My mom forces a smile, but it doesn’t even remotely reach her eyes. “Sometimes—”

I lift my hand. “Please. Please do not tell me that sometimes people just drift apart.”

Mom’s lips press together. “Jack,” she snaps. “A little help?”

My father clears his throat, finally looking at me, and I feel my chin wobble when I see that his eyes are brimming. “I don’t know, Georgie. I just . . .”

He lifts a hand, running it over his face, and his reaction tells me everything I need to know.

My gaze flicks back to my mother, and though she doesn’t look unaffected, she’s nowhere near as broken by this as he is. “Did you already file?”

She looks away, likely noticing that I’m directing the question to her. Knows that I know exactly who’s driving this divorce.

“So what happens next?” I ask. “This is just . . . the end of the family?”

“Georgie—”

“What?” I snap, pushing out of my chair and standing. I know I’m being immature, but I just . . . I want them to be in love like they used to be. At least I thought they were. Or did I just see it all through a child’s eyes?

“Did you even try?” I ask, my voice breaking.

There’s a long moment of silence, and then it’s my dad who speaks. “Georgie, I know this hurts, but you know that even if your mother and I have decided we’re better off without each other, neither of us is walking away from you.”

“Never,” my mom says emphatically.

I wipe at my eyes. I know it’s supposed to make me feel better, but all I can think is that there will be no more Sunday brunches with the three of us. No more family walks down Fifth Avenue at Christmas, or them hosting their epic Oscars party, or summer weekends in the Hamptons . . .

None of it. It’s all over.

“Sweetie, sit down, please. I ordered some cinnamon rolls. Your father and I thought maybe we could brainstorm some ways that you can get quality time with each of us, and—”

I shake my head, taking a step forward. “Too soon, Mom. Way too soon for that.”

“Georgie—”

“No,” I say, my voice sharp, as I look at my dad. “I don’t know how long you’ve had to adjust to this information, but I need a bit more time before I can talk about it like a rational adult. Just . . . some space. Okay?”

Neither of them says a word as I walk out of the dining room. I grab my purse and dash out of their apartment, my mood having done a complete one-eighty from what it was when I walked into the room just a few minutes earlier.

A few minutes, really? It feels like years.

Or maybe that’s just because I feel years older.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand as I burst out onto the sidewalk. I immediately head for home, pulling out my cellphone, thinking that I’ll text Marley. But suddenly I stop.

Texting Marley is what I would have done a few weeks ago. Right now, though, I need someone else. My heart knows that being held by Andrew is the only thing that can possibly fix me.

I make it home, fueled by fury and heartache, and I skip my apartment altogether, going straight to his. Sometimes I stop at the front desk and request his guest key (he put me on his approved list, which is sort of romantic), but I’m too distracted to do that now, so instead I find myself pounding on the door with frantic, open-palmed slaps until he pulls it open.

“Georgiana, what—”

It’s then that I break. All my fear of the future, all the pain for my little family splintering apart, comes out as one keening sob.

He makes a choked sound, and without a word draws me to him, one arm wrapped protectively around my back, his other hand cupping my head, hugging me to his chest.

“I’m here,” he whispers.

It’s exactly what I need to hear, and that only makes me cry harder, my fingers digging into the soft fabric of his T-shirt, which is getting wetter by the minute, thanks to my tears.

I cry and cry, pulling back only long enough to dab at my smeared mascara. “You must think I’m ridiculous,” I whisper, my voice raspy from crying.

“Always,” he whispers, his lips brushing over my cheek. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“My parents,” I say with a sniffle. “They’re getting divorced.”

I’m not expecting him to say much, but at the very least I expect some sort of useless, guy-ish murmurings that he imagines will be soothing.

He says nothing.

I raise my eyes to his, and my heart stops for a full beat at what I see there.

He looks stricken but not surprised. Most damning of all, he looks . . . guilty?

I take a tiny step backward, my heart beating again, but in a pounding, panicked kind of way. “Andrew?”

“Georgiana.”

I know then. I know.

He reaches out a hand, but I step back with a slightly crazy laugh, staying out of reach. “You knew.”

He says nothing, and suddenly I lunge forward, shoving his shoulder. “Admit it! You knew!”

He inhales, his chest expanding, and then he nods. Just once. But it’s enough. “Yes. I knew.”

Andrew

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, AFTER BRUNCH

Andrew had known this moment was coming. He’d thought he was ready for it. But seeing the heartbreak written all over Georgiana’s face . . .

There was no preparing for something like this.

No way to brace for the fact that you’d just destroyed someone who’d somehow become everything to you in an alarmingly short period of time.

She shook her head. “How?” she said, her voice so small he wanted to punch himself. “How did you know?”

Then her eyes closed as she put the pieces together. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Did one of them hire you?”

He swallowed. “Your mother.”

Georgina’s laugh was mirthless and ripped at his soul. “Of course. Of course she did. And oh God—oh my God—I planted the seed in her head. I mentioned you, and . . . oh my God, I somehow did this, all because I was stupid enough to fall for a divorce attorney?”

His mind caught on that just for a second. She’d told her parents about him? She’d fallen for him? For a bittersweet moment he felt a surge of joy so profound it nearly sent him to his knees. But before they could get to any of that, they needed to get through this.