My father's envelope sits on the passenger seat like it's been personally victimized by my twenty-minute stare-down in this parking lot.
The cream paper practically glows with paternal authority—Richard Sloan maintaining his death grip on perfection even after actual death.
I drove here running entirely on muscle memory and spite, my brain having checked out somewhere between Jaxson's casual cruelty and James's legal tap dancing.
Come on, Harper. Rip off the bandaid.
What's the worst that could happen?
My fingers shake as I tear into the envelope with all the grace of a raccoon opening a trash can. The letter starts with the usual paternal throat-clearing, but I skip to the part that matters:
...At my wedding to Rachel, I made a promise to be a real father to Jaxson. I failed spectacularly at this promise. I tried to mold him into my image instead of helping him discover his own. Sending him to Italy was me choosing the coward's way out.
My failure with Jaxson and my failure to honor Rachel's love for our blended family—these are the greatest regrets of my life. This will be my last attempt to right a terrible wrong.
I'm asking you to do what I couldn't. Be the good influence on Jaxson that I failed to be. Find a way to become the family that Rachel dreamed of.
All the love, baby girl.
Dad
The tears arrive right on schedule, hot and bitter.
He knew. He knew exactly what he broke and decided death was the perfect excuse to make it my problem. The sheer audacity of dying before fixing your mistakes—peak Richard Sloan energy.
I scrub my face with my sleeve like a toddler having a meltdown at Target and stumble toward my apartment. The elevator takes approximately thirty years to reach my floor, each ding counting down to my inevitable psychological collapse.
But when I open my apartment door, Preston stands there looking like he was ordered from a catalog called "Boyfriends Your Parents Would Approve Of."
Champagne in one hand, white roses in the other, his Brooks Brothers shirt so pristine it probably irons itself.
The entire scene screams romantic gesture, except I've completely forgotten our anniversary because I've been too busy mentally preparing for emotional warfare with my stepbrother.
"Surprise," he says, his Ken-doll smile wavering when he registers my raccoon eyes. "Harper, have you been crying? What happened?"
"Preston, I…"
My throat constricts around the words. Two years. We've been together two years, and I forgot because Jaxson Reid took up residence in my brain rent-free.
"God, I'm the worst. I completely forgot."
"Hey, it's okay," he says, abandoning his props to wrap me in an embrace that feels like being hugged by room-temperature milk. "You've had a lot on your mind lately. We can celebrate another night."
I don't deserve this man.
The thought arrives with the weight of truth. Preston Matthews is a walking green flag—Harvard MBA, emotional stability, the kind of guy who probably flosses twice a day.
He kisses me softly, and I taste spearmint and stability and absolutely nothing that makes my neurons fire in interesting patterns.
All I sense is the phantom burn of what Jaxson's mouth might do to mine.
"We should talk first," I say, pulling away before his hands can start their predictable journey south. "Tell me about your day. Distract me from the dumpster fire that is mine."
He pours champagne while diving into a riveting tale about country club drama.
"You wouldn't believe the scandal at today's membership meeting. Harrison's wife is trying to change the dress code because Jennifer Walsh keeps showing up to brunch in Lululemon. Though between you and me, I think it's less about athletic wear and more about Jennifer's very enthusiastic networking at the bar. She's been particularly friendly with the married men after her Pilates sessions."
The champagne tastes expensive and hollow. I nod at appropriate intervals while Preston continues his dissertation on suburban warfare.
"She actually had the audacity to sit in Thompson's lap during the auction," he continues, refilling my glass without asking. "His wife was standing right there. I mean, the woman was five martinis deep, but still. There's a code of conduct."
The female members at his club circle him like sharks who smell trust funds in the water.
I know because I've witnessed their mating rituals. The tactical arm touches, the practiced laughs at his investment jokes, the way they lean in just enough to give him a view down their designer blouses.
More wine disappears.
More sounds emerge from Preston's mouth that might be words but register as white noise.
My mind plays a highlight reel of Jaxson talking about Italian models and their particular skill sets while Preston discusses quarterly portfolios and someone named Brad who apparently embezzled from the children's charity fund.
"Can you believe that? From the children's fund," Preston says, shaking his head in disapproval. "His wife left him for her trainer last month. The one with the CrossFit gym downtown? Apparently, she'd been having private sessions for quite some time."
When he finally stops talking and starts kissing me again, I let him lead me to the bedroom where everything unfolds with the passion of a dental cleaning.
Thorough, hygienic, and over in exactly ten minutes.
He approaches intimacy like he's conducting a board meeting, hitting all the agenda items in order: kissing, foreplay mostly consisting of him asking "is this good?" every thirty seconds, main event and concluding remarks of him telling me how beautiful I am while I wonder if I remembered to set the DVR.
He goes through his routine with the dedication of someone following IKEA instructions while I contemplate the ceiling and wonder if this is what death feels like, just warmer. His hands move with all the passion of someone checking produce for ripeness.
At one point, I catch myself mentally drafting a grocery list. Which feels like the kind of metaphor for our relationship that would make my therapist reach for her prescription pad.
Afterwards, he's already drifting off, his arm draped across me like a participation trophy.
"Love you," he mumbles into Egyptian cotton.
"Love you too," I whisper back.
Gosh, I’m so sexually frustrated. Perhaps this is why I can’t stop myself from imagining forbidden things with a forbidden person, who’s definitely not my former stepbrother.