Dolly just smiles and pats my arm with her free hand as we move with the other couples toward the dining room. “I’m not going to tell on you, Devlin. And you’re right. Most powerful men have affairs. I’m sure he’s no stranger to that fact.”
“I’m not having an affair,” I grit out, annoyed.
“I know,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean to imply that. You’re not mine, Devlin. You never were. I know that now. You hurt me, but I don’t resent you for it anymore. I understand. Some things just aren’t meant to be.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you wanted. What you deserve.”
She doesn’t argue. She knows she deserves better. It stings a little, but I’m happy she finally knows it. “Devlin?” she says, looking up at me, her Bambi eyes serious.
“Yeah?”
“Just be what she deserves.”
I swallow hard, knowing she’s giving me something priceless—her blessing. Not only has she let go of the dream, but she wants me to be happy. We’re friends, as we’ve always been, since long before we knew the implications of the marriage we’ve known was our fate since we could say the word.
“Hey, Devlin,” Chase says, slipping up behind us with Lindsey on his arm.
“Hey,” I say, shaking Chase’s hand.
He turns to my date while I nod to my waifish little cousin, who looks perfectly polished like all the women here, though I can read the frazzled expression in her eyes. I do not envy Preston his position in the family.
“Why, Dolly Beckett,” Chase says. “Last time I saw you, you were krumping at a football game, and now you’re looking like a damn fine society lady. Aren’t you just a Jack of all trades?”
She laughs, and it’s an easy laugh, one that makes me happy. I’m happy that she’s happy, that she’s excited about her future instead of desperately obsessed with it. I’m happy that she can still laugh that way. That she has enough sense to get out of this town. And I’m happy that I won’t have to fake it much longer. For tonight, though, we’ll fake it. We’ll fake it through the interview with Grampa Darling, when he’ll tell us we’re graduating in a semester, and it’s time I made an honest woman of Dolly. We’ll fake it through the one her family will put us through, too. And we’ll hold them off a few more months, until Dolly leaves town.
And then somehow, I have to convince my family that I belong with an Italian New Yorker with mafia ties whose family is hellbent on destroying us. Should be a piece of cake.
twenty-three
Crystal
Christmas is a time of tradition. But what happens when all the traditions are broken, when everything is broken? When families don’t trust, don’t love, don’t even care enough to visit? When no one hangs a stocking, and there is no laughter and merriment in the air. I stopped believing in Santa Claus a long time ago, but this is the year I stopped believing in the magic of Christmas.
“Are you staying over?” Dixie asks, looking back and forth between me and Dolly. The three of us sit cross-legged on her bedroom floor, eating homemade Christmas cookies Dolly brought and exchanging late Christmas gifts.
“I can’t,” I say with a sigh. “Royal’s outside waiting to escort me home when we’re done.”
“Let him wait,” Dolly says. “You said you’d come for a movie.”
“I did,” I say, gesturing to my Christmas pajamas. “I just can’t stay over. My brother doesn’t trust me not to run off with Devlin if I’m out of his sight for a night.”
“He’s got a point,” Dixie says, giggling. “You probably would.”
“I would not,” I say, swatting her knee. “I’d never leave my BFF’s party to hang out with a guy.”
“This isn’t exactly a party,” she says, looking momentarily glum.
“Oh, hush,” Dolly says. “It is so a party. I don’t make cookies for just anything.”
“You made them for Christmas,” Dixie points out. “These are leftovers!”
“Are you saying you’re too good to eat leftovers?” Dolly asks in a mock scolding tone. “There are children starving in Africa!”
We all crack up, and I snag a Santa cookie from the tin. “So, what’d you girls get for Christmas?”
“I got the usual from my family,” Dixie says. “Clothes that don’t fit to ‘motivate’ me to lose weight, a subscription to Weight Watchers, and a cookbook to go with it.”
“Oh my god,” I say. “Dixie, that’s horrible.”