Page 13 of That Reunited Feeling

“I’m confident this isn’t hate verging on love. This is hate verging on more hate, with a large helping of animosity and a serving of resentment thrown in.”

“Okay, mate, well, keep me posted. I have to be up in four hours to get ready for this arsing presser.”

“I look forward to seeing it splashed all over everything when I get up tomorrow morning.”

Hugo blows out a hard breath that ripples his lips. “You never know when the next phase of your life is going to be thrust on you out of the blue, I guess.”

“Tell me about it.” Getting divorced and losing half of everything I owned was bad enough. But, unlike Hugo, at least I still have my business and career. “But if you’re going to start philosophizing, I’m definitely going. Good luck for tomorrow.”

The woman’s given up on trying to get the guy to dance with her, and they’re both now sitting there in silence.

“Thanks,” Hugo says. “Night.”

Christ, these last few months have been a total wanker.

On top of my marriage imploding, holiday work stress, and discovering the one place I was guaranteed to find peace is filled with an ex with a grievance from hell, I’ve missed the band I most wanted to see because I’m an organizational ignoramus, and my best bud’s life’s work is over.

Is it a full moon, or new moon, or half moon, or whatever type of shit moon it is that brings bad luck?

Or has my luck just run out? It’s like I’m being punished for life being too good by everything going wrong at once.

And why don’t I, the man who managed to get his shit together enough to build a billion-dollar music empire from scratch, have a fucking clue how to fix any of it?

I down the rest of my drink and grab my car keys.

But even the sharp, chill liquid can’t calm the quiver of dread in my belly at the thought of returning to The Place Where Hannah Now Lives.

Dread that feels shockingly similar to excitement.

But it’s definitely dread.

It had better be dread.

5

HANNAH

“U

rgh,” Dylan grunts, in the way only a thirteen-year-old boy can. “This is such a waste of a Friday evening.”

“It’ll be more fun than you think,” I say as we walk up the steps to the huge green front door of the main house. “Maggie and Jim have been good to us, so if she wants to invite us to dinner, it’s the least we can do.”

Though, if Maggie hadn’t assured me Tom was in Boston for the evening, I sure as hell would have found a reason for us not to be here.

“Not as fun as thrashing Ling atOverlord Hybrids,” Dylan says. “Especially when I don’t have to get up tomorrow. Such a waste.”

Jesus. That goddamn video game is the only thing he and his friend Ling think about. At least it keeps him out of trouble. Usually. I’ve been called to the school a couple times since we moved out of Nicholas’s house—once about Dylan being “disruptive” in a history class, and once when he and another boy had a paint fight in the art room.

Part of me thinks kids will be kids, but I also know crap like that needs nipping in the bud.

“It’ll be good for you to spend one evening not staring at a screen. And if you play any more of that game, you’ll end up looking like one of those robot things.”

“They’re assimilators, Mom,” he says like I’m the most uncool person alive. “Assimilators.”

I put my arm around him as we reach the top step. “Right. Well, you can play that any other night. Tonight, it would make me very happy if you could be charming to the lovely people who’ve put this fabulous roof over our heads while we wait for Rachel’s house to be ready.”

He stares at his feet in silence.

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