Chapter 8
The engine of Julian’s sedan purred to life, the heater humming as it pushed a wave of warm air into the chilly cabin. He shifted into drive and pulled away from the grand estate, watching the sprawling lights of the venue fade in the rearview mirror until they were nothing more than a dull orange glow against the black sky. Neither of them spoke for the first several miles. The silence was not heavy or strained; it was comfortable, steeped in a lifetime of shared understanding that no ballroom full of strangers could ever unravel. Arthur rested his head against the passenger-side window, staring out at the dark silhouette of the interstate overpass and the familiar gas station signs flickering through the gloom. Julian kept his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel, his mind racing through the wreckage of his personal life. Clara hadn't called his cell phone yet, which answered any lingering questions he might have had about where she stood. There would be no text messages asking if he was alright, no frantic apologies. There was only the finality of a door closing on a relationship built on shifting sand. Julian glanced over at his father’s profile illuminated briefly by the dashboard lights, feeling a profound sense of clarity wash over him. He was finally awake.
