Page 29 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
I get dressed slowly, slipping into wide-leg trousers and a silk blouse. Casual, but not careless. My makeup is minimal, just enough to say I’m holding it together. My earrings are mismatched, but deliberately so. My mother always says fashion is a declaration, not a disguise. Which is probably why I call her.
“Clara Stone,” she answers like she’s onstage.
“Hey,” I say. My voice wavers slightly. “Can we meet?”
“Already on my way to La Grange,” she replies. “You buying me coffee?”
“I’ll buy you silence and an almond croissant.”
She laughs, and just like that, I feel steadier.
***
La Grange is empty for a weekday, tucked on a side street in Tribeca, the kind of café where everyone wears vintage sweaters and pretends not to notice each other. My mother is waiting in the corner, already sipping something dark and herbal, sketchpad beside her, sunglasses perched on her head. She looks up as I approach, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“Someone’s carrying weather,” she murmurs.“You’d lead the creative direction from inception to execution. Shape the entire visual language, set the emotional tone, and define the brand voice that carries across every platform, print, digital, experiential,” I explain.
I sit across from her. “That obvious?”
“To me? Always,” she replies.
We’re quiet for a moment as I unwrap my croissant and stir sugar into my coffee. The croissant flakes against my fingers, delicate and warm. It smells like childhood. Like Saturdays in Paris with her, back when we still traveled together and love felt uncomplicated. I stare down at it like I’ve forgotten how to eat.
“Something happened,” I say finally.
She arches a brow. “Did it happen to you, or inside you?”
I smile faintly. God, she always does that. “Both,” I admit. “I slept with Jack.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just takes another sip.
“I see,” she says calmly.
“It wasn’t… impulsive. It felt right. More right than anything has in a long time.”
“But?” she prompts.
“There are pictures. Online. A balcony shot from the gala. It looks intimate. Like something secretive.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It was,” I say. “But now people are speculating. There’s a thread. About him. About his past. His exes. Someone even sent me a text from an anonymous number. Said he’s not who I think.”
My mother sets her cup down.
“And do you know who you think he is?”
I blink. “I think he’s… good. Complicated, maybe. Guarded. But good.”
She watches me. Her expression doesn’t shift, but I know she’s weighing my words. Clara doesn’t react impulsively. She reads context, angles, the fine print behind emotions. It’s what makes her dangerous in a boardroom, and devastatingly effective as a mother.
“Sweetheart, anyone worth loving is complicated. But if someone has to tell you who a person isn’t, it’s usually becausethey’re afraid of what happens when you trust your own instincts.”
I nod slowly. “I just don’t want to be blindsided again.”
“Then ask him. Don’t let the world define your relationship for you.”
My phone buzzes again, but this time, I don’t look.
