Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(55)

“Maya, it is.” His fingers gently twist my head toward him. “You have accomplished a lot, and you did it on your own. I know it has nothing to do with me, but I’m going to get it etched on my tombstone. ‘Did not interfere too badly with the development of a great mind.’ Even Mom and Dad would be happy with me.”

I bite my lower lip. The inside of my cheek. “Do you think…”

“What?”

“That Mom and Dad would be here? At the wedding?”

Eli shrugs. “I’d love to say yes, but I have no clue.” He knows how hard it’s been for me, coming to terms with the knowledge that the father my brother experienced was so different from the one I adored. That the reason Eli was so scarce during the first decade of my life had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his fraught relationship with our parents. The dad he knew wasn’t protective, but dictatorial. Mom, absent instead of nurturing. And I struggle to reconcile one simple truth: if they hadn’t died, Eli and I would still be strangers, and…I would hate that. It has to make me a terrible person, right?

“Dad was pretty traditional,” he muses. “And Mom went along with what he said. I doubt he and Mom would have liked Rue. Then again, they didn’t like me, either.”

A lump forms in my throat. Sadness and resentment and nostalgia. “Fuck them.”

He laughs. “Fuck them? Our prematurely dead parents?”

“Yeah. Fuck ’em. I love them, I miss them, but they were wrong. I like Rue. Sometimes I even like you.”

Eli shakes his head. But his hand finds mine and holds it loosely.

“Where is Rue, by the way?” I ask.

“Taking a walk on the beach. She’s a bit peopled out. Needed alone time.”

“Which direction did she go?” My brother points toward Isola Bella. “I’ll go the other way, then.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“I can’t believe she agreed to tonight.” She begged us to not call it a bachelorette party, but we’ll be having a girls’ night. It sounds like the kind of college sorority outing Rue would slit her throat before attending. And yet.

“She seems excited about it.”

“And since she has no poker face, it has to be true. Must be a Christmas miracle.”

“It’s June.”

“It’s Christmas o’clock somewhere.” I rise to my feet. Wave my hand in lieu of goodbye. “Hey, Tiny? Wanna leave this old man to his ailments and go for a walk with me?”

Tiny springs up, energized by the magic w-word. With him trotting at my side, we head for the beach.

“Hey,” Eli calls after a while.

I turn. “What?”

“I’m proud of—”

“Oh, stop it.”

“—you, Maya.”

I resume walking. Faster.

“I’m proud of you, and you cannot stop me,” he shouts louder.

“I’m not listening.”

“Well, you should. Because I respect you as a person—”

“Shut up!”

“—and as a scientist.”

I flip him off from over my shoulder. The last thing I hear, right as I start down the stone staircase, is my brother dissolving into laughter.





Chapter 23




Three years, two months, two weeks, and five days earlier

Edinburgh, Scotland

The first package arrives the day after Conor’s departure.

I struggle not to frown at it as I read the attached card.

Last night was a mistake, and I take full responsibility. I shouldn’t have left without waking you up, but it seemed like the wisest thing.

If you need anything, call. Whenever.

Conor



In the box is a state-of-the art bread-making machine. I glower at it for a few moments, uncomprehending.

“What’s that?” Georgia asks when she enters the room.

“Hmm?” I stuff the card in the waistband of my pajama bottoms. “Just a present. From a friend.”

She grins, salacious. “What did Conor Harkness get you?”

“A…bread-making machine.”

“Oh my god. Because he knows you love fresh bread?”

That must be why. I did mention my cravings for homemade bread at some point, but it was such an offhanded, in-passing comment, there’s no way he remembered.

Except, he did. “Motherfucker,” I mutter, staring at my scowling eyebrows on the metallic surface of the appliance.

“What? Why?”

I ignore Georgia and storm to my room. How fucking dare he? Be a dick to me on the phone, then come to my rescue, then coax me into developing a robust crush on him, then make me come like the world is ending, then leave me alone in his fancy hotel where I totally revenge-ordered breakfast room service, then remember what I enjoy and send me a way to enjoy it more often.

How. Dare. He.

But in the following days, the gifts continue.

A necklace. Three fantasy books. New Post-its and a fancy umbrella. Flowers. A set of plush towels. An Xbox. Sneakers that, the internet informs me, I could resell on eBay if I ever wanted the starting capital for a new life.

Should I take a stand and return them? Nah. If it were anyone else, I would interpret the presents as a wooing strategy, or maybe an apology for acting like a total douche. Unfortunately, I understand Conor well enough to know that if he wanted forgiveness, he’d simply ask for it.