Page 106 of Best In Class
She hasn’t forgiven me. I didn’t expect her to. But she’s willing to spend time with me, to see where this might go—and that’s more than I deserve.
I feel like an absolute fool for not telling her years ago; my fear of losing her actually kept her lost to me. Now, watching her navigate the fallout with grace and resolve, I’m humbled.
Luna is loyal to her core, generous without question, and filled with more heart than most people know what to do with. And she’s brave, so much braver than I ever was.
If our roles were reversed, if she had done to me what I did to her, I don’t know that I’d have the courage to try again.
When I told her that I was grateful for her forgiveness, for her willingness to even look my way again, she didn’t miss a beat and told me to, “Put on your big boy underpants, Dom, and do better.”
She keeps me on my toes, and there is never a dull moment when I’m with her. In the past weeks since she found out the truth, we’ve made strides toward moving on from the past and living in the present.
However, I worry about the future.
We have love between us, but can we build a relationship? I believe so.
Not letting her go alone to her parents’ wedding anniversary shindig is part of that blueprint.
I know how much she hates being near her parents—and what it costs her to show up at all. She does it for Lev. But even he’s a mess when he’s around them. He loves theirmother and can’t let go, no matter how deep the damage runs.
As Luna likes to say, “Lev hasn’t been to therapy. I have.” Which, according to her, has given her the clarity and the strength to walk away from the toxicity her parents still try to pretend is tradition.
“Dom, my father is going to be an obnoxious prick,” she warns me.
“Moonbeam, I put on a fuckin’ monkey suit, I think you can see how committed I am.”
She groans in frustration. “I don’t want you to have to put up with his insulting bullshit.”
I put my hands on her shoulders. “I’m there for both you and Lev, Moonbeam. And I don’t give two shits about your father and what he has to say.”
Luna doesn’t argue further.
The Steele estate is just as I remember it—opulent in a dated, too-much-money-and-no-soul kind of way. There are gilded sconces and oil paintings of long-dead ancestors with powdered wigs and hollow eyes in the entryway.
The ballroom—yes, they have one of those—smells heavily of entitlement, the old wealth kind, and faintly of rose potpourri, like something a grandmother might stash in cut-glass bowls.
The party is in full swing when we arrive becauseLunawantedto be fashionably late so she could avoid encountering her parents in the receiving line. Yeah, they have one of those as well.
We walk into the ballroom, hand in hand, and look around, assessing it like we’re doing recon before charging into battle.
A string quartet is playing something cheerful that doesn’t quite match our mood.
Women in designer cocktail dresses are milling around with wine glasses, and the men are mostly congregating near the bar, probably talking money, politics, and nothing of substance.
Our gaze falls on her mother.
Jenn drifts through the crowd like a ghost wrapped in silk. Her gown is exquisite—fresh off the runway, no doubt, since she’s a size minus-something and built for cocaine chic. Her eyes are glassy, her smile just a little too wide, and her balance is one stiletto away from disaster. She’s clearly medicated, floating in a haze of benzos and vintage champagne.
“She’s high,” Luna murmurs.
“I can tell.”
I walk her to her mother, who’s laughing a bit too loudly as she talks to a couple.
“Sweetheart.” Jenn does the air kissing thing with Luna, who responds in kind.
Then she looks me up and down. “Who’s your beau?”
I grew up on this estate. My mother worked here foryears. And this woman still has no clue who I am. Medicated or not, that is all kinds of fucked up.
