I stand alone in my office, staring at the open door, processing what happened.
My father is proud of me. He likes my wife. And he acknowledged that I’m doing something right.
And every bit of this impossible, wonderful validation is because of Peyton.
The realization settles over me like a physical weight. Or maybe shines on me like light. I’m not sure which.
I already knew, on some level, that I struck gold with her. That she’s brilliant and fierce and funny and brave and a dozen other things that make my chest feel too full whenever I think about them. But hearing it from my father, seeing the effect she has on everyone around her, drives home the truth I’ve been trying not to examine too closely.
I’m falling for her.
Have already fallen? Past the point of no return? Into territory I haven’t mapped and don’t know how to navigate.
But whatever it is I’m feeling, I want to tell her. To break us out of the pretense. Call me crazy, but I want to ask my wife on a date.
Lila was right. The only risk is letting Peyton slip through my fingers while I’m too afraid to reach for her.
I spend the next hour distracted. The quarterly projections blur on my screen. My mind keeps running through scenarios: how to bring it up, what to say, whether to be direct or ease into it.
I’ve negotiated million-dollar deals with less anxiety than this.
On the drive home, I work up my courage.
Peyton is in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone, humming along to a pop song on the radio. The mid-afternoon sun catches in her hair, turning the dark curls golden at the edges. She looks content. Happy. Beautiful.
I clear my throat. Open my mouth.
Close it again.
I try twice more during the drive, and each time I lose my nerve.
This is not a conversation to have while driving. I’ll tell her when we get home.
By the time we turn onto our street, my palms are sweating against the steering wheel.
When we pull into the driveway, an unfamiliar car is parked next to Peyton’s, and a woman is sitting on the front steps, a large duffel bag at her feet. She has blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail and is wearing jeans and an oversized hoodie. When she spots us, she stands and brushes off her butt.
“Do you know who that is?” I ask, even if from Peyton’s expression—half delight, half panic—I can guess the answer.
“Yep.” Peyton’s tone is apologetic. “It’s Emma, my best friend.”
The woman on the porch waves at us. A bright, friendly gesture that couldn’t have come at a worse time.
The words I’d planned to confess die in my throat.
Whatever I was going to say to Peyton, whatever honesty I was working up to, it will have to wait.
I kill the engine and paste on my most charming smile.
Time to perform again.
31
LIAM
I’m about to get out of the car when Peyton grips my forearm. I freeze with one foot already on the driveway and turn around. Her best friend is still standing on the porch, watching us.
“I’m sorry,” Peyton whispers. “Emma didn’t tell me she was coming.”