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Nope. I shake my head, blinking back the tears. I will not do this. Especially here in my domain.

I should just take a few days off and go to my parents’ house in the country, but for some reason, I haven’t.

Back at my desk, I sort through new projects, the ones that hadn’t been canceled after the Moore’s fiasco and pick the plumpest ones for Chris and Ben. It’s the least I can do.

I tried to get Alice to come to Texas with me, but when she explained why she couldn’t, I stopped arguing. Instead, I made Thomas promise she’d have a job, at her current pay, anywhere out of Denise’s path until he could sort his family mess out. I’m mad I didn’t have the time to help Alice more before I left. And even madder that she probably feels nervous at work while all this is being settled.

As if on cue, my phone alerts me to a text message.

Alice sent me a selfie, which makes me smile. After a second glance, I realize it isn’t a selfie, but a picture of the mirror behind Alice, the one reflecting Denise and one of her minions rolling their eyes behind Denise’s back.

It’s hilarious.

We text back and forth a bit, her wanting to know if I’m coming back to New York any time soon, me making sure she’s taken care of—professionally and personally. In answer to the former, she sends a picture of Thomas, looking aloof and bored in front of one of her displays, attached to an eye-roll emoji.

I resend it to Thomas with a reminder to lighten up.

Another picture pops up, and my heart stops. It’s an older photo. One of Chase and me, the day of the storage room tryst. Alice must have taken it before Chase pulled me aside. We hadn’t even said I love you yet, but the look in each other’s eyes says it for us.

I save this one to my phone in a moment of weakness.

Alice is a bit of a romantic, I think. To cure her, and me too for that matter, of any hope of Chase and me reconciling, I text her that I’m going out with Leslie on Friday in search of cowboy comfort.

After a few minutes, when I think Alice is too disappointed in me to respond, she sends me a meme of Elvis from his cowboy movieCharro!with the words, “I’m just a hunk, a hunk of burning love” at the bottom.

She’s photoshopped Chase’s face on it.

Alice is surprisingly devious.

I save this picture too.

TWENTY-NINE

Chase

I never would’ve takenmy brother for the warm and fuzzy type.

His place has huge windows, showcasing a rare tree-lined street near Central Park. Surprisingly close to my own place.

And it’s an actualhouse, not a condo or an apartment. It makes my place look sterile and bachelor-pad-esque. He even has family photos. And not just the obligatory professional family photo I kept in Stan’s office when I took over. Thomas hascandidshots. Shots I don’t remember posing for, or even being aware of someone nearby with a camera.

There are off-kilter shots from when we were kids, like Liz and me running through the yard when she was around three. A younger version of Mom arranging flowers in the kitchen, the light behind her creating a halo around her. Me, lining up to take a penalty kick my senior year on the varsity soccer team. Dad hunched over his desk, papers fisted in his hands. And a stunning black and white of Liz as a teenager, curled up on the sofa, drawing in her sketch pad, a look of concentration on her face. As the subjects get older, the pictures become clearer, more vibrant, and the composition pretty fucking brilliant.

I stare at them while I wait for Thomas to return with whatever it is he wanted to show me.

It suddenly hits me what’s missing. “You’re not in any of these,” I say when he enters the room, briefcase in hand. “You… took these?”

For once, my brother looks embarrassed. “Yes.” That’s all the answer I get. He walks over to the table and chairs by the windows, sitting in one and placing the briefcase on the table between them. Tearing myself away from the photo collage on the wall, I take the seat across from him.

This section of the large living room is set up like an area for cards or games. A long, white couch sits in the middle of the room, facing a TV, and on the other side of that, wall-to-wall bookcases surround a lone leather reading chair and floor lamp.

It’s oddly homey. I would’ve pictured Thomas in a tall, dark skyscraper, in some minimalist condo decorated in black and chrome. You know, a villain’s lair.

I need a hobby. My imagination is getting out of hand.

“Mom told you about Liz?” His suit jacket is gone, and his sleeves are rolled up. It’s a more relaxed look on him. One I don’t remember seeing before.

“Yeah.” I can’t help but glance back at the photos he took. “How long haveyouknown?” And why am I the last to know everything?