Page 117 of Meet Me at the Metro

“It seems like shewants to spend time with you—reconnect. You don’t think so?”

He shakes his head as though he completely disagrees with that notion.

“Maybe I shouldn’t come to the dinner, Theo. You should let it be a family affair like she said.”

“Fuck that. I want you there.”

“When you first asked me to come to this dinner, you told me she was okay with me coming.”

“She is.”

I roll my eyes. “She didn’t even know I would be coming until like five seconds ago. I don’t think she wants me there.”

“Come.Please.” He says the words so gravely my chest aches. “I want you there.”

I sigh, “I don’t want to make things awkward or more tense than they already are.”

He tugs me toward him and breathes, “Please… I want you there with me.I need you there, Nora.”

My chest aches.

There’s absolutely no way that I could deny him—not with all the worry and angst lingering in his eyes or the desperate pleading in his voice.

“Promise me, then. Promise me that you’ll be on your best behavior if I go.”

He chuckles with relief. “My very best behavior.”

“I mean it, grumpy boy. None of that ass-hat shit you just did. Promise me.”

“I promise I’lltryto be on my best behavior.”

He put way too much emphasis on that‘try’for my liking.

“Try that again.”

“Nora,” he laughs amusedly. “I promise that I’ll be on my best behavior.”

But despite how convincing he made that sound just now, I pray that his promise is true because if not, this will make for one hell of a family dinner.

31

FAMILY DINNER

T H E O

The couch at Harvey and Evie’s flat feels abnormally uncomfortable tonight. I shift back and forth from cushion to cushion, having a terrible time stilling my restless limbs and distracting my anxious thoughts.

Because no matter how desperately my body and mind seek a slither of comfort, the reminder of our dinner plans for tonight brings the weight of the last decade crashing back down on me.

Suffocating me.

I yank the v-necked collar of my black sweater away from my chest and try to rid my body of its wooly constriction.

Sweaters are terrible, itchy things.

I focus on the scuff my polished, leather-clad boots make along the floor to keep from losing myself in the thought of how fucking badly I don’t want to go to this dinner tonight.

A hand against my shoulder startles me. Harvey chuckles, “You’d think I was a bloody ghost.”

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