Page 115 of The Book Club Boyfriend
Crap.
Harper lowers her voice. “So… what are you gonna do?”
I stare at my phone a second longer.
Then I open a new message. My fingers don’t even hesitate.
I’d spent so long building walls that I forgot to leave a door. Chase didn’t knock—he just moved in through the window. And now he was rearranging all my carefully organized defenses, making himself at home in places I’d sworn no one would ever reach again.
Me:I think I’m ready to talk.
I hit send.
He replies immediately.
Chase:Yeah? Let’s do it.
Me:But first I need to go to Chicago.
My heart stutters.
And for the first time in two days, I let myself hope.
Chase:Okay. I’ll be here when you get back.
I’ve had this idea in my head for months, well, years if I’m being honest, but I always talked myself out of it. Now, it feels like a bad idea. Like colossally bad.
The kind of bad idea you only follow through on after a dramatic therapy session or a staged intervention. Except this time, I’ve got neither. Just a slowly healing heart, a half-finished manuscript, and the urge to stop letting the past drive the car.
So I’ve flown to Chicago.
And texted my parents separately.
Dinner. Giordano’s. 7 p.m. Be civil or be gone.
Short. Sharp. Me.
Now they’re here.
And I actually have to do the thing.
My mom’s sitting on the left side of the table, hands folded in front of her like she’s trying to appear unbothered. My dad’s on the right, arms folded, glancing occasionally at his phone like he’s hoping someone will emergency-text him out of the restaurant.
Spoiler: no one is.
I’m sitting in front of them, a wine glass in one hand, not drinking it.
“I didn’t invite you here to referee,” I say finally. “I’m not interested in watching you two volley passive-aggressive barbs across the table.”
My mom straightens. “Scarlett, we’re not—”
“You are. You always have.”
My dad sighs but doesn’t argue. That’s how I know he knows I’m right.
“I’m thirty,” I say. “I write about love for a living. I think about it constantly. And I still have no idea what it’s supposed to look like. Because growing up? It looked like slammed doors and stony silence and one of you always walking out.”
They both look at me now. Really look.
