Page 27 of Release Me
‘See you,’ I force myself to leave—while I’m still physically able.
Chapter Eleven
REBEKKA
It’s been five weeks since I kissed Rian, or since he kissed me. Which means it’s been three years, seven weeks and four days since we met in the De Courcy library—Rian’s counting has rubbed off on me—unfortunately.
Anthony came home from Paris, not even bothering to keep up the ruse that he was on a business trip. Once Paul, our building security guard, informed him Rian had escorted me back to the penthouse, he didn't bother calling again. I wonder if he would have, if he had any idea I’d give a kidney for Rian to have spent the night in my bed?
My husband didn’t offer to come home with me for Thanksgiving this year. And I didn’t ask him to. The thought of sharing a suite with him at my parents’ place sets my skin crawling. With each passing year, it’s getting harder to keep up the pretence. But what choice do I have? Hand over everything I’ve worked for? All the sacrifices I’ve made, the sheer blood, sweat and tears, and the pain of the last three years will have been for nothing.
My breath fogs in the cold as I cross Fifth Avenue, dodging yellow cabs and tourists taking selfies in front ofRockefeller Center’s half-dressed tree. Fairy lights are strung across narrow cobbled streets, twinkling above cast-iron storefronts where the first hints of Christmas crowd the windows—velvet ribbons, gilded ornaments, jewel-toned candles. Vendors shout about hot pretzels. Steam curls up from subway grates. A saxophone player leans against a lamppost, coaxing a smoky version ofAutumn in New Yorkfrom his horn. New York City smells like roasted chestnuts and car exhausts—the peculiar perfume of a Manhattan November.
I’m meeting school friends at Balthazar in SoHo, an annual Thanksgiving tradition. By the time I get there, my fingers are so numb with the cold, it’s a battle to push open the heavy brass door. The room hums with holiday energy—clinking glasses, soft jazz, the scent of butter and maple syrup mingling with freshly poured mimosas. My three friends are already at a corner banquette, waving like we’re still seventeen sneaking bellinis at the prom after-party.
Sienna is effortlessly chic in a cream cashmere jumper and oversized Chanel sunglasses she doesn’t need indoors. Louisa’s in head-to-toe black, her glossy bob as sharp as ever, and Lila looks like she’s just stepped off a Hamptons yacht—navy knit dress, pearls, perfect blow-dry. Clearly having three kids hasn’t cramped her style.
‘Finally!’ Sienna grins, sliding over so I can squeeze in beside her. ‘We thought Anthony had you chained to the bedposts!’
‘Not today.’ I shrug out of my coat, forcing a lightness I don’t quite feel.
A waiter glides up with a silver coffee pot and a tray of blood-orange mimosas. I take one, grateful for the fizz on my tongue. ‘Welcome home!’ The women raise their glasses.
‘Thanks,’ I clink my crystal against theirs.
There’s that word again, home. I don’t think I know themeaning of it anymore. The penthouse doesn’t feel like home, but neither does New York now either.
Am I destined to be a nomad forever?
I listen as my friends regale me with everything I’ve missed over the past few months. It’s a blessing to be able to sit and listen, soaking in their familiar sisterly solidarity. The table is a blur of excited chatter—predominantly Sienna’s—but I’m happy to soak it all in.
Just as Sienna is showing me her Pinterest wedding page, the server brings over plates stacked with eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and waffles, but it’s the sight of fluffy stacks of pancakes drizzled with maple syrup that twists something inside of me.
The memory of another morning hits me like a punch in the stomach—Rian’s sheepish grin as he set a paper bag on the counter. My heart gives a small, traitorous flutter.
‘Earth to Beks.’ Louisa tilts her head, studying me over the rim of her glass. ‘You okay? You look a million miles away.’
‘I’m fine.’ I smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. ‘Or at least I will be… once I survive Thanksgiving dinner with my father tomorrow.’
Sienna groans in sympathy. ‘The annual interrogation?’
‘Complete with vintage claret and unsolicited life advice.’ I swirl the champagne in my glass, ‘thank fuck for alcohol.’
‘Amen to that,’ Lila agrees. ‘I don’t know how people parent sober.’
Clearly my father doesn’t know either—not that he did much actual parenting himself—other than ordering me into the world’s most miserable marriage to save our family.
‘Says the woman with two nannies?’ Louisa teases.
‘Admittedly, I have a lot to be thankful for this year.’ Lila raises her glass. ‘What are you thankful for?’ Lila’s attention turns to me again. ‘Your hot, rich, Irish husband, I bet?’
I scoff. ‘I’m thankful for his hot friends.’ Whoops. The alcohol hit me hard—again. And there’s no Rian to swoop in and rescue me this time—worse luck.
The sound of raucous squealing fills the air. Sienna slaps the table. Louisa hoots. Lila shakes her head. ‘You’re hilarious, girl. You’ve never changed.’
The really funny thing is—I’m not even joking.
After two more cocktails, a nostalgic re-hash of our senior-year ski trip, and the night Sienna spectacularly entered the staff slalom by mistake, took out two instructors, and still demanded a medal, I make my excuses and step out into the crisp, afternoon air.
