Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(42)

Her smile crumples into a frown. “Are you sure?”

No, I think.

“Absolutely,” I say.

I’ll just have to conjure up a date out of thin air, in the next two days.

Easy.

“Don’t bite my head off,” she murmurs, frowning. “But if you change your mind — if you decide not to bring someone — I won’t be mad. Don’t drag some random guy along just to prove me wrong.”

“Noted.” I decide to change the subject to something much, much safer than my — nonexistent — love life. “Did I tell you Duncan’s in town?”

“Your brother Duncan?”

I nod.

“The same brother who puked in my purse after the Sadie Hawkins dance?”

“Yes, Phoebe.” My eyes roll. “You really have to let that go. It was a decade ago.”

“It was my favorite purse! He ruined it.”

I shake my head. “Well, don’t worry. He’s currently too busy ruining my life to ruin yours.”

“What do you mean?”

I give her an abbreviated version of events, leaving my own financial woes out of the story as I tell her about Duncan’s newest failed business venture and surprise appearance on my doorstep this morning, asking for a loan.

“That man has more trouble holding onto his money than an Irishman in a pub.” Phoebe’s eyes narrow. “Are you going to help him?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I hedge. “He’s at my apartment, now — I told him to stay put, for the time being, and promised to help him talk things through when I get home. We’ll come up with some kind of solution.”

“You’re a good sister, Lila.” She pauses a beat. “Mimi would be proud of you, you know.”

My throat gets tight. I attempt to clear it as I turn my back on my best friend in the world, grab my clutch purse off the chair, and drain the remnants of my mimosa. When I turn back to Phoebe, I can barely meet her eyes.

“I should probably get going. Deal with Duncan.” I shrug. “You don’t mind if I skip out a little early, do you?”

“Of course not, love.” Phoebe’s voice is soft. “Lila… I’m sorry if I upset you, bringing her up. I didn’t mean anything by it…”

My gaze locks on hers. “I know you didn’t.” I try out a smile. “See you at the rehearsal dinner?”

“Don’t be late. I need all my bridesmaids in attendance, to help make me beautiful.”

“Phee, you never need any help in that department.”

I blow her a kiss over my shoulder as I walk out the door.





Chapter Eight





Someone called me pretty today. Their exact words were you’re pretty annoying, but I’m taking it as a compliment anyway.



Delilah Sinclair, always looking on the bright side.





It shouldn’t surprise me.

Honestly, I should’ve expected it, should’ve anticipated that this would happen. Still, I can’t help the flare of shocked disbelief that burns through me when I step inside my apartment, calling out for Duncan as I make my way to the kitchen, and find the note stuck to my refrigerator on a lime green sticky note. There’s just one line scrawled on it, in my brother’s familiar handwriting.

I’M SORRY.

And that’s when I know. He’s gone.

Like I said, Duncan disappearing into thin air shouldn’t strike me as such a curveball. He came to me for money and when I couldn’t provide it, he took off to find someone who could. Simple as that.

I’m not sure why it stings so much. I’ve long been aware that the only trust he’s concerned with building between us concerns my freshly drained trust fund. He has no use for me if I’m not bankrolling his latest business venture or bailing him out of a bad situation. I’m not a sister, certainly not a friend; in his mind, my value is tied intrinsically to my willingness to open my checkbook.

Tired from a day that’s only half over, I slide off my heels as I walk to my bedroom and eye their scuffed soles. My last pair of Louboutins — the only ones I haven’t sold at the high end consignment shop around the corner. Phoebe eyed them suspiciously as soon as I walked into her fitting earlier, no doubt curious about my newfound penchant for wearing out-of-season items. It’s not like me to repeat outfits, let alone pair a classic autumn heel with an off-white summer sundress. She didn’t comment, but she definitely took note.

I’ll have to tell her soon. There’ll be no way to hide it when I’m living in a dingy Somerville studio with a microscopic closet full of discount footwear.

It’s hot outside — a sticky June afternoon, the kind that makes you want to stand in front of the fridge just to get some relief. The open windows allow a small breeze inside, but its barely enough to make a difference.

I set down my heels, reach around for my zipper, and strip out of my dress. Fanning myself, I flop down on my limp air mattress in my lace bra and panty set, too lazy to even bother re-inflating it.

Everything feels more manageable, after a twenty minute power nap…

My eyes are sliding closed when something touches my leg — which, in itself, is alarming, considering I live alone. Even more so because, to be totally honest with you, whatever touches me is rather…