I relax against his chest. "The response has been incredible. I didn't expect it."
"I did," he says quietly, a hand smoothing over my back. "The piece is strong."
"It's personal," I say. "Maybe that's why. It feels odd when people comment on it. I know it shouldn't. We put it out there, after all."
"We did. All of us."
"Does it still feel okay?" I ask. "Having the story told publicly?"
He's quiet. I lean closer, listening to the beat of his heart. The article had come out last week, but it had been months, if not years, in the making. It's so much more than the piece on con artists I'd always wanted to write.
It's an exploration of all sides of the story. The people who lie… and the people whose lives are ruined by it. Carter and I became a focal point in it. A way into the story.
My dad is interviewed. Carter's dad is interviewed.
Not to sensationalize, but to humanize.
"It feels good," he says finally, hand still stroking over my back. "We read it a dozen times before sending it off. I know every word by heart."
"And yet...?"
He snorts. "Nothing, really. It's a good piece. I'll admit, I was terrified about introducing you to my father, but you were brilliant, kid. Didn't buy any of his bullshit."
"You coached me beforehand," I say. Not to mention that it would take a great deal for me to forget who the man was-what he'd done not only to my father, but to my boyfriend. He'd hurt the people I love most.
Carter had explained to his father what we wanted over email, about the road to reconciliation, taking responsibility. His dad had been more open to it than either of us had expected.
My father had been, too, answering my questions with candor. If it can make others aware of these schemes, he'd said, then my mistake won't feel quite so huge.
The two men still haven't met, and I don't think it's a meeting either of them want, nor their children. Carter had sat next to me the entire time while I spoke to his father. He'd been strung taut like a bow. Tension had radiated through his flexed arm and into me.
Oddly enough, I'd snapped into professional mode. In front of me had been a man. The man I remembered, yes, and yet… not. Older. Grayer. Softer around the eyes, sharp as a tack, but his manner felt sheathed. His weapons put away.
He didn't remember me, but he'd apologized nonetheless. It had been profuse and, in Carter's opinion, insincere. I don't know what I believe yet.
"You're thinking," Carter says above me. "I can feel it."
I laugh against his chest. "Sorry. I was thinking about our dads."
"Well, I care a great deal for one of them," he says. That makes me smile. Carter had fit into my family with surprising ease, winning my parents over with his steadiness. His charm had been hidden away, instead all genuine smiles and calm conversation. It mattered a great deal to him, he'd told me afterwards, that they like him, because he's planning on being in their daughter's life for as long as she'd let him.
"I love you," I tell him. "And you're already my parents' favorite. The chocolates you brought my mom last weekend sealed the deal."
He laughs. "It was nothing."
"It was everything, and you know it. She loves pralines."
"Well, I have a great deal to be grateful to them for." He presses his lips to my hair. "Think they'll react well to the article?"
"They know what's in it," I say. "And at the end of the day, it's not an incriminating piece. It's telling a much bigger story, about fraud and con men in America, and using our family to ground it. Declan called it 'accomplished' the other day."
Carter laughs. "I swear to God, you two have the weirdest friendship."
I grin at that. My deskmate has been promoted, as have I, but our old rivalry lives on. It's one of the best parts of my work at the Globe . "Well, weird friendships are kind of my specialty," I say. "You and I were weird in the beginning."
Things are different now, in a good way. Wesley is gone. It hadn't taken Carter long to see what the rest of us saw. Booker is editor-in-chief now, presiding over the entire newspaper instead of just the Investigative newsroom.
She's still my idol.
"We were never weird," Carter says. "We were… unorthodox."
"Isn't that just a fancier word for weird?"
He kisses my cheek again, avoiding the lipstick. "Smart-ass."
I laugh. "You have a point, though. We didn't exactly start out very conventionally."
"Not at all."
"Did you usually chat with women at bars? Like you did with me?"
He smiles, golden eyes warm. "This feels like a trick question, honey."
"It's not. I swear."
"Sometimes," he says. "But I'd stopped that kind of thing years before I met you."
"So why did you speak to me?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You looked like you needed help. An escape from your thoughts, you know? Plus, you were stunning. I thought that from the beginning."
"I thought you were attractive from the first time we met."
He grins. "I suspected, kid, even when you pretended not to notice. Come on. We'll be late."
We're late.
But no one cares.
The Winter Hotel is an imposing feature in New York, old and storied, with marble floors in the giant atrium. Security is tight tonight, a testament to the kind of people Isaac and Anthony Winter had invited. The night is beautiful. Our friends are there, and try as we all should to mingle with the other guests, it's always more fun when we talk to one another.
Freddie steals me away as soon as she can. She's no longer breastfeeding and drinks a glass of champagne with obvious relish. "Julie was asleep when we left," she tells me. "She's an angel most of the time, except when she's not, of course."
Tristan and Freddie had bought a townhouse not far from Anthony and Summer. It's a beautiful place, family-oriented, and I'm there at least twice a month to visit Freddie. She's become the sister I never had.
An ambitious, intelligent, endlessly supportive sister.
"The sweetheart," I say. Julie is the cutest little baby.