CHAPTER TWO
LINDA
I sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress too soft, the room too big.
Moonlight slipped through the tall windows, catching on the gold details my mother loved so much. Everything in this room cost more than most people earned in years, and for the first time, it felt completely useless.
I leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling as the past stole in slowly.
PAST
Luke's voice cut into my thoughts without warning.
"Close your eyes."
I frowned, standing in the middle of my room. "Why?"
"Just do it, Princess."
I crossed my arms. "Luke, if this is another prank—"
"Eyes. Closed."
I sighed but obeyed. A second later, something cold pressed into my hands.
"Open."
My eyes flew open. Ice cream. Vanilla caramel swirl. My favorite.
"You went all the way out for this?" I asked.
He grinned, already leaning against my dresser like he belonged there. "You looked stressed."
"You always say that."
"Because you always are." He shrugged. "Eat before it melts."
I peeled the lid open, laughing softly. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet," he said, tapping the side of the container, "I always deliver."
Days blurred into each other after that.
Luke showed up after my lessons, after meetings, after long dinners I hated. Sometimes he knocked. Sometimes he didn't bother.
One afternoon, I was sprawled on the rug, books everywhere, when he dropped down beside me.
"Emergency supply," he announced, setting another cup in front of me.
I looked up. "You're going to run out of money at this rate."
He laughed. "Then I'll steal it from George. Problem solved."
I took a bite, smiling despite myself. "What if I say I'm tired of it?"
Luke raised an eyebrow. "Impossible."
"What if I change my favorite?"
"Then I'll learn the new one," he said easily. "I'm not stopping."
"Ever?"
He met my eyes, something serious flickering there for just a second. "Ever."
The memory shifted.
My room faded into a quiet hallway, light pouring through tall windows.
I stood at the top of the staircase, arms full of papers, heels clicking against marble. My foot slipped.
The papers started to fall.
A hand caught mine instantly.
"I've got you."
Phillip's voice was calm, steady, like nothing bad could possibly happen while he was there. His grip was firm but gentle, anchoring me.
"Careful," he said softly.
I exhaled, my heart slowing. "Thank you."
He bent to gather the papers, stacking them neatly before handing them back. "You should ask for help sometimes."
"I had it under control."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "You always say that."
Another moment slid in, seamless.
I sat on my bed, struggling with a stubborn bracelet clasp, fingers fumbling. Phillip sat beside me without a word.
"Here," he murmured.
He took my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my wrist as he fastened the clasp with ease. He didn't let go right away.
"All done."
"Phillip," I said quietly, "you don't have to—"
"I know," he replied. "I want to."
There was no drama in his voice. No expectation. Just certainty.
Later, outside, the ground was slick from rain. I laughed as my heel slipped again, and his hand found mine automatically. We kept walking like that, fingers laced, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You okay?" he asked.
"I am," I said.
His hand tightened slightly, reassuring.
The present crept back in slowly.
I lay on my bed again, staring at the ceiling, my chest aching in a way I didn't have words for.
The room was quiet again.
Too quiet, as my memory shifted.
I rolled onto my side, pulling the duvet closer, when a soft tap came from the window.
Tap. Tap.
I didn't jump. I never did.
"Linda," a voice whispered. "If you don't open this window, I'm throwing pebbles until the neighbors think we're under attack."
I sighed and pushed myself up, crossing the room barefoot. The night air rushed in as I slid the window open.
Sermon climbed in like he'd done this a hundred times, landing lightly on the floor and brushing imaginary dust from his jacket.
"You're late," I said.
He glanced at his watch. "Technically, I'm early. Tomorrow hasn't happened yet."
I folded my arms. "You could have texted."
"And miss this?" He gestured around my room. "Absolutely not."
He dropped onto my chair like it was his, eyes already scanning me critically.
"Turn around."
"What?"
"Turn. Around."
I spun slowly. "I'm not wearing the outfit yet."
"That's the problem," he said. "You're thinking emotionally. I'm thinking visually."
I laughed despite myself. "You're impossible."
"Correction," he replied, standing. "I'm necessary."
He crossed to my wardrobe and pulled the doors open, staring inside like he was inspecting art.
"Okay," he muttered. "Who let this happen?"
I walked over. "What's wrong with it?"
"What's wrong," he said, "is that you own seventeen dresses that want attention and exactly three that deserve it."
"Sermon!"
He shot me a look. "Don't argue with professionals."
He pulled out a deep blue dress, holding it up against me, then shook his head and tossed it aside.
"No."
Then a soft cream one. He paused, tilted his head.
"Better. But not for tomorrow."
"You haven't even asked where I'm going."
He smirked. "Dinner. Public. Cameras. Your mother will pretend not to care while caring deeply."
I stared at him. "How do you always know?"
"Patterns," he said lightly. "People have them."
He finally pulled out a simple black dress, elegant and understated.
"This," he said, handing it to me.
I held it up. "It's boring."
"Exactly," he replied. "You don't need decoration. Let them project whatever story they want. Drives them insane."
I smiled slowly. "You're wicked."
"I know."
He walked closer, adjusting the way I held the dress, fingers careful, precise.
"Hair up," he added. "Minimal jewelry. And don't let Luke talk you into heels you can't walk in."
"He always does."
"Because chaos is his love language."
Another night bled into memory.
I sat on my bed in a robe, watching Sermon pace with two outfits draped over his arms.
"Okay," he said. "Option one says, 'I'm polite.' Option two says, 'I'm not trying, but you're still staring.'"
"I don't want anyone staring."
He stopped and looked at me. "Liar."
I laughed. "Fine. Which one?"
He studied my face for a long moment, then handed me option two.
"Always option two," he said quietly.
"Why?"
"Because you deserve to be seen," he replied, like it was obvious. "Even when you pretend you don't."
There was a sudden noise outside the window.
"Go," I said. "Before you get caught."
He climbed back onto the sill, pausing.
"Tomorrow," he said, "text me when you're dressed."
"Why?"
"So I can complain if you disobey me."
I shook my head, smiling. "Goodnight, Sermon."
He winked. "Try not to blind anyone."
The memory dissolved
I lay still in the dark, my chest tight, my mind louder than it had ever been.
A lone tear rolled down my cheek as my memory drifted to the most painful one.
The restaurant was quiet in the way expensive places always were. Soft music. Too much space between tables. The kind of place where people spoke carefully and watched even more carefully.
George chose it.
He always did.
I sat across from him, fingers resting on the edge of the table, eyes wandering over the crystal glasses and polished cutlery.
"You're cold," George said.
"I'm fine," I replied automatically.
He didn't argue. He reached over instead, folding my fingers into his warm palm, rubbing his thumb lightly across my knuckles.
"Your hands disagree," he said.
Before I could respond, he signaled the waiter.
"Tea," he said. "Chamomile. With honey. Not too hot."
The waiter nodded and disappeared.
I stared at him. "I didn't ask for—"
"You get quiet when you're tired," he said calmly. "And you didn't eat much earlier."
He said it like a fact. Like something he'd cataloged and stored away.
I smiled. "You notice everything."
"I notice you," he replied.
The tea arrived exactly how he'd described it. I took a sip and sighed without meaning to.
George's mouth curved slightly. Victory, without arrogance.
Another afternoon slipped into place.
We were walking through a boutique I loved, one I pretended not to visit often because the prices were unreasonable. I picked up a bracelet, thin gold with a tiny stone, admiring it from a distance.
"It's beautiful," I murmured, already placing it back.
George's hand rested on my lower back, guiding me gently forward.
"Wrap it," he said to the attendant.
I turned to him, startled. "George, no."
He looked at me, expression unreadable. "You like it."
"That doesn't mean—"
He leaned closer, voice low. "You don't ask for much. Let me give you something."
The bracelet slid onto my wrist later, fitting perfectly, like it had been waiting there all along.
He paid without glancing at the total.
In the car afterward, he adjusted the seat warmer before I could ask, turned the music down when I grew quiet, handed me a bottle of water already open.
"How do you always know?" I asked.
He kept his eyes on the road. "Details matter."
Another moment.
A charity event. Too many people. Too many questions. I stood beside him, smiling until my cheeks hurt, nodding while my head buzzed.
George felt it before I said anything.
His hand slipped into mine, firm and grounding.
"You want to leave," he said softly.
"I don't want to be rude."
"You've been polite long enough."
He guided me through the crowd, shielding me without making a scene, his hand never leaving mine. Outside, the night air wrapped around us.
"You didn't have to," I said.
"I always will," he replied.
There were countless moments like that.
He remembered my appointments.
He knew when I hated loud rooms.
He paid attention to how I took my coffee, how I folded my sleeves, how I paused before answering questions I didn't like.
He took care of things before I even realized they needed care.
And somewhere in all of that quiet attention, I had built a future without asking him if he wanted it too.
I had imagined his ring on my finger.
My name beside his.
A life where details were always handled before they could hurt me.
I had believed caring meant choosing.
The room went silent again.
The present crept back in, heavy and unwelcome.
I stared at the ceiling, my chest tight, the weight of it all finally settling.
George had cared for every detail of my life.
Just not for my heart.
Luke fed me comfort.
Phillip steadied me.
Sermon shaped how the world saw me.
Four boys. Four constants.
And I had believed it all meant something.
And that was the cruelest detail of all.
I let the tears flow freely.