Chapter Nine
NINE
Hailey
“Toss or pack?” Phoebe holds up a bright neon-green spatula, the side clearly melted.
So I’m surprised that I’m even contemplating keeping a spatula that looks like it was a Popsicle caught in the Arizona sun.
But I remember melting down marshmallows on the stove for Rice Krispy treats.
I remember leaving the spatula too long in the frying pan because Olly and I started chatting about Mary Mallon, commonly known as Typhoid Mary.
Time passed and I didn’t notice the utensil melting until I smelled it.
We laughed over the deformed spatula, and Oliver told me I couldn’t trash it. “It has too much character to let the garbage claim it,” he said with a classic Oliver wink.
Now in the loft, it feels like an easy choice. But one I wouldn’t have made a year ago. “Pack,” I tell Phoebe.
She startles. “Really?” She squints at the spatula. “I know we’re not ‘throw money up in the air’ kind of flush, but we can afford a new spatula.”
“I like that one,” I confess. “It has memories.”
Phoebe smiles at me, and I give her my best look to drop it. But she says, “Hailey Tinrock—”
“Stop.” I point a finger at her as her smile blossoms.
She presses her lips together for a split second before she caves. “Being sentimental over an object. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“One object.” I rip a piece of packing tape. “If you find me hoarding deformed kitchen utensils, I give you full authority to initiate an intervention.”
Phoebe carefully places the melted spatula on a layer of bubble wrap like it’s a fragile porcelain doll. The dramatics of my best friend are nothing new. Watching her fit household items into a box, however, is so new and foreign it feels like we’ve entered a parallel dimension.
Is that what happened when we came to Victoria? We stepped foot into another universe?
Stop thinking about that, Hailey. One of my worst mental spirals was when I started a deep dive into quantum mechanics and string theory.
Three days have passed since lunch with the godmothers, and I haven’t missed any chunks of time since. Not remembering the phone call to Carter or how I ended up in Rhode Island scared me enough to try hard to get better sleep. So far, so good.
I don’t need to fuck it all up by restarting an old obsession.
We have enough issues trying to pack for a move to nowhere. We’re relocating some of the household items—utensils, toaster, bedding—to a small storage unit while we pack our clothes for the summer stay at Stonehaven.
I know Phoebe isn’t a dreamer. She barely can see what next month looks like, let alone the next five years.
But I hate to say that I dreamed about this loft.
Dreamed I would one day have enough money from the Koning job to buy it and the little bookstore underneath.
Silly dreams. Wasted dreams. Just more for the trash bin.
While I struggle stuffing decorative pillows into a box, Phoebe asks, “How’s the morning sickness?
” It’s just us two in the loft today, or else she wouldn’t be asking so openly.
It’s still a heavy secret. One that grows heavier by the day.
Literally and figuratively. My baby is the size of a grape now, but before I know it, it’ll be as big as a pumpkin.
“Better,” I tell Phoebe. “Carter sent me some prescription anti-nausea meds that have been helping.”
Her eyes go wide. “Should you be taking medication from someone that only has fake MD credentials?”
“He did his research before he forged the scrip.” I use my elbow to wedge a pillow deeper into the box. Having Carter know that I’m pregnant has been surprisingly helpful. He even sent me prenatal vitamins yesterday.
Phoebe’s brows furrow. “The family doctor here already knows you’re pregnant. Can’t you just ask her for them?”
“I don’t trust her.” It’s as simple as that in my head. I rarely trust anyone outside our closed circle. That includes medical professionals. It took an ungodly amount of courage for me to just go get help for my insomnia.
Phoebe comes closer with a permanent marker in her grip. She scribbles Pillows on the side of my box. Her eyes flit up to meet mine, concern doubling. Tripling on me. “You will have to eventually go see an ob-gyn for the baby, you know that, right?”
“Right,” I say stiffly. “But I can do that in New Hampshire.”
“Hails—”
“I don’t need any other people in Victoria knowing I’m pregnant.
Not yet.” I’m not ready to confront the questions.
Who’s the father? And are you even fit to be a mother?
I’ve thought a lot about my own mom. How she’d be thrilled if Phoebe and Rocky became parents.
But me…I know the first thought in her head will be Are you even mentally well enough to carry a child?
I want everyone to see that I am better than I was. And that means putting time between this baby announcement and my breakdown at the storm shelter. It hasn’t even been a month. I just need more time.
Phoebe helps me manhandle the frilly pillow, and I clamp the flaps down while she tapes the box shut. “I can keep your secret, Hails. You know I can. I will.”
Guilt is not a foreign monster. It’s one that sleeps with me in my bed. I can’t shake the feeling even now. “You don’t need to go to great lengths to keep this one for me, Phebs.”
“I’m a trained liar. These aren’t great lengths. I’m swimming in a kiddie pool.”
“My brother is one of the most perceptive humans on the planet. Lying to him can’t be qualified as ‘kiddie pool’ material.” I try to catch her eyes. But she’s drawing a strawberry on the flap of the box.
“It’s not lying. It’s evading the truth.”
My heart skips. Don’t choose me over my brother. But I worry she will. I worry she has.
Phoebe has been keeping Rocky so far in the dark that I can tell he’s starting to think she’s keeping something from him. And I know Phoebe—she will play it up and purposefully mislead him to deflect the attention off me.
She’s already slyly laying the groundwork to make it seem like maybe she could be pregnant.
It’s what she does. She’s being my best friend.
One who throws herself in front of a moving vehicle to make sure the eighteen-wheeler doesn’t slam into me.
Even at the risk of losing her very real relationship with the man she loves.
I want her to stop.
But I don’t know how to make her stop.
I should say the words Tell Rocky the truth.
My throat swells, knowing how agonizing it’d feel if my brother knew the news before Oliver or Jake. But letting Phoebe take this one for me crushes me in a different, still painful way. “M-maybe he should just know,” I stammer. “I can tell him.”
To avoid her eyes, I pick at the edge of the tape with my fingernail.
“In due time, Rocky can know,” she says. “But I sense that isn’t now.” Phoebe and I finally meet each other’s gazes and hers is steeled—ready to fight me on this.
I open my mouth to start the argument, but the front door swings aggressively open as someone barges inside. We both snap our heads toward the firstborn heir to the Koning estate.
Trent Koning Waterford.
He struts into the loft with his white leather bucks, white chino shorts, and matching Brunello Cucinelli polo, like he just stepped off a croquet lawn.
I’m almost certain he has. He lifts his designer sunglasses to the top of his head and pushes back the longer, fluffier strands of his brown hair, two shades darker than Jake’s.
I loathe Trent just as much as Phoebe does, but I’ve been coached to lay low. Do not engage.
Trent only has pettiness in his bones when it comes to his younger brother.
What Jake has, Trent wants. It’s why Phoebe’s been a prized possession ever since Jake dated her.
Plus, she’s quite literally the definition of a vixen.
A real-life siren. Anybody with a pulse could be seduced by her with a flit of her eyelashes, and unfortunately, she’s been known to catch strays.
Trent just happens to be the rabid alley cat with fleas.
I try to remain disengaged while Phoebe’s eyes flame, her fingers curl into fists at her sides. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she sneers.
He shakes a set of keys. “Stopping by my new place. Is that a crime?”
“Yes, your presence on this Earth is a fucking crime to humanity,” Phoebe shoots back.
He laughs. “Just tell me you want to fuck me, Phoebe, and we can get this whole hate-flirting done with.”
Phoebe growls, literally growls. I step in front of her. “She doesn’t want to fuck you.”
“The freak speaks—”
Phoebe slips beside me. “Can you go? Seriously? You’re not welcome here. Jake said you two agreed you wouldn’t do anything with the place until we moved out.”
Trent touches a hand to his chest. “And I am keeping my word.” He veers toward the kitchen.
“I won’t be doing anything to the property until you girls are gone, but that doesn’t mean I can’t inspect it.
” He runs a finger over the stove. “We’ll need to get a Miele induction in here, for sure.
And the shades—what are those, paper blinds? ”
“So, you’re metaphorically pissing on your territory, we get it.” Phoebe points to the door. “Exit stage left.”
Trent crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the counters. “There’s no need to be so hostile. I know you dumped my brother—”
“It was a mutual breakup,” I cut in. Okay, I might feel protective of Jake’s reputation. He wasn’t the dumpee or the dumper.
When Trent glances at me, Phoebe snaps her fingers. “Hello? Leave.” She whips out her phone. “Or I will be calling Jake to let him know his asshole brother is here harassing us.”
“So, now talking is harassing?” Trent’s brows shoot up. “What are we, five?”
“No, but you’re thirty-fucking-two and should know the definition of the word leave.” She puts the phone to her ear.
Trent rolls his eyes dramatically. “All right. All right. Don’t do that.” He lowers his hand in the air in demonstration. “Put the phone down.”
Phoebe’s nose flares.
Trent’s lips lift into a wider smile, and I can clearly see Phoebe’s fire turns him on. So I interject again, “What’s ten days to wait for inspections? We’re going to be gone by then.”
He barely breaks eye contact with Phoebe to glance at me. He squints. “What’s your name again?” He knows my name. He’s just being annoyingly obtuse.
Phoebe still has the phone to her ear. “Hey, Jake—”
Trent rolls his eyes. “Tell my little brother I said hello.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and casually saunters back to the door.
Phoebe and I watch as he leaves, and as soon as the door shuts, I make sure to flip the dead bolt. Not that it will help. He has a key.
She sets her cell on the counter and hits the speakerphone. “Your brother just left the loft.”
Jake lets out a low groan. “Fucking hell. I told him not to go over there.” I imagine he’s pinching the bridge of his nose in the way he does when he’s at the end of his rope. His brother hasn’t just been a thorn in his side, but the entire pricker bush. “Are you two okay?”
“I want to stab something, but other than that, I’m fine,” Phoebe says hotly.
“Hailey?” Jake asks. The way he says my name with concern and care in his deep, masculine voice sends a heat wave through my body. I try not to blush. The man has licked the most intimate parts of me; I shouldn’t swoon over something so simple. So mundane. And yet…here I am. Swooning.
“I’m good.”
He lets out a deeper sigh, but this one sounds relieved. “Okay, I’m going to stop by the hardware store and get a chain bolt. It’s not much, but hopefully it’ll give you both peace of mind until you move.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize for your egotistical, skeezy older brother,” Phoebe says. “You’re not the bad guy here, Jake.”
“But I am your landlord.”
“For ten more days at least,” I say.
After that, who knows what the future is going to hold?