Chapter 166
The scent of fries, grease, and childhood hits me square in the chest as Julian holds the door open for Lara and me, and we step into the nuorescent glow of a McDonald’s on the corner of West Randolph.
After the velvet–drenched Vogue showcase, it’s like walking into another universe–one that serves nuggets and doesn’t judge.
We get a few stares–probably because I’m in heels and Lily’s ornate dress. And Julian and Lara are basically Greek gods taking their mortal pet out for a treat.
One little kid seated at the booth by the door points at us and whispers to his mom, “Are they famous?”
Julian bows dramatically. “Only in very niche French circles,” he stage–whispers.
I bite back a laugh, and Lara rolls her eyes.
Moments later, we’re sliding into a booth at the back with our trays. Mine’s just fries and a soda, Lara got apple slices and an iced tea (Julian berated her a full two minutes for that choice.)
And Julian got that cornucopia he wanted: Two Big Macs, nuggets, large fries, two sauces, and a McFlurry. He catches me staring.
“What?” He shrugs. “I’m an emotional eater.”
Lara snorts. “A fucking garbage disposal is what you are.”
She leans toward me. “When he was six, he ate a whole pack of play–dough because it smelled like cherry.”
I burst into laughter, a bit of soda squirting out of my nose.
Lara chuckles, and for a moment, we’re friends again, laughing at each other’s attempts to throw popcorn in our mouths.
Then she remembers herself, remembers that she’s mad at me. And her face closes up.
“Bathroom,” she declares, sliding out of the booth. I watch her walk away, knowing there’s no way in hell Lara Ellington is about to use a McDonald’s bathroom.
Juliet dips a nugget into his sauce and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “So, what’s the deal?”
I frown. “The deal?”
“Why’s my sister acting like you broke her heart and now she’ll never love again?”
I snort, throwing a fry into my mouth to keep from answering.
Julian tilts his head to the side, studying me. His gaze is intentional, piercing. He really looks like a Greek god–or at least like he was carved by one.
“What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks heat up.
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“My sister doesn’t have any friends,” he says. “So imagine my shock when I texted her one day and she couldn’t talk cause she was hanging out with her new friend April.”
I blink. “Oh.”
She told her brother about me?
“April’s pretty cool,” he says, like he’s reciting lines from a play. “She’s not like the other pretentious girls. April makes me laugh. April’s pretty talented. April doesn’t like horror movies, but she watches them with me. April’s really cool.”
My jaw drops. Something warm and fuzzy spreads in my chest.
“She said all that?”
Julian sips his McFlurry before answering. “You sounded so perfect, I was starting to think my little sister had lost it and imagined you.”
I sigh, playing with a fry. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He raises a brow. “Who said I’m disappointed?”
I shrug. “I’m far from perfect.”
He snorts. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“You and your sister are pretty close to perfect.”
“Did you not hear the play–dough story?”
I laugh, despite myself. It feels foreign, like something I haven’t done before. I don’t think I’ve laughed since I left the Ashford Estate.
Julian smiles, looking pleased with the reaction he elicited.
“I think I get it, though.”
“Get what?”
He shrugs. “The hype. You seem pretty cool.”
Yeah, my cheeks are definitely burning now.
“Eat your food,” I mumble, stuffing another fry in my mouth.
Julian grins but obediently takes a bite of his Big Mac, humming in satisfaction like it’s the best thing he’s eaten in years.
We fall into a comfortable silence–well, as comfortable as it can get when your ex–friend is hiding from you in a McDonald’s bathroom and her absurdly charming brother keeps saying things that make your face heat up.
I sip my soda slowly, chewing on my straw and my thoughts.
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“You know,” Julian says suddenly, still chewing, “if you hurt her, I’ll have to write a scathing op–ed about you in L’Officiel. Maybe even get you blacklisted from the Paris scene.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh no,” I deadpan. “And I had such a bright future in the Paris scene.”
He chuckles. “Cheeky.”
I flip my hair over my shoulder and speak in a faux voice. “Paris is so last year, anyway.”
Julian’s boisterous laugh draws a few curious glances.
“But seriously,” he says after he quiets down. “Whatever happened between you and Lara–fix it. She doesn’t let people in. Not ever. And she let you in so fast it scared her.”
That lands heavier than I expect. I’m still sitting with it when Lara reappears, sliding wordlessly back into the booth across from us.
Her iced tea’s still sweating, untouched. She doesn’t meet my eyes, just sips her drink, eyes on the tray like it’s playing a movie.
Julian watches her for a beat, then glances at me. “I need a refill.”
“You haven’t finished your drink,” I point out.
He shrugs. “Still, I feel emotionally parched. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He’s gone before I can argue, leaving me in the thick, tense silence across from Lara.
I wait a beat. Then two. Then three.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I say softly.
She doesn’t answer right away, tracing the edge of an apple slice with her finger. Then she sighs, leans back, and finally looks me in the
eye.
“I’m not hurt,” she declares, but the sheen in her eyes says otherwise. “I’m just…” She shrugs. “Confused.”
I nod. “I know. And I can explain–if you’ll let me.”
Something shifts in her eyes–the mask lifts, ever so slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the Lara I know,
She looks tired, like she’s been carrying around something heavy and doesn’t know how to set it down.
“Yeah, okay,”
My eyes widen slightly. “Really?”
Julian slides back into the booth then, plopping down beside her with a triumphant flourish and a fresh drink.
“Miss me?” he asks.
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Lare sports and turns away from me. “About as much as a recurring pimple.”
But her voice is lighter now. Less clipped.
Julian clutches his chest. “Seriously, sis. One more jab and I’m going to bleed out on this questionable McDonald’s floor.”
She leans forward and stabs at his chest with a manicured finger, and he mimes a seizure before collapsing in his seat.
I snicker as Lara rolls her eyes. Our eyes meet, and her smile doesn’t fade. Something swells in me–something that isn’t heartache or guilt or remorse.
Hope.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
