Lost to You by - (book club books .TXT) 📕

His hand dropped from my back and found my hand, weaving our fingers together. Part of me wanted to jerk away, to stop the flow of confusion I felt from the overt gesture, to hide whatever this was from his parents, to cut off the longing it ignited within me, but I couldn’t let go.

Christian’s hand constricted on mine when the maître de stopped in front of his parents’ table.

The man dipped his head. “Your party.”

Christian said, “Thank you,” but I found I could give no response as I fixated on the couple in front of me.

Oh God. What had Christian dragged me into?

Two of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen sat looking up at us. My gaze waffled between the two of them, shocked by the striking resemblance Christian bore to his mother and stricken by the coldness in his father.

There was something about his hard stare that made it difficult to look away, although the man’s contemplation easily jumped between Christian and me.

There was little semblance between father and son other than the thatch of black hair perfectly tailored on Mr. Davison’s head.

His mother was waif thin and wore a silk two-piece skirt suit. Jewels dripped from every exposed surface of her body. I could only guess the long hair she had in a stylish coif had been dyed blonde, and she wore her chin permanently lifted in an elevated air of self-righteousness.

Unease had me shifting my feet as I shrank back from the severity of their presence.

“Mom, Dad, this is my friend, Elizabeth Ayers. Elizabeth, this is my father, Richard Davison, and my mother, Claire Davison.”

Christian released the death grip he had on me and gestured in my direction, although thankfully, he chose not to move far from my side.

Richard Davison slowly rose from his seat and extended a brusque hand across the table. “So nice to meet you, Elizabeth.”

Wrapping his hand around mine, Christian’s father shook my hand. It was firm, hard, unwelcoming.

There was nothing nice about it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Davison,” I forced around the lump in my throat.

When I turned and accepted Christian’s mother’s hand, it was cool to the touch, clammy. “Very nice to meet you, Elizabeth.” It was all form and pomp, insincere.

I struggled to keep my hand from trembling in hers and searched for confidence, reminding myself I was doing this for Christian. “Very nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Davison. Thank you for having me.”

In return, she offered a tight nod of her head and folded herself back under the table.

Christian pulled the chair out for me and helped me settle. Almost inconspicuously, he brushed his fingers under my elbow, a silent buoy to my spirit. I would suffer through this for him.

“Thank you,” I murmured under my breath as I adjusted in my seat. We were handed our menus, and I crossed my feet at my ankles as I sat up straight in the chair. Rigid. Impressing people had never been something I was interested in, but something about these two told me I would fare better pretending to fit into a place where I so obviously did not.

This was going to be a long night.

I glanced above my menu to find Christian’s father watching me with the concentration of a hawk about to swoop in on its prey.

My attention dropped back to the words, but I could still feel his eyes penetrating through the thickness of parchment and leather.

In silence, we studied the menus. When the waiter arrived, I ordered a water and the Thanksgiving special, hoping to make the least impact with my presence as possible.

After our orders were taken, Christian’s father sat back in his seat, still studying me. “So, Elizabeth, how did you and Christian meet?”

I swallowed and swiped my napkin across my mouth. I stole a glance at Christian, and he just smiled at me in encouragement. I turned my attention back to his father. “We both signed up to be paired with a study partner in our American Government class, and Christian turned out to be mine.”

Richard Davison nodded, and I thought maybe it was an acceptable answer.

I sucked in a little breath of relief. Maybe I could handle this.

“And where are you from?”

“San Diego.”

“A long way from home.” It wasn’t a question, just an observation I was sure was tied to another thought.

“Yes,” I said.

“So why New York?”

“I’ve always dreamed of moving here. Columbia University was my first choice.”

“Hmm. It’s a hard school to get into.” Another observation.

“Yes,” I agreed.

God, I wasn’t prepared for this, to be set on display, subject to Richard Davison’s scrutiny. I’d counted on Christian’s promise that his parents would find me so inconsequential that they wouldn’t look twice in my direction.

Mr. Davison sat back while his salad plate was removed and a soup bowl was set in its place. “And what do your parents do?”

My nerves flared, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I’d always been proud of my family, but everything about his demeanor put me on the defensive. “Um . . . just my mom. My dad left when I was young, and my mother has always worked in manufacturing.”

He lifted his brow. “Design?”

I minimally shook my head. “No. She works on the floor.”

Whatever interest Richard Davison had in me was silenced in my response, as if my answer had given him all the information he needed.

I was sure I could hear the silent judgement rippling from him.

That I was below them. Not good enough to be sitting beside their son.

Tension fell over the table, and Christian brushed his fingers down my leg, another apology, one I couldn’t even acknowledge.

Instead I stared at his father, contending with the powerful urge I had to defend my mother, to tell him how hard she worked to feed us and keep a decent roof over our heads.

I remained silent because it was clear in Richard Davison’s eyes nothing I said would matter, anyway.

My assumptions made about Christian’s parents were right. They were as hollow as I suspected, bred too high, their heads filled with too much.

Christian had never had a chance.

Is this what he would become? Would he succumb to the mold of his father?

To the distance in his mother?

Be shaped into this machine that cared for nothing?

The thought soured and caused nausea to roll in my stomach. God. I couldn’t stand the thought of this happening to him, for the light in his eyes to dim and the playfulness in his smile to fade.

Finally, the main course was served.

Christian’s mother sipped at her wine, and in between bites filled Christian in on the elite. “Did you hear Stephen Bell and Emily Cann are engaged?” She tittered a laugh. “Who would have thought those two families would come together? That will be quite the fortune for their children. Oh, and the Graham’s have sold their house and bought a historical downtown . . .”

I had to squash the urge to roll my eyes. Christian’s mother hadn’t seen him in months, and this was all she could offer him? Gossip? She never even asked him how he was, if he was happy or troubled or was struggling in any way.

Longing inflamed my already homesick heart. The idea that I didn’t want to be home for Thanksgiving all but evaporated.

What I would give to be in the midst of the shuffle of my mother’s kitchen now, the scents rising up from the oven as the turkey cooked to perfection. What I would give to feel the tender hand of my mother while she pushed my hair back from my face as I peeled potatoes, how she’d be so thankful that all of her daughters were there.

The only difference was I wanted Christian there with me.

I peeked over at him. He ate in outright discomfort, though with an obvious sense of normalcy.

A pang struck me at my core.

He’d never had that—love without expectations, someone there to cherish him despite his faults, someone to praise him for his strengths.

The love I’d been too scared to acknowledge before glowed and burned, whipped and stirred as it grew. From the outside, it was nearly impossible to see the damage his parents had created on the inside of that gorgeous exterior.

As he sat there now, it was obvious, these bold marks of ruin that scored his spirit.

Casting a furtive glance in his parents’ direction, I cut another piece of turkey and brought it to my mouth. Could they really not see him the way I did?

“So, Christian, tell me how your classes are going,” his father said between bites.

Christian stiffened.

Here we go.

I wondered how his father had restrained himself this long.

Clearing his throat before he spoke, Christian seemed to measure his words to evoke the least reaction from his father. “They’re going really, really well. My grades are good. Just have to make it through finals and I should have all As.”

“Mmm . . .” his father mused, sliding a forkful of mashed potatoes into his arrogant mouth. “You know you need