Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(47)

I narrow my eyes. Kate and me? Side by side?

Sounds like a disaster waiting to happen.





? SEVENTEEN ?


    Kate


Christopher’s office is different than I expected. No massive, chilly, corporate skyscraper with a bird’s-eye view, pedestrians turned to insignificant specks on the ground.

From three floors up, people are still people, yet somehow more vulnerable from this perspective—a sea of ducked-down heads and hunched shoulders against the cold, shrunk to miniature size, delicate and numerous. I wonder if this is intentional. If Christopher meant for his employees to see and be reminded that there are people out there, on the other side of every choice we make.

I turn away from the tall, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city block, taking in the view from his desk.

Office doors here are open, so energetic voices carry down the halls that lead to Christopher’s office. Luscious green-leaf plants and plush, dense carpet soften the hard edges of the space’s mid-century furniture and severe, geometric layout.

Spinning in Christopher’s desk chair, I curl my hands around its worn leather armrests until the world is a blur that looks as mixed-up as I feel sitting here, waiting for him.

The walls of his office are a warm, cozy color dancing between white and taupe—the color of a sleepy Sunday, a rainy afternoon nap. His desk seems old but well maintained and tidy, polished walnut that reflects the sunlight pouring in. No papers on the desk, only a calendar to the left with a word of the day, which I didn’t see coming, and to the right, a beautiful black-and-white photo of his family that makes my chest ache.

Either they used the world’s best family photographer or it’s a candid shot, because it’s so damn hard to get people to relax and be themselves when they’re posing for you. I’ve perfected the art of telling people I got the shot, then snapping it as soon as they relax, but that doesn’t always work. Sometimes you have to stay and be patient, find that moment they loosen up and joy comes back and their personality shines through. It took me years to hone that skill.

Gio’s in profile, clear proof of where Christopher got his tousled waves and sharp jaw, deep laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and a wide smile as he looks down at his wife and son. Nora’s curly dark hair is a halo around her head, her amber eyes, just like Christopher’s, sparkling and warm. She sits with her arms wrapped around Christopher, her chin on his head as both of them smile up at Gio.

I sweep my thumb along the edge of the frame, sadness twisting my heart. I can’t remember Gio’s and Nora’s faces without a photograph’s help anymore, which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me—I was seven when they died. I wonder if Christopher can still close his eyes and see them. I wonder why he never talks about them, why, once they were gone, he never did.

Selfishly, I feel a pang of gratitude for my parents, for the fact that I could hop on a train and hug my mom right now if I wanted, feel her softness and warmth and smell lavender in her hair, let my dad squeeze me tight and breathe in his peppermint scent and hear him call me Katie-bird.

My gaze slips to the right, to the next and only other photo on his desk besides his family’s. Another family photo, taken years later. My family.

Curious, I scoop it up, then lean back in Christopher’s chair. I set my thick-heeled boots on his desk, cross my feet at the ankles, and sway from side to side as I examine the photo.

It’s an oldie, taken at Christmas. All of us stand in front of the tree at my parents’, wearing some variation of warm sweaters, comfy pants, and slippers. Dad smiles, his eyes shut because they always are in pictures, his arm wrapped around Christopher, who’s in his high school–hunk glory, already as tall as Dad and grinning arrogantly, his dark wavy hair in its almost-to-his-shoulders phase that he thought made him look super cool.

I snort and roll my eyes.

Next to him is Mom, her chin-length hair rich brown threaded with auburn like mine, her eyes crinkled cheerfully at the corners. Bea and Jules stand beside her, looking around thirteen and almost identical still, like they did until they hit high school. You can see the first signs of Juliet’s beautiful curves, and a pen-drawn tattoo adorns Bea’s right hand like a premonition. Then there’s me, holding Puck, the family cat, who’s looking much spryer in this picture, with his fluffy, long white fur, his pale green eyes twinkling with mischief. I’m about eleven in this photo. Scrawny, squint-eyed, freckled.

And wearing my fucking orthodontic headgear.

“That asshole.”

I set the photo back on the desk with a thunk and glare at it. Of course, of all the photos he has, it’s one where I have more metal in and on my head than there is in an aluminum factory.

Annoyed, I decide that if Christopher’s going to keep a photo of me looking my all-time worst, it’s time to find some dirt on him. I yank open the middle top drawer, surprised it’s not locked. I’m met with an anticlimactic sight: blank notebook paper, blue, black, and red pens, a tiny pile of paper clips.

Next, the first drawer on the right. I open it and poke around. Two prescription bottles that I don’t look at or read—yes, I’m doing a little snooping, but give me some credit—mints, mint gum, and a thin stack of thank-you cards that have the Edgy Envelope logo stamped on the back.

“Boring,” I mutter, shoving it shut.