SUNDAY MORNING, BRUNCH TIME

It’s official: I’m getting the hang of this relationship thing, and, um, I’m sort of good at it.

Andrew and I’ve somehow achieved the holy grail of getting our fix of each other without losing our prior lives. He still works like a maniac, exercises like Superman. I still have long lunches with Marley and the girls when it suits me. We’ve even taken another step forward in merging our worlds. There was his work party on Thursday, and then last night he came out to dinner with my friends.

He headed home before we went dancing, because . . . baby steps.

Still, I’m all but skipping as I drop my purse on the entryway table of my parents’ place, humming to myself.

Andrew opted to head for the gym instead of joining me. Something about being behind on workouts, as I was keeping him up all night. I didn’t apologize.

But I’m pretty sure it’ll only be a matter of time until I can coax him into the meet-the-parents phase.

I mean, three workaholics in the same room? They’d all be fast friends. I’m the one who should be worried. Although, on that note, I’ve kind of been considering asking my dad for a job.

I know. I know. You’re like, What? But as much as I love my life, really truly love it, this little part of me has accepted that I’m a tiny bit bored. There are only so many fundraisers, and it’s been bugging me lately that they seem more like a social status thing rather than caring about the actual cause.

I want something I can sink my teeth into.

For now, though, I want a mimosa and to sink my teeth into some bacon, and . . .

Thoughts of food and champagne scatter when I walk into the dining room as I have a million times before, only the scene is different.

Dad isn’t in his chair at one end of the table. Mom’s not in her chair at the other end of the table, phone glued to her ear.

Both parents are seated beside each other, their hands folded, their expressions frozen.

In other words? The type of scene nightmares are built on.

I’ve seen it once before: when they told me Grandma Georgie had passed.

So whatever they have to tell me now is not gonna be good news.

I feel a little jittery as I slowly sink into my usual chair, opposite both of them.

My eyes flick between the two of them, trying to get some inkling of the news before the bomb drops. Is one of them sick?

Of the two of them, my dad looks worse. He’s pale, and there’s no trace of his usual easy smile. My mom merely looks tense, but then, she’s always had a damn good poker face.

No clues on either side.

“Don’t make me ask,” I whisper, my voice only a little bit shaky.

My dad stares straight ahead, and my mom swallows. “Georgie. Honey. Your father and I have decided to get a divorce.”

My shoulders slump a little in relief. They’re not sick. Not dying. But the relief is short-lived as reality sinks in. Even though on some horrible, in-denial level I’ve known it was coming, it’s still a shock.

“No,” I say. “Why?” I clench my hands in my lap, embarrassed that my eyes are watering like I’m six instead of twenty-six.

My mom forces a smile, but it doesn’t even remotely reach her eyes. “Sometimes—”

I lift my hand. “Please. Please do not tell me that sometimes people just drift apart.”

Mom’s lips press together. “Jack,” she snaps. “A little help?”

My father clears his throat, finally looking at me, and I feel my chin wobble when I see that his eyes are brimming. “I don’t know, Georgie. I just . . .”

He lifts a hand, running it over his face, and his reaction tells me everything I need to know.

My gaze flicks back to my mother, and though she doesn’t look unaffected, she’s nowhere near as broken by this as he is. “Did you already file?”

She looks away, likely noticing that I’m directing the question to her. Knows that I know exactly who’s driving this divorce.

“So what happens next?” I ask. “This is just . . . the end of the family?”

“Georgie—”

“What?” I snap, pushing out of my chair and standing. I know I’m being immature, but I just . . . I want them to be in love like they used to be. At least I thought they were. Or did I just see it all through a child’s eyes?

“Did you even try?” I ask, my voice breaking.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then it’s my dad who speaks. “Georgie, I know this hurts, but you know that even if your mother and I have decided we’re better off without each other, neither of us is walking away from you.”

“Never,” my mom says emphatically.

I wipe at my eyes. I know it’s supposed to make me feel better, but all I can think is that there will be no more Sunday brunches with the three of us. No more family walks down Fifth Avenue at Christmas, or them hosting their epic Oscars party, or summer weekends in the Hamptons . . .

None of it. It’s all over.

“Sweetie, sit down, please. I ordered some cinnamon rolls. Your father and I thought maybe we could brainstorm some ways that you can get quality time with each of us, and—”

I shake my head, taking a step forward. “Too soon, Mom. Way too soon for that.”

“Georgie—”

“No,” I say, my voice sharp, as I look at my dad. “I don’t know how long you’ve had to adjust to this information, but I need a bit more time before I can talk about it like a rational adult. Just . . . some space. Okay?”

Neither of them says a word as I walk out of the dining room. I grab my purse and dash out of their apartment, my mood having done a complete one-eighty from what it was when I walked into the room just a few minutes earlier.

A few minutes, really? It feels like years.

Or maybe that’s just because I feel years older.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand as I burst out onto the sidewalk. I immediately head for home, pulling out my cellphone, thinking that I’ll text Marley. But suddenly I stop.

Texting Marley is what I would have done a few weeks ago. Right now, though, I need someone else. My heart knows that being held by Andrew is the only thing that can possibly fix me.

I make it home, fueled by fury and heartache, and I skip my apartment altogether, going straight to his. Sometimes I stop at the front desk and request his guest key (he put me on his approved list, which is sort of romantic), but I’m too distracted to do that now, so instead I find myself pounding on the door with frantic, open-palmed slaps until he pulls it open.

“Georgiana, what—”

It’s then that I break. All my fear of the future, all the pain for my little family splintering apart, comes out as one keening sob.

He makes a choked sound, and without a word draws me to him, one arm wrapped protectively around my back, his other hand cupping my head, hugging me to his chest.

“I’m here,” he whispers.

It’s exactly what I need to hear, and that only makes me cry harder, my fingers digging into the soft fabric of his T-shirt, which is getting wetter by the minute, thanks to my tears.

I cry and cry, pulling back only long enough to dab at my smeared mascara. “You must think I’m ridiculous,” I whisper, my voice raspy from crying.

“Always,” he whispers, his lips brushing over my cheek. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“My parents,” I say with a sniffle. “They’re getting divorced.”

I’m not expecting him to say much, but at the very least I expect some sort of useless, guy-ish murmurings that he imagines will be soothing.

He says nothing.

I raise my eyes to his, and my heart stops for a full beat at what I see there.

He looks stricken but not surprised. Most damning of all, he looks . . . guilty?

I take a tiny step backward, my heart beating again, but in a pounding, panicked kind of way. “Andrew?”

“Georgiana.”

I know then. I know.

He reaches out a hand, but I step back with a slightly crazy laugh, staying out of reach. “You knew.”

He says nothing, and suddenly I lunge forward, shoving his shoulder. “Admit it! You knew!”

He inhales, his chest expanding, and then he nods. Just once. But it’s enough. “Yes. I knew.”