Chapter 15
Aloud knock interrupts my deep breathing exercises.
“Elle! You said five minutes.”
“I know; I know,” I call back, scrambling to find my lip gloss in the bag of toiletries. “Almost ready.”
“Okay. We’ll be waiting outside,” Keira says.
I hear her footsteps fade away.
Crap. I didn’t realize I was actually holding things up.
I’d forgotten about the bar Keira had mentioned last night until it came up this afternoon. Everyone else was enthused about checking it out, so saying no didn’t seem like much of an option. Juliet came upstairs to get ready an hour ago, whereas I put it off until the last minute. Juliet is the type of extrovert meant to live in a big city like Boston. She loves going places and doing things, whereas I’m more of a homebody.
My level of enthusiasm about this weekend has also plummeted in Ryder’s presence.
I got through greeting him. Got through breakfast. He and Tucker headed down to the beach to surf as soon as the pancakes got finished. I hung out on the deck with the rest of the girls, painting nails and drinking tea, before heading into town to do some shopping. I bought a new top that I’m wearing tonight. When we got back here, there was no sign of the guys. According to Keira, they went to a brewery.
And now, we’re all headed to a bar.
A prospect I’m ridiculously nervous about. I don’t even know why. With the exception of Ryder, these are all people I’m comfortable around. And Ryder might have broken my heart—more than once—but he’s not a bad guy. Seven years seems like too long to hold a grudge for.
Then again, I’m not normal.
I find my lip gloss, slick a layer across my lips, and then release a long exhale as I appraise my appearance in the bathroom mirror.
I left my hair natural—if using product and my expensive hair dryer counts—and changed my jeans three times. Somehow, I feel both overdressed and underprepared.
Why has no one written a book about spending time around your ex, following an excruciating breakup and a seven-year absence? I’m flying blind here. Do I ignore him? Make polite chitchat? I have no idea what small talk with Ryder is. How do you discuss the mundane with someone you considered your soulmate?
I’m out of time to figure it out.
I slip Scout a treat in his crate, make sure I have my phone, and head downstairs. It’s empty, suggesting I am the last one ready.
Embarrassment joins the anxiety I’m already experiencing. I hate being the high-maintenance girl who takes forever to get ready and makes everyone else wait.
“We have to take two cars,” Keira tells me as I step out onto the front porch, where everyone is standing. “Do you mind driving?”
“No, of course not,” I say, pulling my keys out of my clutch.
“She does mind,” Juliet contradicts. “She needs to get drunk. Girl just graduated Harvard Law with a perfect GPA. She hasn’t had fun in three years.”
I roll my eyes.
“I don’t mind driving home,” Avery says.
“Elle hates it when other people drive her car,” Juliet replies.
I choose this unfortunate moment to look at Ryder. He’s leaning against the railing, looking devastatingly gorgeous in dark jeans and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Ophelia is standing right next to him, beaming at Ryder like he’s the best sight she’s ever seen.
Something cold and slimy and unfamiliar slithers in my stomach.
It’s been a long time since I was jealous.
Seven years, to be exact.
“I don’t hate it,” I say. “Let’s go.” I stride toward my convertible without waiting for any more discussion. All of a sudden, I really want a drink.
Resentment bubbles beneath my skin. It’s so fucking unfair that he still affects me this much. Time is supposed to heal wounds.
Juliet and Avery follow me. Keira, Tucker, Ryder, and Ophelia all climb into the Parkers’ SUV that stays on the island year-round.
I catch Juliet glancing at me a few times as I drive toward the small downtown section, but she doesn’t bring up Ryder. If Juliet’s noticed I’m acting strangely around him, it’s a bad sign. I adore her, but she has a tendency to be more focused on her own drama than anyone else’s.
Downtown is just as scenic as it was a few hours ago. The brick sidewalks are lined with benches and buildings covered with white clapboard, decorated with American flags and boxes of colorful flowers. The bar we’re headed to is down by the pier the ferry runs from, next to a popular seafood restaurant with a line that’s spilling outside.
I find a spot on the street and park, rubbing my arms once I step outside my car. The temperature is dropping rapidly now that the sun is starting to set.
Juliet slings an arm over my shoulders as we crunch across the gravel parking lot that leads to the bar. It’s already full of cars.
“You good?” she asks low enough for only me to hear.
“Of course!” My voice sounds good. Cheerful and unbothered.
There’s something so miserable about acting happy when you’re secretly struggling. So lonely and isolating. But I don’t know what else to say. If time didn’t work, I’m going to have to fake indifference toward Ryder until I actually feel it.
“Good.” Juliet squeezes me, then drops her arm and slaps my left butt cheek. “Let’s show the locals what they’re missing, living on an island.”
I shake my head as she skips ahead.
“She’s a handful, huh?” Avery asks, catching up to me.
“She sure is,” I say affectionately.
“Oh, there’s everyone else.”
I follow Avery’s attention to the approaching group. Tucker and Keira are in front, holding hands. Ryder and Ophelia are a few steps behind, deep in conversation.
“I think Ophelia has a crush,” Avery whispers conspiratorially. “I mean, good for her. He’s hot.” She giggles.
I force my frozen facial muscles to smile in case she looks over.
“Where’s Juliet?” Keira asks, reaching us.
“Probably a few shots deep by now,” I reply.
Keira rolls her eyes. “Right. Well, let’s head in.”
I stick to the front of the group, passing the tables in the roped-off section outside the bar and then heading inside. The bar is casual yet upscale, most of the interior reclaimed wood weathered to light gray. Starfish prints decorate the walls. A long bar top stretches the full length of the space, endless rows of glasses and expensive liquor behind it. It’s packed inside, just like the full lot suggested.
“There’s Juliet,” I say, spotting her talking with two guys by one of the tall tables spread throughout the space. She waves. “I’m going to grab a drink,” I tell Keira.
“Okay,” she replies. “I’ll go check in with Juliet. Maybe she’s trying to get that table. We can take shifts, hanging on to it.”
“Sounds good,” I respond, then push my way toward the bar.
I just need … a minute. And a strong drink.
I barely adjusted to Ryder being here, and now, he’s flirting with a girl he met less than twelve hours ago.
He has every right to. He was in prison for seven years, for fuck’s sake. Getting drunk and getting laid are probably his two main priorities right now.
But I’m going to lie in bed tonight, possibly crying, imagining him in Ophelia’s room down the hall from me.
Wondering if I’ll have some sixth sense of what’s happening in the same house as me.
Mourning the loss of everything that’s lived and died between me and Ryder James for the thousandth time.
If my bloodstream is mostly tequila, it’ll be a lot more bearable.
“Hey. What can I get for you?”
I stare at the bartender, his smile fading more with each second I stay silent, stuck in my own head.
“Uh, margarita,” I answer. “Please.”
“You got it.” He moves on quickly, toward more talkative customers.
My drink appears a couple of minutes later. I opt to keep the tab open.
Juliet’s right. I could use some fun. It’s been a long time since I had a night out that wasn’t a glass of wine at a networking event or a pint of beer after a study group. My life has turned into everything I once told myself it wouldn’t be—predictable and bland.
A warm arm presses against mine. I don’t jerk away the way I should from a stranger’s touch, not realizing why until I glance over at the body beside mine.
I know him by heart.
I swallow, then take a hasty sip of my drink. It’s delicious, the salt rim balancing the sour lime and smoky liquor.
“Cool spot,” Ryder comments, glancing down the bar.
“Yep.” I take another lengthy pull from my margarita, just to occupy my mouth.
When I set the glass down, he’s still standing next to me. I glance over, surveying the strong lines of his profile. I’m pretty sure I could pick it out of thousands—the slight bump on the bridge of his nose and the line of his jaw that’s as straight as a razor’s edge. Warmth spirals through me, and I’m worried it has little to do with the amount of tequila I just sucked down.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Ryder looks at me. There’s an answering thud in my chest, right where my hollow heart beats. “I was planning on ordering a drink.”
“Oh.”
There’s about thirty other feet of bar top he could have chosen to order a drink from instead. I can’t come up with a polite way to point that out.
We’ve barely spent any time together today. I smiled through it all—the pancakes and the watching him surf and the shopping. But my smile has grown more and more strained because I knew this moment was coming. Knew we’d talk again at some point.
And I’m worried this—Ryder standing close enough I can smell the salt and sun and soap on his skin—might make me crack.
He’s still looking at me. And I’m staring back.
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“What?”
“You, uh …” He swipes a hand across his jaw, not quite managing to hide his growing smile. “You have some salt on your nose.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks as I vigorously rub my nose with the palm of my right hand. “Gone?”
“Nope.”
I rub again. “Now?”
“No. Still there. Little higher.”
I finally find the tiny, gritty bits and brush them off.
Ryder’s still smiling at me.
My stomach flips, and my skin tingles. I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips. He makes me feel like the same teenager with a crush. But it’s deceptive because it’s not a crush. It’s this huge force, my feelings for him. Nothing light or easy.
“Stop that,” I say.
His grin fades, and the intensity left behind is almost worse. “Stop what?”
“Being nice to me.”
“Fine.” He swipes a finger along the rim of my glass, brushing off some more of the salt crystals, then lifts his hand and sprinkles them on my nose.
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from smiling. There’s a giddy flicker in my stomach, a bubbly flash of brightness. A reminder that I loved this boy. That a large part of me still does. His harsh rejection, followed by seven years of silence, ended our relationship. But it didn’t damage all the feelings that had already been there, just took away their outlet.
Ryder’s pinkie brushes my chin before pulling away. My teeth clench until the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth.
I look away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sorry.”
I sip more margarita. The sour alcohol stings the cut on the inside of my cheek. I’d rather focus on that pain than on fighting the urge to look at him again. I couldn’t for so long. The sight is like offering an addict a favorite drug. Ryder is a substance I should no longer crave.
You’re supposed to avoid what will hurt you.
I should know better. He’s broken my heart twice before.
“I’m sorry about a lot, Elle,” he says softly.
My eyes sting. A lump grows in my throat as my fingers tighten around the cool glass. Could I shatter it? It feels like I could. So fragile, just like me. Falling apart from a two-minute conversation.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t dredge up the past, Ryder.” My tone is perfect. Casual and cool and unbothered.
But there are more cracks appearing, webbing across my chest. I have no idea how I’ll make it through the rest of tonight, let alone tomorrow, if this is how much damage he’s done in one day of barely speaking to me.
“Okay.” His tone is gentle and sincere.
And I hate it. I need him to be harsh and aloof, like he was that day at the prison. I need to hate him.
Because if I don’t hate him … I’m terrified of what I’ll be left with.
I turn and walk away.
Just like he did.
“I love summer,” Avery announces, sprawling back against the wooden booth. Some of her hair brushes against my arm.
“Technically, it’s not summer for a few more weeks,” Juliet replies.
“Well, it feels like summer,” Avery says. Her cheeks are pink, and her curls are a wild tangle.
My hair probably looks worse. It tends to frizz in humidity, not to mention the salty air gusting in every time the door gets opened.
I arch my toes under the table, relieved to be sitting down. We’ve spent the past hour dancing, and my feet are already feeling it. The three margaritas I’ve had dull some of the soreness, but I’m sure I’ll feel it tomorrow.
Avery giggles, leaning forward. “Wow. I’ve never seen Ophelia like this over a guy.”
Juliet and Keira both glance at me instead of the spot by the bar where Ophelia and Ryder are standing, talking.
I pretend not to notice.
Avery does. “Ah. So, that’s what the weird vibe was at breakfast.”
“There was no weird vibe,” I say, then finish off my drink.
Silence follows.
I glance at Keira, who’s playing with the edge of her napkin.
“I mean, we knew there was a weird vibe. I didn’t think others would … notice,” Juliet says.
“It was a long time ago,” I tell Avery. “High school.”
“Aww.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Was he your first love?”
“Yeah.”
Juliet’s eyebrows are halfway to her hairline. I told Keira about freshman year, but Juliet thought Ryder was just a rebound from Archer. A rebellion from the confines of my life. A fun fling with the town bad boy.
And they both think I accepted the seven years of separation. They don’t know about the letters I sent. The secret trips to the state prison. The humiliating way I begged him not to break up with me.
Because it was raw and painful and embarrassing, and talking about it would’ve changed nothing. It still won’t.
“Do you still have feelings for him?” Avery’s face is alight with interest as she leans forward.
Love stories are fun to discuss—when you don’t have to live with the heartbreak.
“Of course not.” I sip some melting ice, savoring the sour saltiness stuck to the rim.
The flavor washes away the bitterness of lying—again. But I’m sure bits of this conversation will make it to Ophelia and Tucker and possibly even to Ryder himself. Honesty isn’t an option.
Seven years of practice, and my voice is exactly right. Detached and slightly incredulous.
I’m an excellent liar. It’s a survival skill I’ve perfected. The only person who’s ever found the fiction is talking to a pretty redhead who might make him happy.
I should want that for Ryder—happiness.
I stand. “I’m grabbing another drink. Anyone want anything?”
Avery and Keira shake their heads, both being responsible. There’s no way I’ll be able to drive my convertible home.
“I’ll take another G and T,” Juliet says.
“Coming right up.”
I head for the bar, hoping they’ll take my quick exit to mean that I’m bored by the conversation about Ryder, not bothered by it.
The bartender is busy at the other end of the bar when I reach an empty stool. I take the seat, my feet still bothering me, and rest my elbows on the rounded edge of the worn wood. A gritty rub against my elbow distracts me from trying to catch the bartender’s eye. My stomach flips when I realize it’s spilled salt.
I brush the crystals off my skin, then pull out my phone. I have a new message from Prescott.
PRESCOTT: Hey. I made a dinner reservation for Monday night. 7 PM at Canteen. Does that work for you?
PRESCOTT: Hope your trip is going well.
My stomach roils. He’s being forgiving and sweet and the bigger person, and I hate it. I want him to yell. I want a storm, not for him to smooth the waves. I want it to be hard, just for a little bit. Even in my head, it sounds crazy.
ELLE: Sounds great. See you then!
“Hey there.”
I glance up at the two guys who have appeared beside me. They’re locals, I think. Surfers, judging by their shaggy hair and board shorts.
“Hey,” I answer.
“You waiting for a drink?” the blond one asks.
I nod. “Slow service tonight.”
“They’re understaffed from the winter,” he tells me. He steps closer, then leans down to talk right into my ear. “What do you want? Tate’s a friend. I can put in a rush order.”
Suddenly, this guy—this stranger—is all I can see. All I can smell or hear or feel. And all I can think about is the last time I was overwhelmed this way.
The air around me is suffocating. My mind spins, and my stomach churns. Panic claws at my skin, like a beast fighting for its way out.
“Excuse me,” I choke out, then push past the two guys and basically sprint toward the nearest door.
It exits onto the porch that wraps around the building and leads to the side lot. No one else is around, which is a relief.
The earlier chill in the air has dipped to plain cold, the breeze coming off the water raising goose bumps on my skin. I gulp in greedy lungfuls of air, taking a seat on the top step and pressing my palms against my eyes until dots dance in my vision. The buoys attached to the railing tap against each other, the sound barely audible over the racing thud of my heartbeat.
You’re fine. It’s fine.
The silent reassurances don’t help. My stomach heaves, and there’s an excellent chance I’m going to throw up. God, why did I drink so much?
The door behind me opens and slams shut.
“Elle. Elle, are you okay?”
Keira’s voice, I think. It’s hard to hear over the roaring in my ears. I want to answer her, but it’s taking all my effort just to breathe. To force the in and out that should be natural.
It feels like I’m adrift. And not in the peaceful, relaxing way that’s free from worry or obligation. In the terrifying way of being dropped in the middle of an ocean without a boat or a raft in sight. Like I’m all alone in a sea of nothing.
My palms press tighter to my face, trying to block out more of the world. Thirty seconds to myself. That’s all I need.
“What happened?” someone else asks.
“I don’t know. She just ran out.”
“Is she okay?”
More voices mix and mingle. This is humiliating. I try to pretend they’re a movie around me, removing myself from reality until I’m equipped to deal with it.
“Where’s Ryder?” someone asks. Avery maybe.
His name breaks through the fog.
“I’m fine.” I lift my head, telling my lungs to take slower breaths. “I just needed some fresh air.” The giggle sounds fake, but I force it out anyway. “Too much tequila. I’ll meet you guys back inside.”
I glance around and see they’re all standing on the porch, everyone except for Ryder and Ophelia. I’m relieved he’s not out here—and a little annoyed. Mad about being annoyed. I don’t want him here, but that doesn’t mean I want him distracted by another woman. I miss knowing he was in prison, alone, as horrible as that sounds. I don’t want him to be happy and whole while I’m still falling apart.
Pretty soon, there will be no pieces of me left to fracture. I’m surprised it hasn’t happened already.
Keira’s face is pale and concerned. She’s never seen me like this before. I’ve always hidden these vulnerable moments, had enough control to slip away quietly and break down without anyone noticing.
Another thing to blame Ryder for.
Fuck.
He’s here now with Ophelia’s wide, worried eyes following closely behind him. Guess they finally noticed our entire group left.
I stiffen, then slump, breaking eye contact first. God, he makes me so weak. I refocus on inhales and exhales because they’re still uneven and because it’s something to do.
Ryder doesn’t ask what’s wrong or what happened. He takes a seat on the step right beside me, so close that his bare arm brushes mine. I feel the spark, a jolt of electricity breaking through the crush of emotions. A point of heat to focus on as I stare down at his strong thigh pressed against mine. Keira was right—he must have worked out a lot in prison. He’s more muscular than he was in high school. And he’s so close.
“Breathe, Lo.”
A choked gasp leaves my mouth when he uses the forgotten nickname. His palm lands on the center of my back, the warmth of it searing through the new shirt I’m wearing, and I’m suddenly suffused with heat.
“Just breathe. Deep inhales and long exhales.”
His hand moves up my spine to the back of my neck, lifting the short, sweaty strands. His palm glides down my back, then back up. It feels like each place where he touches me is unfreezing, sensation replacing numbness.
“Someone get her some water.” It’s a command, not a suggestion. There’s a flintiness to Ryder’s voice that I should flinch away from. Instead, it’s another shot of warmth.
He cares. He still cares—at least a little. There’s worry in his tone, not pity.
I’m not normal, but I’m not totally alone either.
“I’ll get it,” Juliet volunteers.
I nod, not surprised when Ryder stays by my side. Not sure what it means when the rest of the group edges away and he still doesn’t shift. Not sure what to make of how it’s just silently understood Ryder will be the one who takes care of me. How even Juliet, who’s never encountered a situation she didn’t feel comfortable involving herself in, simply hands me a plastic cup of icy water and then continues toward the section of the parking lot where everyone else has migrated.
I gulp hasty sips of the cold liquid. I’m feeling better, but it has little to do with the water and everything to do with the circles Ryder is still rubbing on my back. I’m feeling too much now, my body betraying me once again.
“What happened, Elle?”
I deflate a little. I wanted him to call me Lo again.
“Elle?” he prompts when I don’t answer.
“Nothing happened. I just got … claustrophobic in there. Too many margaritas.” I stand, his hand falling away, relieved my legs feel somewhat steady.
Ryder stands, too, trying as hard to meet my gaze as I am to avoid his.
I’m cold again.
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
Look at me, thanking the boy who broke my heart. I’m not sure if it’s mature or pathetic.
“Sorry to ruin your night,” I add.
Pathetic. Definitely.
Ryder tilts his head. “You didn’t ruin my night.”
Right. Of course. Ophelia is staying under the same roof tonight. If he wants to fuck her, my mini meltdown won’t stop him.
I start toward our friends without saying anything else, the crunch of gravel beneath my sneakers oddly soothing.
“Has that happened before?” Ryder catches up to me easily.
“Please drop it. I’ve humiliated myself in front of you enough.”
Too late, I realize in front of you was unnecessary. Even if it’s accurate.
“You’ve never humiliated yourself, Elle.”
I scoff. Pretty sure the prison guard who witnessed our breakup would disagree.
“I’m … worried about you.”
“I’m not yours to worry about, Ryder.”
When I glance over, his jaw is taut.
“I didn’t see your boyfriend when you were having a panic attack on the porch.”
I wonder who mentioned Prescott to him. Tuck, probably, although I’m not sure how that would have come up. Did Ryder ask if I was single? I stop that dangerous thought from going any further.
“I’m fine,” I say coolly.
“No, you’re not.”
He’s right. I’m not. I’m a mess. But he isn’t supposed to be able to tell that.
Thankfully, we reach the group before he can say anything else.