Chapter 2
TWO
LEVI
The rental house is beautiful. Warm hardwood floors, shiplap walls painted soft gray, a kitchen with marble counters and copper fixtures. The wrap-around porch has rocking chairs that face the ocean.
I hate every square inch of it.
Not because there’s anything wrong with it. Because it’s perfect, and I’m hollow, and perfect empty spaces just echo louder.
I drop my keys on the kitchen island and stand there like an idiot, replaying the last hour on a loop.
Delilah. In her mother’s flower shop. Looking at me like I was a stranger.
Because to her, I was.
When I was in town for Dean’s engagement party last summer, I stood on that beach singing to the ocean like some tragic poet, and she walked toward me out of the darkness. My heart nearly stopped. After all these years, after everything, she was there. In Twin Waves. Finally.
And then she’d looked right at me and didn’t know who I was.
I’d told myself she was ignoring me. That she’d seen my face and chosen silence. I’d spent months nursing that wound, turning it over in my mind, writing songs about a woman who could look through me like glass.
But she didn’t ignore me.
She just...didn’t recognize me.
Somehow that’s worse.
I scrub a hand over my face and walk to the living room. My guitar case sits against the wall—the Martin I’ve had since I was nineteen, scratched and worn and worth more in memories than money. I pull it out, settle onto the couch, and let my fingers find the strings.
Nothing comes. I chase a few chords, but they’re hollow. The melody from that night on the beach drifts through my mind—the one I was singing when she appeared—but I never wrote it down. Just let it disappear into the salt air like everything else.
I set the guitar aside and stare at the ceiling.
She said my name today. Levi. Just like that. Steady and sure, like it didn’t cost her anything.
It cost me everything just to breathe.
The doorbell rings twenty minutes later, which is eighteen minutes longer than I expected.
I know who it is before I open the door.
Penelope Waters has been “stopping by” every day since I arrived, armed with various baked goods and excuses and an iPhone perpetually ready for selfies.
The Mayor set me up in this rental as a favor to Dean, and I’m starting to think the real price is unlimited access to his wife’s social media content.
“Levi!” Penelope’s smile is wide and bright and probably visible from space. She’s holding a casserole dish like it’s an offering to the gods. “I saw your car pull in and thought, ‘That poor man has had a long day. He needs a home-cooked meal.’”
I paste on my public smile—the one I’ve perfected over years of meet-and-greets and red carpets. “Mrs. Waters. That’s so thoughtful.”
“Oh, please. Penelope.” She breezes past me into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation. “I just whipped up a little chicken divan. My grandmother’s recipe. The Mayor says it’s the best in three counties, but he’s biased.”
She’s already opening cabinets, finding plates, making herself at home. I’ve learned that resistance is futile. Penelope Waters is a force of nature in designer clothes, and the path of least resistance is just letting her do whatever she’s going to do.
“How’s the house treating you?” she asks, spooning casserole onto a plate I didn’t ask for.
“Brett Walker built this place, you know. He’s married to Amber—she owns The Salty Pearl, that darling little restaurant on the boardwalk.
He’s just the most talented builder in the county.
I told the Mayor we should hire him for the addition we’re planning.
Nothing but the best for the Waters residence. ”
“The house is great.”
“Isn’t it? We’re so proud of our little rental portfolio.
Twin Waves is really becoming quite the destination, you know.
We’ve had the most interesting visitors lately.
” She slides the plate across the counter toward me.
“Speaking of which—I heard you stopped by that adorable flower shop on the boardwalk today.”
Of course she heard. It’s been two hours.
“Just helping Dean with some wedding stuff,” I say carefully.
“Oh yes, the wedding! Jo is just the sweetest thing. Those book club ladies are so...” She pauses, searching for the right word. Her smile doesn’t waver, but something flickers behind her eyes. “...devoted to each other.”
“They seem nice.”
“Mmm.” Penelope’s tone suggests she has opinions she’s too polite to share. “And I see there’s a new girl running Eleanor’s shop now. Her daughter, isn’t it? Delilah?”
I take a bite of casserole I don’t taste. “I think so.”
“Poor thing.” Penelope shakes her head with theatrical sympathy. “Starting over at her age. I heard she’s divorced. Small towns do talk.”
A river of cold snakes through my chest. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course not. You just met her.” Penelope’s eyes are sharp despite her sugary tone. “She’s pretty, isn’t she? In that...natural sort of way.”
“I didn’t pay attention.”
The lie tastes like ash, but I’m not giving Penelope Waters ammunition. I’ve been famous long enough to recognize when someone’s fishing for gossip, and this woman could teach masterclasses in the art.
“Well.” She pats my arm like I’m a child who’s said something adorable. “You just let me know if you need anything at all. The Mayor and I are right next door. I mean that literally—our back porches practically touch.”
“I’ve noticed.”
If she catches the dryness in my voice, she ignores it. “We should do dinner sometime! I’ll invite some of the more...appropriate people in town. Get you properly introduced.”
I have no idea what “appropriate” means in Penelope-speak, but I’m certain it’s not a compliment to whoever doesn’t make the cut.
“That’s kind of you.”
“It’s nothing. We take care of our own here in Twin Waves.
” She gathers her casserole dish—empty now, since apparently I’m keeping the leftovers whether I want them or not.
“Oh, before I forget—would you mind terribly if I took a quick photo? My daughter follows your music, and she would just die if she knew you were staying next door.”
I don’t point out that this is the fourth photo this week. I just smile and let her snap a selfie with me in the background looking like a man who’s accepted his fate.
“Perfect!” She examines the screen with satisfaction. “You’re such a good sport, Levi. Not like some celebrities who think they’re too important for their fans.”
“Never too important for fans,” I say, because it’s true and also because agreeing with Penelope is the fastest way to get her out of my house.
“I knew I liked you.” She heads for the door, then pauses with her hand on the frame.
“Word of advice? Some people in this town like to...collect newcomers. Make them feel welcome, then turn on them when it suits their purposes. You seem like a sweet man. I’d hate to see you get caught up in any drama. ”
She says it like a warning. Like she’s protecting me from something.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that. Bye now!”
The door closes behind her. I stand in my beautiful empty kitchen and wonder what on earth that was about.
Then I scrape the casserole into the trash and go back to not writing songs.
Dean shows up at seven with a six-pack and the expression of a man who knows exactly what he did.
“Before you say anything,” he starts.
“You ambushed me.”
“I informed you of a situation.”
“By walking me into her flower shop with no warning?”
Dean shrugs and drops onto my couch like he owns the place. Which, in brother terms, he kind of does. “You knew she was in town.”
“Knowing and seeing are different things.”
“Are they?” He cracks open a beer and hands me one. “Because you’ve known for months and you’ve been hiding on the other side of the country writing sad songs about it.”
“They’re not all sad.”
“Name one happy song you’ve written in the past year.”
I open my mouth, close it, and take a long drink of beer instead of answering.
Dean grunts. It’s his version of “I told you so.”
We sit in silence for a while, watching the sun sink toward the ocean through the big windows. This is what I missed about Dean—he doesn’t need to fill every moment with words. Our dad was the same way. Comfortable in silence. Present without being pushy.
“She didn’t recognize me,” I finally say. “Back in the summer. On the beach.”
Dean’s eyebrows rise slightly. “How do you know?”
“Because of the way she looked at me today. Like she was seeing me for the first time.” I peel the label off my beer bottle, shredding it into little strips.
“All this time I thought she saw me that night and just...didn’t care enough to talk.
But that look in the shop? That was surprise.
That was a woman who had no idea I’d been twenty feet away from her in the dark. ”
“How does that feel?”
“Terrible.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “It means she wasn’t ignoring me. It means she looked right at me, and her brain didn’t even register my face. Like I’ve been erased from her memory completely.”
“Or,” Dean says slowly, “it means she’s spent ten years training herself not to think about you. And she did such a good job that her own mind protected her from seeing what was right in front of her.”
I stare at him. “When did you get philosophical?”
“Jo makes me read romance novels.”
“Seriously?”
“Book club homework.” He takes a drink, stares at the ocean for a long time. Then, without looking at me: “You ever think maybe she didn’t forget you?”
“She looked right at me, Dean. Right at me.”
He shrugs. One shoulder. The way Dad used to when he was about to say something that would rearrange your entire understanding of a situation. “People don’t train themselves to forget things that don’t matter.”
He lets that sit. Doesn’t explain it. Doesn’t soften it. Just takes another drink and watches the waves like he’s said his piece and the rest is my problem.
Which it is.