gave me for Christmas, fill it to the brim with coffee. Not Starbucks, but close enough.
I side-eye my mother from the counter, sipping my coffee. Her chin rests in her hand, finger tapping against the counter like a ticking clock. The silence between us is thick, pressing in on my chest until it's hard to breathe. We haven't talked about what happened—both of us skirting around it like it might shatter us if we do.
"Did Addie say if they had a good time?" I ask.
"Yeah. Said the weather wasn't great, but it's London. She wouldn't care if it poured every day—she'd still have fun."
"That's true."
"I'm going to make some breakfast. Do you want some?"
"Sure."
She pulls eggs and bacon from the fridge, setting them down harder than necessary. Her movements are restless, frantic, like she doesn't quite know where anything belongs. I'm about to ask if she's okay when the cutlery drawer slams shut—and suddenly her arms are around me.
"I was so scared," she whispers against my hair, squeezing me so tightly my ribs ache. "I thought I'd lost you."
"I know. I'm so sorry, Mom."
"I love you, Delaney. I love you so much. I can't ever lose you. Do you understand that?"
"I do."
She pulls back, palms warm against my cheeks, eyes fierce despite the tears brimming there. "I'm really angry with you. I don't want to be, but I am."
