Page 24 of False God

I sigh. “Look, I know it’s awkward, guys. Nothing I can do about it.”

“Nothingyoucan do about it,” Bridget pipes in with. “Butthese twocould stop delivering messages, trying to make you feel guilty.” She glares at Hugo first, then Tripp. “She’s your friend too, guys.”

I reach for my glass, hoping a healthy sip will clear the apprehension crawling up my throat.

Since we broke up, I’ve only seen Cal twice. Once at a Labor Day party in the Hamptons, which was where I found out he was moving to London to start a master’s in economics. And then at his family’s Christmas party seven months ago, when he came home for the holidays. Both were uncomfortable, stilted interactions with lots of prying eyes on us. I was hoping tonight—a casual dinner with our closest friends—we could finally make some progress toward returning things to normal.

I’m also glad he didn’t come, which I feel guilty about.

“Is that Charles Marlborough Fran is talking to?” Jasper suddenly asks, his gaze on the bar.

Everyone looks. Everyone except me. I’m focused on Jasper.

“You know him?” I say, surprised.

We’ve gone to school together since preschool, so we tend to know all the same people.

“Of him,” Jasper answers.

Maddeningly, that’s all he says. Forcing me to press and ask, “What have you heard?”

Jasper shrugs. “The Marlboroughs are a big deal in England. Charles just inherited everything after his dad died.”

My eyes dart to where Charlie and Fran are standing. From this angle, all I can see of Charlie is the back of his head and his right shoulder.

“When did his dad die?”

“Last year, I think.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t remember. Tripp, you remember?”

“Nope,” Tripp replies. “Dad met him at Atlantic Crest last summer though. Said he’s the youngest duke in centuries or something like that. Brits care a lot about that shit, apparently.”

“He’s aduke?” Bridget asks, craning her neck to get a better look.

Hugo snorts. “What difference does that make?”

“Every girl wants the fairy tale, man,” Tripp says.

Then, he glances at me, and I know what he’s thinking.

I flushed the fairy tale away, and no one is really sure why.

I swallow some water, then rub at the embossed letters on the cover of my unopened menu. “We can take the jet next week.”

Excited chatter erupts around me, following the announcement.

My uncle Oliver was originally supposed to borrow my parents’ jet for a meeting with developers in Singapore next week, but the dates were changed. Which freed it up for Chloe’s wedding. She’s getting married in Wales next weekend. We’re flying there on Monday, then spending the week after the wedding celebrating at her family’s villa in Saint-Tropez. If not for the approaching awkwardness with Cal, I’d be looking forward to it unreservedly.

Many of my friends from college come from more modest backgrounds, but Bridget, Fran, Hugo, Jasper, Tripp—and Cal—are all outrageously wealthy. Just not Kensington wealthy. None of them have access to a private jet.

There’s no break in the eager discussion of next week’s plans until Fran joins us at the table.

She slides into the last open seat with a dramatic huff that captures everyone’s attention. “Well, that was a waste of time.”

“What do you mean?” I respond first, far more interested than I should be.

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