Page 15 of Fallen Stars

Finishing the last of my pizza, I shove the box away. I sit taller on my stool and twist a little toward Oliver. As he drops a piece of crust in the box, I open my mouth to apologize.

“Ollie, I?—”

A knock on the pool house door cuts me off. “Levi?” Another knock, this one softer. “It’s Mom,” she says, as if I don’t recognize her voice.

I swallow down my apology and save it for another day. Chin over my shoulder, I holler, “It’s open, Mom.”

On my next inhale, the gentle clap of her heels echoes throughout the open pool house. She crosses the room, the epitome of elegance and grace. A kind, warm smile highlights her face as she reaches my side.

Wrapping me in a side hug, she kisses my temple. “Hi, darling.” After a squeeze of my shoulder, she releases me. “Hello, Oliver. How are you?”

Oliver reaches for the towel on the other side of the counter and wipes his hands off. “Hey, Mrs. West. Good, thanks. And you?”

Her smile doesn’t falter once. Unlike my father, Mom has a heart and unabashedly wears it on her sleeve. She is the only reason I haven’t packed my shit and moved out.

“Wonderful. Thank you for asking.” She averts her attention back to me, her fingers brushing my hair off of my forehead. “You need a haircut,” she says with no strength behind the words, knowing full well I won’t cut it unlessIwant to. “Just came by to remind you of dinner tonight.”

Fuck.

I keep my gaze on Mom but see Oliver staring at me in my periphery.

In the last decade, my parents have tried to mold me into something I’m not. Mostly, it’s my father. First, it was politics. When he realized that was a battle he would never win, he focused his energy on something else. Meddling in my love life—not that I really have one.

The minute I turned eighteen, my father started inviting the Calhouns or Kemps over for dinner more often. Growing up, we’d shared meals with the Calhouns and Kemps as regularly as we did some of the founding families. I assumed the uptick was more business than personal. Then, I started putting the pieces together.

Initially, I played along, somewhat oblivious to the arranged relationship my father was trying to orchestrate. It only took dining with them once a week for less than a month for it all to click into place. The questions my father asked the daughters of two other financially secure families in Stone Bay made my stomach sour. It’s one thing to ask your own child how they picture their future—career, marriage, children. But the tone my father used as he asked Abigail Calhoun, Sara Kemp, and Jasmine Kemp was borderline creepy.

Though I missed Oliver like a limb, the four years I was gone for college were a reprieve from my father’s constant need to find me a bride I didn’t want.

Sick of the spectacle, I sigh. “Is it necessary I attend?”

“Of course not, darling.”

My entire body relaxes. And I don’t miss how Oliver’s does as well.

“But your father and I would like you there. Abigail is joining us with her parents. It’s been a while since we’ve all shared a meal together.”

“Not long enough,” I mutter.

Mom lightly swats my arm. “Be nice. She’s a wonderful young lady and a good match.”

Oliver stiffens and balls his fingers into fists in his lap. A painful knot forms beneath my diaphragm and renders me speechless.

I hate this. God, I fucking hate this so much.

At twenty-five, my parents still try to rule so much of my life. Mom doesn’t dangle the West name and our millions over my head. But put her in a room with my father for five seconds and she goes along with whatever he suggests. And for some absurd reason, he has played matchmaker with me for the past seven years.

Inhaling deeply, I remain even-keeled as I speak. “Yes, she is a wonderfulfriend.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “And one day, she’ll find the right person for her.”

Mom steps out of my hold and nods. “That’s what your father and I are hoping.” Without another word, she spins on her heel and heads for the door. Hand on the doorknob, she peeks over her shoulder and meets my gaze. “Dinner is at six.” Her eyes flit to Oliver and I suck in a sharp breath, but then relax when she smiles. “Was nice to see you, Oliver.”

Anguish-filled silence smothers me the moment my mother exits the pool house. Inches from where I sit, Oliver won’t lift his gaze from the counter. His hands fidget in his lap as both of us figure out what to say or do.

His despair is a hot blade in my chest.

I detest my father for his insistence. Every cell in my body screams to get off the stool, step outside, and yell to the heavens. To storm through the gardens, rush into the main house, and tell my parents I can’t fucking do this anymore.

But I don’t move. I don’t mutter a single word. Now isn’t the time, but oh, how I wish it was.

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