Chapter One

Can you come to dinner?

I stared at the five short words my father had shot to me over text, gnawing on my lip as I read them over for the umpteenth time. The short and honest answer was yes, but I had no real intention of going. Maybe it had become my father's ritual to ring in the New Year with the people he cared about, but I found I much preferred solitude on a night like this, content with witnessing the celebrations from afar.

Besides, it was cold. And wet. So the answer was no. No, I could not attend the absurdly late "dinner". I began typing this out verbatim, but before I could send it, another message from my father appeared below the first. Sent a car, it read. Be ready in 15.

I scoffed, feeling like a fool. His questions were rarely anything less than a demand; I wasn't sure why I assumed this one would be up for debate. More than anything, I hated that I still was at his beck and call, unable to say no, and unable to stay away. Even at twenty-five, I couldn't seem to draw the line with him. Maybe that could be my New Year's resolution: set boundaries with Dad. And stick to them! Yeah, right.

Well, at least I had an excuse to get drunk now. When I loaded myself into the awaiting car fifteen minutes later, I had two bottles of soju tucked under my arm, and cracked the first one open as soon as we pulled out onto the street, taking a long, wincing drink.

The lively city lights of Vivienne thinned as the car sped along, eventually becoming only a winking cluster of gold against the rainy night. I took another swig of alcohol; it was a forty-five minute drive to the house. The least I could do was arrive already wasted. To spare my father from needing me to catch up with all the festivities, of course.

Unfortunately, I only made it about halfway through the first bottle by the time we pulled onto the property. The intense party days of my early twenties had destroyed the raw courage I had to commit to a chug, and after the soju had warmed, I could hardly stomach it. Still, I started to feel heat blooming through my chest, and when I emerged from the car, my first steps felt dizzying. Makes your head feel like it's in a bubble, doesn't it? My brother Joshua had asked me this the first time he'd snuck me a drink.

I shoved this thought down. Adjusted the strap of my dress—some old pearly thing from last year's festivities. Then, with a deep breath, I punched in the door code and stepped inside. Immediately, I was met with the same loud bursts of laughter I'd heard down on the street earlier tonight. Drunk people. Drunk happy people. My eyes skipped over the large family photo hung on the wall of the foyer, but it was too late—I could already feel my heart rising to my throat, feel the pinch behind my eyes. It was undeniable. I should not have come here.

"Happy New Year, June."

My father emerged from the chaos of the den, a glass of champagne in either hand, ready. I wondered how long he'd been standing there, probably peering through the window, watching from the flash of approaching headlights. The evidence was in the drink. "It's warm," I said, taking a sip.

Dad being Dad breezed over this, leaning in to press a kiss to my cheek. "I'm so glad you decided to come."

"I mean, I didn't have much choice, did I? You sent a car."

His hand lifted in a dismissive wave. "Come. There's many people who wish to see you."

Straight to business, then. I followed him into the fray all the same, settling into a forced smile as he paraded me around the guests like a spectacle. And while I hated the people—hated the way they stared, that timeless sting of pity still sharp in their gaze—part of me still relished the way my father would turn to me, beaming for once. "June," he said every time, swelling with pride. "Here is June."

I supposed the beginning was always best, though. Our moments together so rare, that for a moment, we forgot the rest of it. But then the excitement of my presence faded, as it always did, and I found myself at the edge of everything once again, pushed aside for the one thing I could never compete with—the cars.

It happened at half-past eleven, when some "total car guy" with a lot to say about last year's racing season intercepted the two of us. My father, ever the egoist, immediately became engrossed in debate, which allowed me to swipe a bottle of Moët from the kitchen and escape to the back patio.

The fireplace blazed, but the lights were off. They flicked on as I strode toward the warmth, and only then did I see the figure sitting on the edge of the table, turning toward me as everything became illuminated all at once. I couldn't keep the surprise off my face. "Charlie?"

Charlie Yang, racing talent of the past half-decade, stood swiftly at this, straightening the loosened tie around his neck as he went. "June. I—Happy New Year."

Yeah, right. I shook my head, trying to clear my speechlessness. I couldn't. Not when he was looking at me like that, his amber eyes filled with everything we'd left unsaid since Joshua. I couldn't even remember the last time we had stood in the same room as one another. And now, for some reason, he was here. Handsome and pink-cheeked, his dark wavy hair set slightly across his forehead—evidence of a breeze.

"Do you know," I managed to get out finally, "how still you have to be to keep the lights off out here?"

He didn't move, didn't smile. "Moon's out. No light needed."

"Right." I let the silence stretch between us, pregnant and painful, before cutting it with the sharp pop of the champagne bottle opening. I tossed the cork over my shoulder and gestured at him. "I'm sorry, I feel like I'm missing something. Why are you at my house?"

There was a flicker in that doe-eyed gaze of his. So there was a reason. Whatever it was, though, he didn't give it to me. "You should sit by the fire," he told me instead. "It's freezing out."

"At least it's dry over here. It's raining in the city." I didn't want to do what he told me, much less when it meant we were stuck out here alone together, but I was cold, and I couldn't bear to be accosted by anyone else inside, so I took a seat at the edge of the table, where he had been, and sipped from the bottle of champagne. "What are you doing here?"

He sat beside me, just close enough to feel his warmth, but far enough away that we weren't touching. "Out here? I don't know. Parties can be a little suffocating."

"That's not what I meant."

His expression softened. "New beginnings are soon," he told me finally. "A year of change, I hope."

"That starts by attending my father's party at my childhood home..."

Charlie hadn't looked away from me since I'd first met his gaze, and I found myself unable to look away too. I mean, yeah, I'd had glimpses of him in the tabloids over the years, but nothing like this. Nothing real and up close. He was a man now, aged a little by the tiredness around his eyes and the firmness in his shoulders. But still as devastatingly pretty as the first time I'd ever met him. Tall and reliable, a boyishness in the way his dimples cut with a smile, those long lashes framing his soulful brown eyes.

"You look well, June," was all he supplied after a long pause.

I tore my gaze away from the small, familiar scar, faint against the curve of his upper lip. "Yeah, well, I suppose life's been good to me lately. Can't complain, really. Except about the party. It's just about the worst one I've been to all year."

"Mmm. Well, at least it's almost over." He leaned back on his hands, kicking his feet out toward the fireplace. "You've got lipstick on your forehead, by the way."

"Oh." I rubbed at it. "That's Miss Holly. She's very enthusiastic about her red lip."

The corners of his mouth slanted with a barely-there smile. "It's a good color. I don't blame her."

I helped myself to more champagne. Belatedly, I realized I hadn't offered him any. But given the situation, I wasn't exactly inclined to share, instead keeping it in a death grip as the quiet unfolded over us once more. "Did he invite you?" I managed eventually, hazarding him a glance. "My dad, I mean."

Charlie sighed. Nodded. "Yeah."

"You can tell him no, you know that right? You don't owe him anything."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is." Waving a hand, I forced a smile. "Doesn't matter. I probably wouldn't get it anyway. All that car stuff goes way over my head."

He frowned. "I wasn't trying to condescend you, June. I just don't think—"

"I grew up here, did you know that?" I set the champagne down between us. "My whole childhood, actually."

"I did know that—"

"I used to be so jealous of Joshua. Dad moved him to Europe so he could commit to karting, and I was just here. At first I didn't mind. It kind of felt like being an only child. But then all that time and skill really started paying off for my brother, and both my parents got really invested in his success. And I was so jealous that I made them let me stay here. In the States. Just rotting away at this house with the nanny and sometimes Mom." I laughed. "I hate it here. Even now. After everything."

Charlie was looking at me like he didn't know what to say. Which was fair. But I supposed I had dumped everything in his lap for that very reason. I didn't want to hear anything he had to say. I didn't want to listen to his way with words or let them comfort me. He couldn't fix a thing.

Inside, I heard the guests beginning the countdown from ten. Someone turned up the music, and the melancholy notes of "Auld Lang Syne" leaked from the house. I drank through the final five seconds, eyes on the flames, Charlie silent beside me. "Happy New Year," I offered flatly when the commotion settled a little. I passed him the bottle. "Have the rest."

He took it wordlessly, finishing it off in two big gulps. "I should go in," he told me abruptly then. "I've been a pretty lousy guest of your father's."

"He gets swept up in all the attention. I wouldn't worry too much." I didn't stand with him. I couldn't even look at him. I just kept my gaze forward and unfocused as I waited for him to leave. "Get home safe," I blurted when he reached the door. "Don't drive home drunk or anything."

He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Happy New Year, June," he replied. Then, slipping inside, he took a left down the dark hallway and was swallowed up by the shadows.

For a moment, I wondered if maybe I should've told him something else. Anything. Just to keep him here a little while longer. But that just was the alcohol talking, optimistic and naïve. No matter what I said, it wouldn't change a thing—the irrevocable distance between us remained the same. Maybe my father had hopes for the new year. But these were the facts.

I knew that better than anyone.

a/n: please don't forget to vote and/or comment if you enjoyed ! i appreciate all of u for reading <3 happy weekend xo