The estate has gone quiet except for the soft lap of pool water against tile. Chloe and I sit at the edge, our bare feet creating lazy ripples in the illuminated water.
We're on our third bottle of champagne. Or maybe fourth, I've lost count.
"You know what pisses me off most?" Chloe waves the bottle for emphasis, nearly dropping it. "That fucking 'work emergency' text. Like, how stupid does he think you are? Does he think you were born yesterday?"
"Pretty stupid, apparently." My voice sounds hollow even to me. "Maybe this is karma. Maybe I deserve this for—"
"Stop." Chloe grabs my face with champagne-sticky fingers, forcing me to meet her fierce glare. "Tyler being a cheating waste of oxygen is not your fault. You loved him. That's not a character flaw."
Before I can respond, the sliding door opens.
"How are my girls doing out here?" Tobias's voice carries across the patio.
"Catastrophically," Chloe announces without turning around. "We're getting dead drunk because my brother—your son, by the way—is human garbage. Want to join our pity party?"
I hear his footsteps hesitate on the stone. Any responsible adult would march us inside, confiscate the alcohol, force-feed us bread and water. But he settles on my other side instead.
Close enough that his warmth radiates through the space between us like a promise.
"Give me that." He takes the bottle Chloe thrusts at him and takes a long pull that makes his throat work in ways that shouldn't be legal. "Christ, that's sweet."
"It's celebratory champagne," she defends. "Or was supposed to be. Now it's fuck-Tyler-with-a-rusty-spoon champagne."
"Language," he says automatically.
But there's no real censure in it. Just tired amusement.
"Dad, your son literally cheated on my best friend on her twenty-first birthday. I think 'fuck' is not only appropriate, it's insufficient."
"Fair point." He passes the bottle back, and our fingers brush in the exchange. "Tyler's behavior tonight was inexcusable, Ava. You deserved so much better."
"Everyone keeps saying that." I watch my feet create patterns in the illuminated water. "Maybe I should get it tattooed."
"That's not…" He sighs. "Discovering who someone really is can be painful, but it's valuable. Better now than years down the road."
"Very philosophical, Dad." Chloe stands suddenly, swaying like a tree in a strong wind. "Very… Oh god."
Her face goes pale green and she clamps a hand over her mouth, bolting toward the house.
"Chloe!" Tobias starts to rise.
"Don't." I grab his wrist without thinking. His skin is warm under my fingers. "She hates people seeing her sick. She just needs to get it out of her system."
He hesitates, watching his daughter disappear into the house like a champagne-fueled missile, then reluctantly settles back down. Closer this time, our thighs are almost touching.
"How are you really doing, really?" His voice is gentle, careful.
"I don't know." The champagne makes honesty flow like water. "I spent three years defending him to everyone. My mom, Chloe, my friends. Three years of 'he's just focused on work' and 'he's under pressure' and 'relationships take compromise.'"
"You loved him. Love makes us forgive things we shouldn't."
"I didn't." The words pour out in an unstoppable flow. "I kept waiting to feel it. Real love, waiting for it to hit. That earth-moving, can't-breathe-without-you feeling everyone talks about. But it never came."
"Then why stay?"
"Because..." I take a shaky breath. "Because being with Tyler meant I could keep coming here. Keep being part of your family. Keep being around..."
My voice catches on the truth I've buried for years.
"Around what?" His voice has gone carefully neutral, like he's afraid of the answer.
I looked up then in his beautiful hazel eyes and held his gaze that was already searching for something in mine.
"You know what," I whisper.
"Ava." His tone is measured, controlled. "You're drunk, and you're hurt. Whatever you're feeling right now…"
Something about his measured tone and careful control, all that perfect composure and infuriating restraint, makes my drunk and wounded mind snap. All the pain and years of suppressed longing crystallize into irrational reckless anger.
"Don't do that," I bit out. "Don't manage me. Don't treat me like a child who doesn't know her own mind. I'm so sick of men telling me what I feel, what I should want, what's appropriate—"
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?" The champagne makes me cruel, apparently. "Perfect Tobias Murphy, so controlled and calm, always says the right things… Do you ever actually feel anything, or is it all performance? The perfect father, the perfect politician, the perfect man who never loses his shit..."
The words hang between us, ugly and unfair.
Tobias doesn't flinch, doesn't rise to the bait. He just looks at me with those steady hazel eyes, and his calm patience makes me feel worse than his anger would have.
"I feel plenty of… things," he says quietly. "I just don't think dumping my feelings on a young woman who's already dealing with enough tonight would be appropriate."
The gentleness in his voice, the complete absence of defensiveness or anger at my drunk childish tantrum, deflates me instantly. Shame floods in to replace the drunk anger.
"God…" I covers my face with my hands. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… That was horrible. You've been nothing but kind to me, and I…" My voice breaks. "I'm taking my anger at Tyler out on you, and that's not fair. You're innocent in all of this."
"It's okay." His hand covers my arm. "You're just hurting."
"It's not okay." I drop my hands and meet his eyes again.
The moonlight catches the silver at his temples, the concerned furrow between his brows, and my heart clenches with how much I want him. Has always wanted him.
"I was going to sleep with him tonight," I confess. "I was finally going to do it. Give him my virginity. I thought maybe if I went all in, if I fully committed, it would fix everything. Make the wrong feelings go away."
"What wrong feelings?" His voice is barely audible over the pool filter.
I laugh, but it sounds more like crying. "You really want to know?”
The words come out before I can stop them, champagne courage burning through my last defenses.
“I started dating your son because it meant I could keep coming here and see you. Every time he touched me, every time he kissed me, I wished…" I have to stop, breathe in, breathe out. "I wished it was you. Now how pathetic is that?"
The silence stretches so long I think he might just get up and leave. When I finally look at him, his expression is unreadable in the moonlight.
"Say something," I whispered. "Please. Tell me I'm drunk and delusional and I'll never mention it again. We can pretend this never happened."
"You're drunk," he agrees quietly, slowly. "But I don't think you're delusional."
My heart stops. "What?"
"Ava..." He exhales, something cracking in his careful composure. "This isn't… You don't know what you're asking me to admit. Not now. Not like this."
Hope flares in my chest, terrifying and electric. "Then don't admit anything. Just…" I shifted closer on the pool deck, close enough to see his pupils dilate. "It's my birthday. I'm twenty-one. I get a wish, right?"
"Ava." My name sounds broken on his lips.
"One kiss. That's all." My voice trembles a bit. "And then I'll leave, and we never have to talk about it again."
Tobias’s jaw tightens, and I can see the war playing out on his face—conscience versus want. Propriety versus the thing that's been building for years.
"One kiss," he repeats roughly. "And then what? We pretend it didn't happen?"
"Yes."
"You think that's possible?"
"I think I've spent years pretending. I'm good at it." My hand finds his jaw, stubble rough under my palm, and he leans into the touch like he's starving for it. "I know it's wrong. I know you're too good a man to… But I'm asking anyway. Just this once."
"This would change everything," he whispers, but his hand comes up to cover mine.
"Everything's already changed." I lean closer, close enough to feel his breath on my lips. "I'm not your son's girlfriend anymore. I'm not a child. I'm just... me. Wanting you."
"Just one," he says, like he's trying to convince himself.
The first touch of his lips is careful, reverent, like I'm made of spun glass. But I make a desperate sound and pull him closer, and careful evaporates like morning mist.
The kiss becomes something else entirely—years of suppressed want condensed into this moment of perfect madness. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, tasting champagne and something darker, more intoxicating than alcohol.
His hand tangles in my wet hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss, and I'm drowning in the taste and feel of him. He kisses like he does everything else—with complete focus, devastating competence that makes my toes curl.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard, staring at each other like we've just committed a crime.
"We should stop," he says roughly.
"Yes," I agree.
Neither of us moves except to crash together again, and this time there's nothing gentle about it.