the lights made me feel alive even when I was in a bad mood and bored out of my mind. And not just that, but torturing myself with images and memories of my night with Keaton, like reliving it in my head was going to be anything like the real thing. The car pulled up to another stoplight. I was probably going to be late, and I really didn’t care.
If I had it my way, I’d make an appearance, shake hands, drink one glass of champagne, then go back to my apartment and creep Keaton’s Instagram like I’d been doing for the past week and a half.
I’d yet to grow a pair of balls and message Keaton, but I’d done a really good job of looking over every single picture she posted like a madman, and when I came to the pictures of her and Noah, some sick curiosity took over.
My forced vacation was turning me into a stalker.
And not even a really good one.
We’d gotten back into the city late on a Wednesday, it was already a week and a half later, and all I’d done was convinced myself that Noah was superhuman and that no man would ever compare to him.
Literally.
I wasn’t even exaggerating; that’s the caption she wrote beneath the last photo of them a year ago.
I was driving myself crazy.
Hadn’t done anything except work out and watch TV, and Bridge wouldn’t stop calling me to remind me about the business dinner I was en route to.
I didn’t even bother with a tie.
I almost laughed, I didn’t even recognize myself anymore. Last year I wouldn’t have been caught dead going to a business dinner without running a lint roller over my suit, and today I’d gotten ready in ten minutes and called it good.
When the car pulled up to the curb, I realized that was most likely a grievous error on my part.
Paparazzi lined a red carpet leading to the stairs and all the way up into the entrance, and hanging from the building was a banner with the largest picture of my face I had ever seen. Seriously, billboard-sized.
Scrawled between our two photos, in letters probably ten feet tall, was Happy Birthday, Julian and Bridge!
I was killing Izzy.
This had her written all over it.
I gritted my teeth until my jaw hurt and ran my hands through my hair before the door opened and, like an out-of-body experience, like walking through mud, I slowly made my way up the stairs amidst screams from the media.
“Is it true you cheated on your fiancée and she left you for your brother?”
“Are you gay?”
“Did someone murder your mother?”
“Julian, are you still on drugs?” Seriously?
“Your father said you have a drinking problem . . .” Oh good, let’s talk about him on my birthday.
My plan had been to celebrate with a quiet dinner at the apartment followed by Jimmy Fallon.
God, I was a mess.
I forced a smile I didn’t feel as cameras flashed and more questions were fired toward me. I felt old, so old in that moment, older than my thirty-two years as I finally made it to the top of the stairs to see Izzy waving wildly at me. She was in a sleek black dress that hugged every curve, including her rapidly growing stomach.
A baby.
His baby. Not mine.
My ex-fiancée.
I almost turned around and bolted.
Would I ever get used to it?
To them?
I was already exhausted, and the night had just started. “Izzy, I take it this is all you?” I leaned in and pressed a kiss to each cheek.
She didn’t let me get away without a hug.
Ever since the beginning of her pregnancy she’d been emotional. She’d even called me, bawling and apologizing—yet again—for everything during the coma.
I told her I forgave her.
And I did.
But that didn’t mean it was easy to hug her then return her to my brother.
“Bridge.” I shook his hand.
He too pulled me in for a hug, then whispered in my ear, “They locked all exits, I checked.”
I laughed. “She actually let you out of her sight?”
He glared. “I can be stealthy.”
Izzy rolled her eyes. “Easily defeated, both of you. Now, go inside, sip some champagne and—” Her eyes lit up. “Actually don’t go inside. Julian, count to three and turn around.”
“Izzy, swear to me you didn’t get a giant cake with a person in it.” I groaned.
Bridge’s eyebrows shot up. “Not a giant cake.”
Izzy beamed. “Before you get mad at me for meddling . . . know that I didn’t even have to convince