Crash (Let It Burn #1)

Chapter 1 Rose

It all went downhill the day my boyfriend asked me to marry him.

Sadly, the least traumatizing event that day was finding him balls deep in our neighbor, a woman who, earlier that week, complimented how great my ass looked in a pair of jeans when we were both getting our mail.

Actually, what she said was, “OMG, girl, your ass is GOAT,” but I was just flattered enough to overlook the acronyms.

But that one afternoon, after an already horrible day, I dragged myself home earlier than usual, desperate for a glass of wine and a good ugly cry as all my dreams were going up in flames.

The porn-like sounds hit me before I even closed the front door.

Given the verbal enthusiasm, I might’ve mistaken it for actual porn if it weren’t for the unmistakably familiar accompanying thud of our headboard, a sound that annoyed the shit out of me and always took me out of the moment.

Heart pounding in my ears, I stormed into our bedroom, dropped my bag with the subtlety of a bowling ball, and shrieked. Greg sprang off her, the appendage between his legs bouncing first, then growing more flaccid by the second.

She screamed—not in acronyms, thankfully, because if she’d said something like, “OMG, WTF,” I might’ve punched her in the face—grabbed her clothes, and ran naked down the hall to her apartment next door.

Greg hopped frantically into a pair of jeans, while I walked back into the kitchen and numbly reached for the prosecco Bottega Gold we’d been saving for our anniversary.

As I popped the bottle and filled my glass to the brim, Greg emerged from our bedroom with his shirt still unbuttoned and sank to the floor on both knees.

“Baby,” he said, hands shaking, holding up a ring that glistened in the afternoon light.

I did always love the lighting in that apartment.

I hadn’t been thinking about marriage—we’d only been together a year and moved in together just a month earlier.

I’ve no idea where he got the sense it was a good idea, not just to get married, but to propose to me right then—likely he was functioning with adrenaline, not brain cells.

I stared at the ring, unable to muster anything beyond numbness.

What might have been a life-changing moment became a prop in the backdrop of a terrible, horrible, very shitty day.

“I love you so much,” Greg stammered, voice cracking as he tried to explain.

“That was just a mistake. Kayla means nothing. You’ve just been so busy lately and you have all these huge plans.

I’m so proud of you. I—I want to get married.

Let’s get married. I just panicked about everything moving so fast, that’s all that was.

” He continued to rant, running his fingers through his sweaty hair, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m so sorry. That’s never happened before, I swear it was the first time.

But I love you so, so much. We should get married.

” Then he nodded frantically, repeating, “Yeah, let’s get married. ”

I stared back at him and all I could think was, is this it?

Everything I’ve done, all my hard work, down the drain, and this is who I have to support me?

The numbness was threatening to give way to a tsunami of hurt and rage.

The tears I’d held in all day were burning, ready to burst, but I swallowed them down, took another sip of wine, and walked to the bedroom to pack, clicking the lock behind me when he followed.

I was fortunate my best friend lived in a high-rise close by, in downtown Manhattan and, being a professional football player, was rarely home. I’d made it back to his place with a cab full of my things, returning only a few days later to grab the rest of my stuff.

Greg’s infidelity ranked low on that day’s catastrophes, so I had plenty of other problems to distract me from our breakup.

Now, three months later, I’m still camped in Easton’s apartment, and he’s the best guy in the world for not kicking me out.

I should’ve had my own place by now, but getting back on my feet means crawling to my dad for money, which I refuse to do.

Gazing longingly at the crumpled bed sheets, I wonder, not for the first time this morning, or even this week, if it were possible to crawl under and wake when the year ends.

I don’t even want a do over, I just want to hibernate like a bear and emerge after the New Year well-rested, hoping my life no longer resembles a dumpster fire.

I don’t even care that the New Year is still months away.

I press the phone to my ear. “I’m not sure what you want me to do, Dad. My flight is canceled. And with this hurricane coming, is the wedding even happening anymore? The timing couldn’t be—”

“Rosie,” he cuts me off. “You are not missing my wedding. Your sister—”

“Really doesn’t want me there, anyway.”

“—worked hard putting this all together. All you have to do is show up.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “But Dad, like I said, there are literally no flights.” I got the alert first thing this morning, and after doing my due diligence and checking for another, with the storm hitting the southeast in a few days, everything was already booked or getting rerouted.

“I’ve worked that out. I called Logan, he was running late, so he’s still in the city—always working that one. He’s taking the family jet. I’ll text you the flight details. So, problem solved.”

“Dad, I can’t take a private jet to Georgia, let alone with—”

He sighs into the phone, like he’s both resigned and exhausted by me. Which isn’t exactly fair. I love my dad, but he had a hand in that terrible, horrible, very shitty day, and it rocked our already contentious relationship nearly beyond repair. We’ve just barely started speaking again.

He argues, “Logan’s already taking the jet. It’s wasteful if you don’t join him.”

“You realize the flaw in this logic, right?”

“Please, Rosie, I want you here. Your mother…” he trails off.

I hate that I can’t tell the difference between longing and manipulation when it comes to him.

Every time he talks about her, still misses her, I feel a little stab.

He always claimed my mother was the love of his life, but only in quiet moments, when no one else was looking.

I know he loved her—immensely, even—but he’d never say so in front of my half-sister. Even though her parents were already separated when my parents got together, she still tells anyone who’ll listen that her father’s housekeeper seduced him, and I’m the result of their affair.

“My mother would’ve wanted you to be happy, Dad, we both know that. But a wedding isn’t a marriage. I don’t need to be there and I really don’t need to get on a private jet, nor do I need to spend three hours with that pompous jackass.”

He’s silent for a moment. And then, “I understand. Your values are important to you. I should never have asked you to compromise them just for me.”

Gah, that fucking word. Compromise. Followed by the familiar weight of guilt settling in my chest. It’s not that I don’t want to be there.

It’s not even that I’m still angry with him.

It’s just that I’ve never fit into that world—private jets, fancy clothes, my sister and her orbit of people who never once have to think about money.

But he’s trying to include me, and I’m an ass for pushing him away.

I either want to fix things between us, or I don’t.

I exhale a defeated sigh. “Fine. I’ll catch a ride with Logan since he’s already headed that way. But Dad, are you sure about this, with the hurricane coming?”

“It’ll be fine, Rosie.”

The entire plan had been Pearl’s—a beachy island wedding off the coast of Georgia—and I had to admit, grudgingly, that the setting suited Dad. But I still wondered if a southern wedding during peak hurricane season was a good idea. We’re not even southern. Dad and Jo would’ve been happy anywhere.

Months earlier, while stuffing lavender sachets for the ridiculous gift boxes that would accompany the wedding invitations, complete with custom chocolates engraved with Dad and Johanna’s initials—the only time I took part in wedding planning—I overheard Pearl on the phone with her friend Harlow.

“No, it’s in September now. Logan’s booked until the twenty-ninth, and he has to be there, so I convinced Dad to move the date. ”

Sure. Let Logan’s schedule dictate my father’s wedding date. Dad didn’t even push back—his only request when Pearl crowned herself wedding planner was to make it soon. And once Pearl grabbed control, everyone fell in line—the unofficial family motto has always been, what Pearl wants, Pearl gets.

Dad’s marriage to Pearl’s mother was a grand society spectacle full of New York’s elite. After their divorce, he swung in the opposite direction and fell for my mother, Inês, their housekeeper, which led to a mostly quiet, on-again-off-again fifteen-year relationship before she died of cancer.

His grief over her death hasn’t really left him—nor has it left me—but lately he’s been calling more often, wanting to reconnect.

He was never what I’d call an attentive father, but he’s a decent man, and as he’s getting older, I can tell he’s trying harder to make up for his past mistakes. Recent ones, too.

Johanna is a part of that effort—if there were a scale between Pearl’s mother and my own, my father’s new fiancée would fall smack in the middle.

Down-to-earth and kind, but still likes baubles on her fingers and plays tennis at their country club.

Maybe she was who Dad needed all along. My mother was too complicated for him, and sometimes I wonder if what he called love was just awe at something he could never contain.

She read poetry, spoke five languages, had a fire temper—she burned too bright, she was always going to be too much for him.