Dalton
She’s different. Eight years without seeing a person will do that, I guess. My childhood best friend is older, calmer—and curvier too. Hot damn. She stands differently than she used to, with her chin held high and her shoulders back. My Alba used to inch behind me whenever we met strangers.
This girl is proud, but she has shadows beneath her eyes. Her dark hair seems longer than I remember, thrown up in a messy bun, and her lips part as she stares at me.
Beautiful.
So goddamn beautiful.
Some things never change. The sight of Alba Hernandez always did feel like a punch to the chest.
“Hey,” I say. “You came.” My throat is sandpaper. This doesn’t feel real.
Her eyebrows fly up, and it’s like my words have jolted her back to life, because Alba holds up a crinkled invitation and waves it at me. “Of course I came. What the hell is this, Dalton? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Not the reaction I hoped for, I’ll admit—but eight years in the spotlight have trained me well. My features don’t flicker at all, and my smile is slow and easy. It’s the signature charm that made my fortune, and I’m banking on it now. “Come on. Would marrying me be so bad, Alba?”
She scoffs, and her scorn is like acid drenching my insides. “I know you don’t need a green card, Dalton. Whatever this is, it’s messed up.”
She thinks it’s a trick? Pain splinters my chest, but I grin wider. Guess I can’t blame her. I may have kept writing all these years, spilling my innermost secrets and desires onto paper night after night, treasuring the only real connection in my whole empty life—but Alba hasn’t written back in a long time. Years, really.
What happened? Did she get bored? Move on?
Did she meet someone else?
My grinding teeth are audible. I force my jaw to relax. “It’s not messed up at all. It’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Maybe the only good idea I’ve ever had.”
“To prank me,” Alba says flatly.
“To marry you,” I correct.
She goes on like I never spoke, hands gesturing wildly like they always do when she gets mad. Alba paints her moods through the air. “To fly me across the country, and take me away from my life and work and friends, all for some sick joke—”
“It’s not a joke.”
“—when we’re nothing to each other anymore!”
My heart stops. I sway on my feet, the room tilting around me.
This is a nice place to have a heart attack, I’ll give it that. The honeymoon suite in the Daybreak Inn has a four poster bed; a seashell lamp; a chaise lounge and coffee table; a balcony with salty sea air. Kitschy but cute, exactly to Alba’s taste. But where to land? Everything near me has hard edges.
“Dalton?” Alba says. Her voice sounds echoey, like she’s calling down a tunnel. “Dalton. Shit. Just… sit down, okay?”
When did she take my shoulders? One minute I’m standing rigid in the center of the oak floorboards, my whole fucking world falling apart, the next I’m perched on the edge of the blue and cream bedspread while Alba kneads my shoulders. She leans over me, her heart-shaped face pinched with concern. At least she doesn’t want to slap me anymore.
Her neck smells like cinnamon. Warm and spicy. Each hit to my lungs is so painfully familiar, because this girl smells like home.
Back when we were teenagers and she hung out in my room after school, I’d go around afterward sniffing my sweatshirt sleeves and pillowcases, hoping she left her scent behind. Needing proof that she really chose me, at least for those hours. Wishing she’d come back.
“Maybe I should call someone,” she says now.
Like who? Alba is my emergency contact. She always has been. Good thing I never had an emergency, I guess, because I clearly misread this connection.
“I’m fine,” I scrape out. When I wave her off, she steps back quickly, arms dropping to her sides. So keen to let me go. My skin burns where she touched me through my t-shirt a moment ago.
Eight years. Eight years without her hands on me, without her scent in my lungs, without her musical voice in my ears—and I’m no less smitten than before. If anything, it’s worse.
But you know what? Alba is right. This was an insane idea. Because I’ve carried a torch for this woman for all this time, hoping and planning that one day we’ll be together, glued to each other’s sides, but meanwhile she…
She’s forgotten me. Moved on.
Ouch.
Doesn’t she know that I did it all for her? The music, the riches, the world tours, the constant exhaustion—doesn’t she know it was all so I could give her the kind of life she deserves?
I’m a chump. And this is humiliating.
If the press ever got hold of this… I scrub my face, swallowing bile. My life is not my own anymore, and my heartbreak is the perfect headline. And Alba…
They’d torment her too. They’d tear her to shreds. No one can know.
My childhood best friend blows out a long breath, then starts pacing back and forth on the striped, woven rug. A red backpack bumps against her ass as she walks, the seams frayed and bristling with loose threads. She’s muttering to herself—something about rock stars and breakdowns and rehab.
What’s that now?
“I don’t need rehab.” My only addiction is her. Can rehab cure me of that? I don’t think so. “I’m fine, Alba. Forget it. Go home and pretend I never asked you here.”
She huffs and paces faster. The evening sunshine spills through the windows and licks at her golden brown skin. She looks softer than silk.
Listen, if Alba wants to move on, I won’t stop her. I’ve always known this girl is miles out of my league, so far above me I could barely see her—but I thought becoming a world famous rock star might tip the odds in my favor.
Bad plan.
“Well.” My knees crack as I stand up. When did I get so damn creaky? I’ve aged a decade in the last ten minutes. “It’s been good to see you. Sorry to drag you away from everything, Hernandez. Hope you have a good life.”
My tone is light but the words ring false, even to me. Guess you can’t really hide when you’re dying inside. Alba snags my elbow as I stride past.
“Dalton, wait. I’m here now,” she says. She’s still frowning, concerned. Christ, those big, brown eyes will haunt me to my grave. “Don’t you want to get dinner at least? Catch up?”
If I had my way, we’d be husband and wife by now.
But sure. Dinner’s fine.
* * *
Sweet Cherry Cove may not have tons of restaurants, but the Rockin’ Rockpool Diner more than makes up for it. Decked out with red vinyl booths and old records on the walls, the wait staff zooming around on roller skates, at first glance you might call it tacky. Then you try the food, and believe me—you forgive all the retro 50s shit in a blink.
Alba snorts as we step onto the checkerboard tiles. She flicks a giant painted statue of Elvis Presley on the shoulder as we pass. He’s by the entrance, posed like he’s sitting at a table, meant to lure folks in. The paint has worn off his knees from everyone sitting in his lap for photos.
“It’s busy,” she says, throwing the words over her shoulder. Can barely hear her over the din. Everyone in the Cove has come out to eat. Alba’s chattier now that we’ve left the hotel, and now that I’ve walked a hundred yards without keeling over or declaring my love. Guess both of those things can be stressful. “Where do you want to sit?”
I nod at two high stools at the window, both facing out to sea. Better that we don’t face each other. Better not treat this like a date.
We pass the best booth to reach the seats, the little reserved sign set out like always, and I want to tell her about it. Alba was always such a gooey romantic, and she’d lose her mind over that reserved sign and what it represents: the grumpy, handsome chef saving the best table for his favorite girl, just on the off chance she comes in. Day after day, night after night.
I keep my mouth shut. It’s too close to my own tragic pining; too close to how I wrote every song for Alba, dreamed of her for eight years, and meant every word of that wedding invitation. And now here we are, no better than strangers, and she thinks I need rehab. Rehab.
This is no breakdown. This was just a terrible idea. What was I thinking?
It was nuts inviting her to her own wedding. A ballsy move. I knew that. But Alba used to like it when I sent her on crazy treasure hunts around the suburb we grew up in, and she always loved romantic movies where the guy makes a grand gesture. Turning up on a lawn mower with a boom box or whatever. Thought I was on to a winner.
Hollywood has a lot to answer for.
“The fries are really good. And the burgers. All of it, really.”
“Uh-huh.” Alba’s lips purse as she squints at the menu.
Does she use reading glasses for her work? Does she still have a well-meaning vegetarian phase every six months, then fall off the wagon at the first cook-out? God, what have I missed? I want to know everything.
“I wouldn’t think you’d like a place like this.” Alba’s eyes slide off the menu to watch me.
“This diner?”
“This town. Sweet Cherry Cove. It’s so…”
Yeah. It’s a little shabby, I’ll give her that, and it’s in some kind of time warp. The people who sit outside the coffee shops at the metal tables—they chat and laugh together, no phones in sight. And there’s an honest-to-god cobbler’s shop on the town square corner. I’ve been here for months, and I haven’t stepped foot in there yet. Can you cobble sneakers?
But there’s something special about this place, too. I knew as soon as I washed up here, exhausted and lonely from another tour, just desperate to get away from the screaming crowds and flashing cameras. I stepped foot in Sweet Cherry Cove, hood already up, sunglasses on, but… no one recognized me. Or maybe they did, and just didn’t give a shit.
Either works for me. I haven’t felt this normal in years. I can even busk here, playing guitar in the town square, and the only real audience are the seagulls trying to peck my case. I’ve written a whole new album while I’ve been here, figuring out the melodies in public, completely unbothered.
It’s heaven on earth, shabby or not. I want to stay.
And I want Alba here with me. An ache spreads through my gut, but I busy myself with the menu. Chocolate milkshake? Or strawberry?
“Want to mix and match?” Though she’s speaking over the din of conversation and the retro music playing through the wall speakers, Alba sounds shy. Why? Of course I want to mix and match. This is our thing. “I was thinking loaded fries…”
“Then I’ll get a burger. We’ll cut it in half.”
Alba beams. The menu shakes in my hand. I clear my throat and frown through the window at the beach outside.
I can do this. I can go halves with the girl who just broke my heart—who thought my proposal was some kind of joke—and I can make polite chit chat then send her on her way.
And I’ll wait until Alba is safely back on the other side of the country, then I really will have a meltdown. In peace.