It feels strange, collecting Mr. and Mrs. Langston from the train station. Seems like they should have arrived upstate in a limo or something. But the couple is just as sweet and unassuming as they can be. They’re sharing one small suitcase that Mr. Langston won’t even consider allowing me to roll for them, let alone lift into the trunk of my car.

Not at all like their pain in the ass son. That PITA had a bag twice as big and demanded a porter carry the thing across the lot so as not to scuff the wheels. Really?

We chat as I drive them through my small town, answering questions about the college, what it’s like to live “so far out in the country,” and the various historic sites in the area, including the Beekman Inn my father so generously booked them in. Well, our receptionist, Margaret, did the booking of the rooms. Lord knows that task would be beneath my father.

“Gracyn, dear, would you mind if I ran up to the room before we scooted to dinner?” Mrs. Langston asks as her husband hands the bellhop a five-dollar bill to not carry his bag.

Maybe Brooks is adopted.

“I’d love just a moment to freshen up.”

“Of course, ma’am. I’ll just wait down here for you. Take your time.” Mr. Langston places a hand at his wife’s back and guides her into the shiny brass elevator, granting me a moment as well.

A drink is exactly what I need to make it through this stupid dinner tonight. I get the rubbing of elbows, shaking of hands, and the back-patting in new business relationships, but with as little regard as my father gives me professionally, it’s pointless for me to be there. Almost like I’m an accessory and nothing more.

“Whiskey neat, please. Do you have … awesome. The Redbreast Twelve Year,” I order quickly, not sure just how much time Mrs. L will need to powder her nose.

And I need this. Need the connection on some level to Gavin and the way he grounds me, believes in me, and encourages me to just do me.

The caramel and vanilla notes of the Irish whiskey tickle their way up the back of my throat and warm me from the inside out. He would so appreciate this one. I tuck a twenty under the edge of my cocktail napkin and check my phone, hoping for a message from Gavin, but there’s nothing. Not a word.

Something’s not quite right.

My dad is being his usual pompous self, but Brooks looks fake in an almost too-perfect kind of way.

Thankfully, our waitress is one of the girls I worked with through college at the little Italian bistro in town, and with a wink and an eye roll, she keeps my wine glass appropriately filled. Wine is for the women, and whiskey is a man’s drink, according to my father, so wine it is. I can work with this though. My driving obligations are done, and while I don’t plan on getting shit-faced, I do see an Uber in my future. Kate or Lis can help me get my car tomorrow … on the way to McBride’s because I’m going to need normal after today.

“Michael, we couldn’t be happier with how the transition has progressed. Your firm’s expertise is exactly what our company needs to move forward.” Mr. Langston raises his glass to my father in gratitude.

Yeah, my homophobic asshole of a father is named Michael George. It chapped his ass like nothing else when his son went through a George Michael stage.

“Well, William, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you choosing George and Son. I know you had a lot of options available to you, and I feel like this will be an absolutely symbiotic relationship that will benefit your company as much as it does me.” Not a benefit to the company, but to him personally.

Mostly, I hear, Blah, blah, blah. I blah, blah. I blah, blah, blah. Me.

Because, regardless of the fact that I was the one who waded through—sorting and tracking—and made sense of the mess of sketchy financials that had come out of the deceased Mr. Langston’s storage unit, Mikey is gonna take all the credit. Had things gone south, he’d have sold me out bigger than shit.

Mr. Langston extends his glass to me along with a nod and a thank-you. The sneer mars my father’s face, and he barely has a chance to school his features before Mr. L turns back to discuss golf dates and taking the yacht out on the sound once the weather warms up.

I would love to be anywhere but here.

After dinner is done, Brooks clears his throat and leans forward in his chair. “I hate to interrupt, but before we forget, I need some pictures for Langston & Langston’s social media launch.” He snaps his fingers at a passing server—not even our waitress—and hands off his phone before the poor thing has a chance to put down the heavy tray she’s balancing. “Now, if we could all stand …” He looks around the restaurant for the perfect backdrop to his photo. “This should work well enough.”

He directs the group over to the fireplace and poses us so that our fathers are leaning across us to shake hands, their wives tucked sweetly next to them, as the near-silent accessories they are. Somehow, I’m standing on the Langston side of the handshake, and Brooks’ mom reaches back to pat my arm. Brooks wraps an arm around me, placing his hand over his mother’s, in turn pulling me off-balance.

“Sorry,” I apologize, pushing back from him, my hand planted firmly on his chest. “Oh, sweet Jesus, are you wearing makeup?” My bark of laughter is louder than is polite by any standards, but this asshole is wearing concealer and powder.

Instead of being offended at getting called out, Brooks warmly smiles down at me. “Hmm, I had a little run-in earlier and managed a bruise to my eye. In fact, I had to run out and get a new shirt due to the mishap, so I just had the girl at the makeup counter cover it up.” He runs his free hand down his chest, smoothing the tie that is slightly different from the one he had on earlier today. “Can’t blame me for wanting to look my best for this little photo op, can you?”

Any normal man would take a black eye in stride, make a comment about how bad the other guy looked in comparison. But Brooks just highlights his herps-onality by getting his makeup done.

“You really are that shallow, aren’t you?”

The pictures done, Brooks takes his phone and turns on his heel, stalking back through the crowded dining room. No doubt he’s looking for whatever filter presents him in the most flattering light. The rest of us will probably look like trolls, but as long as he looks good, so be it.

Whatever.

With my purse in hand, I say my good-byes and excuse myself for the evening.

“Darling, aren’t you forgetting something?” my mom asks, halting my escape.

“My coat is up front,” I say, nodding in the general direction of freedom while fishing around in my bag for my phone. I need that Uber to be waiting for me like I need my next breath.

Car ordered, I look up to see both sets of parents grinning happily at us. Us because Brooks has joined me, cupping my elbow in a show on manners that is not a norm for him.

“Don’t wait up for me, Mother,” Brooks insists, smiling smugly. “We might be quite late.”

I pull my arm free, singularly focused on getting away from whatever nightmare this is. “What are you talking about?” I hiss, not wanting to make a scene.

He steps around me and pulls his black cashmere coat on before stepping out into the cold, clear night.

The red Honda that is my Uber salvation pulls up to the curb to the left of the valet stand. Not bothering to put my coat on, I make a beeline for the car, praying that the driver has the heat cranked up against the early December cold.

And, like a nightmare, Brooks slides into the back seat next to me, asking, “Your place or mine?”