Chapter Ten

Zoe

T he sun shines high in the sky, but Camila's smile rivals in brightness.

Back at Nicholas' party, we exchanged phone numbers along with the typical promises to see each other soon. I had thought that was all they were, empty pleasantries.

I was wrong.

She hadn't hesitated to reach out to me. I hadn't even closed the car door before the first text arrived. Before too long, she demanded a girl date, as per her own words.

"I love these girlfriend dates." She sighs contentedly, tilting her face up to the sun to soak up the sunshine. Her chocolate brown hair dips below the middle of her back in luscious waves, natural chestnut highlights dancing with the sunlight.

We meet at the mall because emergencies happen, and you never know when you might need something. And the mall has everything. Again, her words. I almost don't recognize her in a white top, pink pleated knit trousers and a bag that could rival Santa Claus's in size.

We window-shop until she grows bored—a remarkably quick feat—at which point, she directs us to a bookstore. We peruse every shelf at a snail's pace, while she stacks books in a cart—and my hands. We leave the store what must be hours laters with way too many heavy brown paper bags in our hands.

She thrusts them in my hands with a funny wink. "To keep yourself company when your man's away."

Morbidly curious, I peek inside and tripp on my feet when a bunch of shirtless men smolder at me from the covers.

When I catch up, I find her in the middle of the crowded area in the outside garden, pushing two tables together.

"Sit, sit," she urges as I stare pointedly at the two tables. Camila points to the one in front of her. "For the food." Then to the other. "For the games."

I have so many questions, but she shuts them down by opening her Santa bag and producing from it a deck of regular cards, a deck of Uno, one of Dos, a 4-In-A-Line, Monopoly, a chessboard and a freaking 300-piece puzzle.

My wide eyes bounce from her to the table, back and forth, back and forth.

"Where should we start?" She claps her hands, rich brown eyes glowing with more shades than I can pick apart, smiley with their tilted edges. Sometimes, though, I think I catch something heavy before she blinks it away.

I look around, watching the trimmed bushes and the other patrons for hidden cameras, half-expecting someone to jump out of nowhere and reveal this is a prank for some reality show.

It doesn't. It isn't.

"Close your mouth before you catch a bee and sit your ass down. You're drawing attention. "

"Sure that's me," I mutter, flying to my seat.

"Hm?" Camila's already shuffling cards.

"A fly . Before you catch a fly."

She sets my cards in front of me. "You seem more like a bee girl."

Five hands later, we finish another round of Uno. She demolishes me. Again.

If she weren't wearing a white butterfly top with a ruffled halter neck, I'd suspect she's hiding +4 cards in her sleeves.

My phone beeps in my pocket. I find a message from my fake-boyfriend, and my first instinct is to ignore it. Except, it's a media file—not one of his usual ninety-seven-minute audios—and I' tempted to break my rule of making him wait—or never answering.

In the end, curiosity is a cat with a purr that I can't resist. Not that I like cats.

My thumb taps twice. The screen lights up with the grins of the two men in my life, and my entire eyesight reduces to the screen until I can almost see every pixel of the picture.

Miles and Grandpa show teeth, crinkly eyes and dimpled cheeks. Happiness that can't be faked.

The background is a familiar red and steel. Red that has been my home as much as my house. I spent some of my favorite childhood memories in a stadium in the middle of Grandpa and Grandma.

When she passed away, she left behind a broken man. For years, Tobias Westwood was a ghost—his wife the color in his life; without her, his world went pitch black.

A dull twinge nips with every beat of my heart. Miles is the hand Grandpa chose to hold as he refreshed his dusty footprints on our stadium .

But mainly, the pulpy organ thuds with overwhelming happiness.

Born in England, Tobias Westwood, like most children, found in his passion for soccer an escape from the ugliness of humanity. In the ruins of a country, kicking a ball, children could be just children.

When he emigrated to the Americas, he met a country that didn't particularly care for the most beloved sport in his motherland. He had no choice but to correct the errors of Americans' ways.

So, Tobias Westwood became one of the founders of Boston Football Club, one of the first football (err… soccer? ) clubs in the USA, and the first in the city.

I know this tale by heart, so many times he held my hand in those stands and spoke those exact words like a special secret that belonged to us only.

I can't remember the last time I heard them.

If I had known back then it would be the last time, I would have strained my ears. I would've stopped myself from blinking. I would have carved and committed every intonation to memory. From the wrinkles around his words, to the crinkle in the corners of his blue eyes—and the gleam in them.

The gleam that had faded with his wife's last breath.

The gleam that never returned.

Our religious weekly soccer dates stopped with the beat of my grandma's heart, and they never came back.

Tobias Westwood never again stepped foot in the stadium he'd helped erect .

Not for the lack of trying. I tried and tried, then and now—always a resounding no for an answer .

Yet there he is.

Sitting in his box, in those same seats for which he holds seasonal tickets he'd never canceled; for years, they'd sat there, empty with dust-shaped memories.

"Are you going to tell me what's got your face all twisted in a poem?" Camila's voice yanks me from my head.

"Uh?" I have to clear my throat. "My grandpa went to the game with Miles. The soccer game." I feel the need to clarify, as though she'll comprehend the magnitude of such a little thing.

Her face scrunch up like a crumpled-up piece of paper. "A child dies every time you Burger Kings call football soccer ." The way she all but spits the word translates visceral loathing. "It's me—my inner child. My European inner child."

"Burger Kings?"

"Yeah. Like, if I were referring to French people, I'd say baguettes ." She sighs, slumps in her chair so dramatically she almost hits the girls on the next table. They side-eye her, sharing a look that conveys they don't find Camila cute. "It's a sad day for me, realizing I chose a friend with zero sense of humor."

"Okay, first of all—" I hold up my index finger. "You have to meet my grandpa! You'll be best friends as soon as he hears you're a soccer -hater. I wouldn't be surprised if he wanted to replace me with you."

"Yeah, I can see that." She nods her agreement, elegant fingers gathering her hair up in a messy, messy ponytail. She looks untamed and ethereal and free. "Old men can't resist me."

My poor face twists so hard it'll leave wrinkles. Our last stop today will be the beauty store .

Camila bursts out in a laugh that swallows my pleas.

"Please, please never say that again."

Shaking her eyebrows, she slurps loudly on a milkshake that must have arrived while my eyes had been glued to the photo. "You're pretty when you beg."

Not for the first time today, I wonder how I ended up here—on a first girl date with this delightfully deranged girl who called me a friend from our first meeting. And how much I was enjoying it all.

I'm still wondering as the marble monster I grew up in comes into view before I even enter its street. It's only when I turn the wheel on the circular driveway that the shiny gray car reshifts the direction of my thoughts.

Parked in front of the imposing house of Greek architectural inspiration, it looks perfectly at home at my mother's mansion. Windows upon windows, perfectly proportional and proportionate, watch as I stop my Jeep next to the Mercedes. Green gardens and tall columns frame an ample porch and stairs where a smile awaits.

For the first time, I feel a surge of something positive shoot through my heart upon seeing those dimples.

Miles rises as soon as I turn the ignition off, his tall frame small against the imposing background.

But all I can see is him.

Today, his dimples are the reminder of a memory, a picture that's etched itself into my heart, fueling my feet forward. The closer I get, the faster I become until I can launch myself into his open arms that meet me in the middle.

Miles simply catches me, closes me inside his arms like that's what they were meant to. To catch me, whether I jump, I fall, I run—his strong hold speaking to my skin with branding promise.

He'll always catch me.

I hug him to me, too, with all my strength, as I drown in the crook of his neck. And he is warmth, he's that fleeting feeling of summers in the sand, the sun kissing my back with serenity and the sea speaking in gentle waves.

Some time later, moments or minutes, he loosens his hold around my middle, allowing me to slow, slow, slowly slide down his chest, as my body feels every hard inch of his. My shirt bunches up around my waist, but I don't feel the breeze, enveloped in his heat.

Miles halts my descent when we're nose to nose, our breaths a warm mingle between us before fading in the wind that rustles the trees with a hint of evergreen mint. After a lingering heartbeat, he unlocks his eyes from mine to paint every angle of my face. They end up on my lips, watching them shape two whispering words.

"Thank you."

My voice is raspier, like my gratitude is made of so many things, its weight heavy in my throat.

I'm suspended in his grasp, in this interval—an instant between two moments, before and after. The clock ticks as always, one, two, three seconds at a time, but they're slower and swifter simultaneously.

Sometimes an instant feels like forever, sometimes forever is an instant.

Miles sets my feet on the ground with steady hands. When the tips of his fingers recognize the bare skin of my waist, they press with punishing branding. Warmth escalates to heat, but I don't care if I'm scorched.

My hands, behind his neck, curl at the rebellious tips of his hair, struggling to keep myself upright as my skin tingles with pinpricks in the shape of his fingerprints. They sharpen, swallowing my whole body when I crane my neck up to meet sparkling silver in the melting sun.

I feel like I'm floating, still dangling in possibilities and what ifs .

What if I hop on my tiptoes, what if I claw my nails, what if I stretch my neck as I draw him down?

Something shifts in my periphery, effectively erasing all the possibilities.

The surprises won't stop coming, today.

With a stumbling step back, I create some needed distance, giving my brain time to retrieve the sanity that has clearly abandoned me.

"Grandfather," I address my second favorite grandsire. His arrival bears cold reality. "I wasn't aware you were in town."

"It's my daughter's birthday." His voice is the same as always, but it's the haughty tone that triggers all my defenses, setting my body on lockdown.

"Happy to see you are alive still." I flash him a joyous smile, fake. "If you'll excuse us, we have somewhere to be."

I interlace my arm in Miles's, leading us inside without looking back.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" He might've jotted a question mark at the end, but it's a demand in all its audacity.

"He's not my friend." My tone mirrors his entitlement. I learned from the best, after all.

And he's not supposed to be here, a witness to any of this.

As soon as we're inside, I maneuver us to a concealed corner. Alone, I accuse, "I didn't realize you'd be here today. "

"Would you prefer that I left?" he offers promptly, like he cares about my needs.

"Yes. No. That's not—"

I want to keep things separated, compartmentalize each side of me in its neat drawer. I don't want him to have access to this part of my life.

Most of all, I don't want him to witness this. This part in which I feel like an utter failure because that's what I am in my maternal grandfather's eyes.

If I don't meet his expectations, I can only be a disappointment. And that's what I've been ever since I chose to be myself instead of the carrier of his legacy.

I denied following his—and mother's—footsteps, refusing to go to Harvard and study Law. My mom is an only child, so am I—therefore the legacy Your Honor, Judge Hopkins, also former governor of Massachusetts, worked so hard to build would be lost with me. Before cold bitterness creeped up with age and awareness, I might have understood.

But isn't he supposed to love his granddaughter more than his legacy?

Miles doesn't belong on this side of me. But he's already here. And he's still holding my hand.

"No. Stay." I pull him into the large living room.

Although I'm firm in my decision, he senses my reticence.

"Your mother called Toby. When he mentioned me, she suggested I should come too. Surprise!" he whispers with a wince.

"It's fine. It's good that you're here." I sigh. "I suppose it does contribute to our credibility."

His feet seem to falter one step just as we round the corner and find my mother—or rather, she finds us .

"Hey, Mom. Happy birthday!" I inject cheer in my voice, perhaps too much.

She hugs me with a smile. "Thank you, darling. It's good to see you at home."

"Yes." I nod, for the lack of a better answer. Pushing to the side, I proceed with the introductions. "This is Miles."

"I know," she answers me, but the smile is for him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Happy birthday," he wishes with a box of Swiss chocolate that I hadn't noticed.

"Call me Miranda," Mom instructs in her my word is law tone, making him straighten his back comically. She gives the box a slight shake. "Thank you, and thank you for coming. Come, let's get settled. Dinner is ready."

"Sure. I'll just say hi to Rosario."

"Of course, darling. She's excited to see you. I'll take Miles to the table."

That effectively shortens my visit to the kitchen. Within minutes, I've left the housekeeper who raised me and enter the massive dining room where everyone has taken a seat around the red mahogany table.

At the head of the table, my mother folds her hands with a smile. The opposite side glaringly empty.

With a hand on my waist, I stop beside Grandpa Toby, narrowing my eyes at him. I want to ask about his return to our old favorite place, but not here. I settle on something else that's been nagging me.

"So you know Blackstein, huh?" I say so that only he hears.

His gaze bounces between me and Miles, smiling across the table. "Of course I know the boy."

"Not just know, Grandpa," I explain eloquently. "Know, know . "

"Why else do you think I'm so happy you're together?" He takes hold of my hand, pinning me with a meaningful stare. "He's a good boy, and he adores you. I know he will give you everything you deserve in this life, little bee."

His tender words might as well be bullets with the force they slam into me. My hand trembles in his as I kiss a wrinkled cheek, silently begging for forgiveness for my lies—and flee them, hurrying to my place next to Miles.

The food is served and I want to steal Rosario for myself, even if I've found my own personal chef

"So, Miles…" Judge Hopkins rests his fork against the porcelain, patting the corners of his mouth with the napkin. "What is it you said you do?"

"He didn't," I interrupt without looking up from my plate, recognizing the charge of a gun, the aim of the target.

Unable—or unwilling—to read the clues, Miles walks straight into the trap. "I play for Sporting Boston City."

Grandfather's mouth purses methodically, like it has been waiting all dinner to do so. "A football player? Seriously, Zoe?"

The target is clear, and the first missile has been launched.

"Actually, I play soccer," Miles clarifies, trying to reposition the aim to his direction.

"It's football, son." From the other side of the table, Grandpa Toby shakes his head. I could laugh at his priorities—would have, if my other grandfather weren't so determined to finish his scene.

"This is low, even for you. Always doing the bare minimum… I expected better from you. We raised you better. We raised you for greatness, yet you're happy to settle for ordinary." He shook his head like he couldn't fathom a worse fa te for his granddaughter. "We have the money, Zoe. Why would you—"

"I think that's enough," Grandpa Toby warns, surprisingly stern.

"Your grandfather has put too many romantic ideas in your head," Your Honor spits, undeterred now aiming for Grandpa Toby now. "And your mother allowed it."

Miles shifts next to me like he's both gearing for a fight and preparing to shield me. I don't think he even realizes that he moved, since his entire coiled focus is on my grandfather and his harsh humiliation.

"You did not raise me, Grandfather. You tried to groom me into your little puppet." I raise my glass, swirling the wine deliberately, thankful my hands don't translate the shaking of my insides. In anger, in humiliation, in hurt. I tip the tumbler in a toast before quipping—and downing it. "Apparently, we have one thing in common. We both failed. If you'll excuse me."

"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" His fists startle the plates on the table. "We're not done here."

"I'll be snorting cocaine in the ladies' room." My smile is acerbic, but it's a smile so that's a victory. My chair screeches against the floor, punctuating the end.

"Leave my daughter alone, Father." Mom finally finds her voice again, but it lacks conviction as I walk away. "And please do not disrespect our visits."

I barricade myself in the farther bathroom on the first floor. I'm not in possession of any drugs, but this does seem like an appropriate first time if I ever were to try heavy illegal substances.

Instead, I splash some more water on my cheeks, erasing the pink evidence of my raging emotions, holding my chin high to hammer my mask back on before I return to the battlefield.

I stare into blue eyes swirling with a never-ending storm, and take a final, fortifying breath.

Those are not the eyes of a little girl who doesn't know any better, trapped under his thumb, blinded by love and admiration. Those are the eyes of a woman who belongs only to herself.

I never make it to the dining room, though. I sport two figures, their shadows clear through the doors of the den, though they neither notice me.

"She is my grandchild," my grandfather scoffs. "I will talk to her as I please. I won't take your insolence, boy. Big words from someone who was mute five minutes ago."

"She might be your granddaughter, but she's mine now." Miles's voice, I recognize. " My family. And I'm not going anywhere." Miles takes one deliberate step forward. "I didn't say anything on that table because I know she's more than capable of fighting her own battles, but I will say this now. I don't care that you're her grandfather. You could be the Pope or the fucking President, for all I care. I will not stand by and tolerate you disrespecting her ever again. Or anyone in this house, for that matter."

If I melted into the wall I would be a Van Gogh painting. The one with covered ears and unintelligible screams so I don't have to listen. But I want to hear until the end. I know I'll replay each word, analyze the intonation and the cadence of his voice—yet I cannot make myself turn away.

"You and I might just be the luckiest bastards on this planet," Miles goes on. I'm distracted, amazed at how long my grandfather has been silent. Must be a new record.

"Difference is you're too blind to see it. I'm not. Zoe is the strongest, most intelligent woman I know. But you wouldn't know because all you see is yourself. You don't know your brilliant granddaughter, and that's your loss. I won't make the same mistake."