Page 12 of Never Forget
So I never let myself hope for anything more.
The last time I'd seen him was a year ago, at Sarah's funeral. He'd stood beside Jack in the receiving line, steady and solid, shaking hands with everyone who came through. He'd hugged me when I arrived, held on just a beat too long, and said something about being sorry that I barely heard through the ringing in my ears.
I felt it then. That old ache. The one I'd been carrying since I was old enough to understand what it meant.
I put the photo back in the box and closed the lid.
It didn't matter. I lived in New York. I was with Mark. Sam was just a memory from a life I'd left behind.
Mark had made reservations at a restaurant that had a three-month waitlist and no prices on the menu. The maître d' called him by name and the sommelier remembered his preferences.
His friends were already at the table when we arrived. Dave and Alicia, Arthur and Cathy. The women air-kissed my cheeks and told me how thrilled they were. The men shook my hand and said things like "You must be so proud" and "Mark never stops talking about you."
I met Mark a year ago when I was working on a story about corporate philanthropy. He was one of several executives I'd interviewed, and he was supposed to be a fifteen-minute conversation that I'd use for background. Instead, he'd kept me in his office for an hour, asking questions about my process, my career, my opinion on things that had nothing to do with the article.
When he asked me to dinner at the end of it, I'd said yes before I could overthink it.
A year later, we were talking about moving in together. He'd shown me a listing last week for a two-bedroom in Tribeca with a view of the river. "For when we're ready," he'd said.
Now I sat across from him at a table for six, wearing a dress I'd bought for occasions exactly like this, watching him raise a glass of champagne that cost more than my first month's rent in New York.
"To the most talented journalist in this city," he said. "I always knew you'd get here."
"You've known me for about a year."
"And I could tell within five minutes." He smiled, that easy, confident smile that had charmed me in his office. "You're going places, Jamie Donovan. I'm just lucky I get to come along."
I smiled back. Clinked my glass against his. Let the champagne fizz against my tongue. I made conversation. Laughed at the right moments. I knew which fork to use.
This was my life now. Mark's friends were my friends. Mark's calendar was my calendar. I'd learned how to navigate his world the same way I'd learned how to navigate everything else in New York—by watching, adapting, becoming whatever I needed to become.
It should have felt triumphant. The promotion. The boyfriend. The champagne. The table full of people who were happy for me.
So why did it feel like wearing a costume I couldn't take off?
The thought came and went before I could examine it. I pushed it down and turned to answer a question Alicia was asking about the series.
I was halfway through explaining the story that had gotten the most traction when my phone buzzed in my purse.
Havensworth area code.
My stomach dropped. I excused myself from the table and walked toward the back of the restaurant, pressing the phone against my ear.
"Hello?"
"Is this Jamie Donovan?"
Not Jack's voice. A woman. Professionally sympathetic in the way of people who delivered bad news for a living.
"Yes."
"This is Havensworth General Hospital. I'm calling about your brother, Jack Donovan."
The floor tilted beneath me. I put my hand on the wall.
"What happened? Is he okay?"
The pause told me everything I didn't want to hear.
