“You have absolutely no reason to.”

He leaves me alone and I’m stunned into silence. His honesty hits me like a punch in the gut and another to the heart. His words were soft and vulnerable. I can still feel his pain, the most honest he’s been with me in days.

He’s full of regret.

I’m just not sure about which part.

* * *

It takes me forty-five minutes before I have the courage to walk downstairs and tell Francesca (and probably Asher too) that I’m leaving. I pray to God that she doesn’t insist that he leaves with me.

The crowd of people has thinned and as I walk over to where Francesca is standing with a few girls, I notice that the photo of the child in the snow has a tag on it. Someone bought it. I hope it gets a good home. It deserves to be admired every day in a room with good lighting and high ceilings.

Francesca’s contagious laughter greets me. A smile appears on my lips at the sound. She’s talking with every part of her body, fluidly moving her hands and her hips, telling a story through motion. I’m mesmerized. Like I always am when I’m around her.

“Liv! I thought you left.” She throws her arms around me and I can smell the liquor on her.

“I was hiding upstairs,” I confess. “But I am heading out now.”

She frowns. “Did you have a good time?”

“I did,” I say. “The photographs are beautiful. If you speak to Nawaar, tell her the stories she tells are so moving.”

Francesca hugs me once more. “I’m so glad you came. I know things are rough right now, but give it time. You’re good for each other.”

I force my smile despite my quivering lips.

Outside, it’s bitterly cold, but the lack of wind makes the temperature bearable. The subway is three blocks away. If there aren’t any delays, I should be home in twenty-five minutes, which will give me six hours of sleep before I have to get up for my morning meeting at Ana’s house in Brooklyn.

I shove my hands into my coat and tuck my chin into my chest for warmth. And, well, to mask the cigarette smoke clouding the sidewalk. I pass a bar and a high-end shoe store and steps that lead into a designer’s showroom.

That’s when I stop.

Not because of the dress made of Swarovski crystals in the window, but because of the person sitting on the stoop.

It’s Asher. His head lolls on his neck. I can see his brow furrowed, his forehead wrinkling as he stares at his phone. He’s plastered.

My head tells me to keep walking.

But my heart…

My heart can’t keep her damn mouth shut.

“Asher?”

He looks bewildered when he sees me.

“Hi,” he says.

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting.”