32. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
KINSLEY
I don’t necessarily lie to Ethan when I tell him I’m not feeling well. My brain does hurt, and it feels like I’m being stabbed with a pitchfork behind my eyes. But in reality, I’m avoiding him, which is probably why I have a headache in the first place.
Uh. What did I get myself into? I like this man. A lot. But this dance we’re locked in, between the past and the present, can’t last. I can’t allow myself to fall for him again. I’m older and wiser now. I know better. The way his face lit up when he told me he wanted kids and a family? Ugh, it was soul crushing. I can’t give him those things.
“Here,” Ethan says, pressing a knee into the mattress. “This should help.” He carefully places a long cooling strip across my forehead.
Yes, I let him take me home. I hate driving in the dark, especially on the expressway. It has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to be near him, even if it’s only to torture myself for another night.
“I have another for your neck,” he says as he hovers over me.
“It’s okay, I don’t need—” My words are cut off when Ethan slips his hand beneath me. Gently, he lifts my head from the pillow and brushes loose strands of hair away from my nape.
“Let me know if it’s too cold.”
When he settles the cool strip against my skin, I close my eyes and breathe out a long sigh. “That feels amazing.” Why does he have to be so perfect?
“Get some sleep,” he whispers against my cheek.
I force my eyes open again. “Wait. Where are you going?”
He stands. “I have some work to do before I go into the station tomorrow.”
“You’ll come back, though, right?”
Ethan swallows audibly and roughs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’ll take the couch. There’s not a whole lot of room in that bed.”
I twist my head and examine the twin mattress. He’s right. There’s not a lot of room. Even so, I can’t help but torment myself. I want him next to me one more time. “We made it work last night.”
“Last night was different,” he muses, his smile soft.
“You didn’t have a nightmare.”
Ethan’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “You’re right. Probably because I was holding you in my arms.”
Of course he has to go and say something all swoony like that. Licking my lips, I give him the only thing I have left. “Let me fall asleep in your arms again, one more time.”
The next morning, I wake to the sound of birds chirping and the sloshing of waves lapping against the dock. That, and Ethan’s deep breathing beside me. I don’t know what time he slipped into bed, but he’s here now, spooning me like he’s afraid to let go.
“Mmm.” He nuzzles against my neck, pulling me taut against his warm body and hard morning wood, as if he’s been waiting for me to wake up.
“Did you sleep okay?” I ask, trying to hide the smile in my voice.
“I did.” He kisses my neck and inhales deeply. “Are you feeling better?”
When I nod, he rolls me over so that I’m on my back and he’s on top of me.
“Good, that means you can stay another day.” He leans in and presses his lips to mine.
“Ethan.” My body deflates the second he pulls back. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?” he challenges me, holding my gaze.
When I don’t respond right away, he presses me for more. “There’s something you’re not telling me. It’s okay for now. If you’re working through something, I want to give you the time you need to sort it out. But you will work through it, because that’s the healthy way to go about it. Then we’ll talk about it tonight. Together. After the festival.”
Again, he dips low, this time brushing his lips against my cheek. The contact sends goose bumps skittering down my arms. “I’m going to start the coffee and jump in the shower.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod, wishing I could live in this moment forever. That my past wasn’t looming so heavily over my head. But I can’t change it. I can’t undo the hysterectomy any more than I could have prevented my cancer.
Ethan watches me for a moment longer, his eyes twinkling in the morning light, before finally sauntering to the bathroom and turning on the shower.
I’ve got my eyes closed, and I’m arguing with myself over what to do now, when my phone vibrates from somewhere beneath the sheets.
Logan: Festival starts at noon. Can everyone be at the restaurant by nine?
Unknown number: Who’s the new addition to the chat group?
Logan: Kinzie.
Unknown number: Does that mean she agreed to help out?
Logan: It’s wishful thinking. That’s why I added her.
Jill: Carter’s up awfully early after such a late night.
Unknown number: Maybe you should have crashed at one of your other brothers’ houses, then. Remember that next time.
Logan: Late night? I didn’t see you leave with anybody. Actually, now that I think about it, you turned down those two blondes before we closed up.
Ah. The unknown number is Carter. As I save his name in my contacts, another text comes through.
Carter: Mind your business.
Jill: Oh. So Logan doesn’t know about Mya?
Logan: Mya? As in Ethan’s Beckett?
Carter: Fuck off. Mya has been mine since we were kids. Ethan has Kinz.
Unknown number: Carter. Please do not tell me you’re sleeping with Mya. You don’t want to cause a rift between her and Ethan when you move on to the next girl.
Logan: face plant emoji
Jill: Mom, this is different. Right, Carter? winky face emoji
Carter: I’d marry her tomorrow if she’d let me.
Everyone, including me, sends a shocked face emoji.
An hour later, and after a dozen more messages, I’m snapping photos of the behind-the-scenes setup at Four Oysters, which is conveniently located at the south end of the parade route and kitty-corner to the carnival. I capture stills of Logan and Carter having conversations with their employees and create boomerangs of the brothers when they try and fail repeatedly to string lights across the back patio.
Jill remains behind the bar with Ramon for most of the morning, but they come out just before the festival starts to help block off the street in front of the restaurant.
At noon, people of all ages fill the streets. Some head straight to the games and rides, while others take seats on benches along the sidewalk. Live country music filters through the air.
Breathing the salty popcorn air, I take it all in. A sense of belonging fills me, a sensation I haven’t experienced in years. The last time I felt even remotely like this was when I started dating Jay. His friends and their girlfriends became my friends too. We planned date nights, parties, and weekend getaways together. In the beginning, it was great. The only people I was close to before then were my sister and her friends, who didn’t live in Charleston. Jay’s friends were all within walking distance. If we needed help, there was always someone nearby willing to stop over.
I learned quickly, though, that his guy friends were all one-uppers, striving to outdo one another and holding their offerings of help over each other’s heads as leverage later. The women were no better, always going on about their plastic surgery stories and Botox parties and talking behind each other’s back. It was not a true community. It was every woman for herself.
This, though, is genuine. Organic. At least it feels that way when Logan waves me over and holds out a bottle of ice-cold water.
“Thanks, Kinz. We couldn’t have done this without you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I laugh.
“You’re kidding, right? This was all your idea.” He waves at the setup. The tables are adorned with orange and red place settings and tall pillar candles. The front of the building is decorated with stacks of hay and pumpkins and mums, creating an epic elegant-meets-fall mashup vibe.
A wave of embarrassment washes over me. It’s been a long time since someone has so openly given me credit for a design. But he’s right. It was my idea. I’m just surprised I was able to pull it off on such short notice.
I spend the next several hours alternating between picture taking, updating the restaurant’s social media accounts, and cleaning up.
At the bar, Jill tells me that Peter already had his arraignment. His father, a wealthy lawyer from Atlanta, attended and tried bribing the judge to drop the charges. So Peter’s bail has been revoked. “Now they’re both in jail,” she laughs.
“You don’t look too upset by any of it,” I say, brows raised high.
“Am I still in absolute shock that Peter dropped his pants in front of you and got himself involved in a prostitution operation? Hell yes. But I can’t help but be relieved that I walked when I did. And I have you to thank for it.”
“You have her to thank for what?” A deep voice floats up from behind me, and a heartbeat later, as I’m spinning around, Ethan steps into my space.
“For going into Peter’s office and taking one for the team.” She throws her head back and laughs. “I would pay to see how all that went down.”
“Don’t get me started,” Ethan grumbles.
A tall, lanky guy several years younger than us steps up beside Ethan and watches him like he’s waiting to be noticed.
Ethan turns at the stranger’s appearance and visibly startles. “What the fuck?” With his arms outstretched, he pulls the guy in for a bear hug and lifts him off his feet. “How the hell did you get here? When did you get in?”
“Dude, don’t mess with the hair,” the young guy squawks.
“Seriously?” Ethan says, stepping back and resting his hands on his tactical belt.
The young man flicks his head sideways, tossing his thick, wavy hair to the side, and grins. That’s when the familiarity hits me. The almond-shaped eyes and thick brows are traits shared by all the Tate men.
“I haven’t missed a fall fest since before I can remember. It wouldn’t be right if I started now. Plus, I had to give you and Carter some shit about these women,” he chuckles.
Ethan clears his throat and nudges the guy’s shoulder, shifting him in my direction. “Andy, do you remember Kinzie?”
Andy flashes me a knowing smile. “You used to babysit me.”
Warmth spreads through me as I really take him in. He couldn’t have been more than about eight the last time I saw him.
“Yup. You’re definitely not a little boy anymore,” I say. Then, glancing back at Ethan, I say, “He’s your mini me for sure.”
Jill hollers at Carter and Logan, who hustle over and welcome him home. Andy swats his older siblings away, telling them to chill. Apparently, it has only been a few months since the last time he visited. He assures them all that he’s already stopped in to visit their mom, and the next thing I know, Logan has recruited him to help.
Ethan is on his break, so we follow them outside.
“Can I steal you away for a bit?” he asks, his voice serious, as he slips my hand into his.
“Don’t you dare keep her too long,” Logan calls out to us, though we’re already halfway down the block. “She’s a godsend.”
“What’s going on?” I ask as soon as we’re out of earshot, curious at the sudden seriousness in his voice.
“I thought about something earlier. About Maggie and her estate, so I called Jill, and while I was on the phone with her, the chief overheard me and gave me some interesting information.”
Over the next half an hour, Ethan explains how Chief Beckett and his wife ran into Maggie at the bank years ago. They fell into conversation about her diagnosis and how she was afraid that when she’d inevitably have to move into a nursing home, she’d lose her estate. The chief’s wife encouraged her to get a safe-deposit box set up and put her important documents there. She insisted she set up an automatic payment so there wouldn’t be any issue if her memory deteriorated. She also recommended using a separate bank outside of Hope Island to keep the town busybodies out of her business.
“Jill said most estate planning attorneys will hold on to a person’s will, but if we can’t locate the attorney, then finding the safe-deposit box is the next best alternative.”
I scrub a hand down the back of my neck. “I wouldn’t even know where to look for a key,” I say softly. “You saw her house. I already went through everything. Not to mention, if the chief had this conversation with her after she was diagnosed, she’d have no way of getting to a bank outside of Hope Island. We’d already taken away her car keys by then.”
Ethan pinches his lips together and nods. “I know. But I figured it was worth mentioning. Plus, this information gave me a reason to come see you.” He squeezes my hand.
We walk across the street and enter a maze of artisan booths, where people are selling everything from soaps and body scrubs to custom metal signs and Christmas decor. We stop at a vendor whose booth is stocked with stickers and decals. My attention instantly catches on a gold shield with an eagle on top. The letters FBI are written over a navy-blue stripe. It’s a kid’s sticker, but I can’t help but touch it and close my eyes, thinking of my sister. That’s when it hits me. My sister. She has a file full of Maggie’s important documents. The last time we looked, there was no will or information about an estate lawyer, but there were bank statements.
“We should head back,” I say to Ethan.
With a dip of his chin, he turns to face me and grasps my hands. “The parade should be starting soon. I need to meet Beckett at the staging area. You okay hanging out with my family until my shift ends?”
“Of course. They’re great,” I say.
Just as we’re approaching the restaurant, Ethan’s phone rings.
“It’s Beckett. Give me one second.” Pressing the device to his ear, he murmurs a greeting. I can’t decipher what she is saying, but Ethan’s face is etched in concern as he listens. He looks at me a few times, licks his lips, and then says, “Let me know when we get a positive ID.”
“Everything okay?” I ask when he ends the call.
He drops his phone onto the table in front of the large glass window of the restaurant and pulls me into his arms. Tipping my chin up, he studies me, like he’s searching for words that never materialize. That’s okay. I feel safe and content right here in his embrace, in this silence.
He brushes his thumb against my chin, sending a wave of warmth down my chest and into my stomach. It’s in this moment that I know everything will be okay. I’ll tell him what I should have told him the night I brought up my pregnancy. He deserves to know. For as much as I hated him a decade ago, my anger was misguided, led by my own misfortunes and fueled by events I couldn’t control. Not to mention that I was so young. I didn’t know the first thing about emotional self-regulation. It took me years to be comfortable in my own skin, and I don’t ever plan to go backward.
Inching up onto my tiptoes, I meet Ethan halfway and kiss him. “Tonight. We’ll order in, and then we’ll talk.”
The moment I step inside the restaurant, Ramon catches my eye from behind the bar. He waggles his brows at me and nods at the window. Jill’s next to him, giggling.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, taking a seat in front of them.
“Oh, we’re just taking bets on when your handsome hottie will be proposing,” Ramon chirps.
“We agreed that it’ll be within the next month,” Jill says.
With a roll of my eyes, I turn on my stool. “I’m going back outside. There’s probably plenty of trash to pick up.”
As my foot hits the pavement, a loud cheer erupts, followed by the blaring sounds of horns and sirens.
“Sounds like the parade is getting underway,” Andy says.
A swarm of kids runs toward the chaos with what are presumably their parents following closely behind. A few patrons from the restaurant make their way around us, heading to the street and squeezing into the already formed crowd.
“We’ll be dead for the next hour at least,” Andy murmurs, scanning the area.
I glance down the now empty road in the direction of Tessa’s house. It’s only a few blocks away. I don’t care about pests or spray or any of that nonsense. What I do care about are the bank statements inside her safe, if they’re still there. It’s a long shot, but I need to follow up on Ethan’s suggestion.
All I have to do is run over there and look. A last-ditch effort, so to speak. If there’s nothing there, then there’s nothing there, and I’ll put this to rest.
Turning to Andy, I say, “Hey, do you mind if I take a quick break? I’m going to run down to my sister’s house and grab something. I won’t be gone long.”
“What. The. Fuck?”
I’m standing in what used to be a disorganized laundry room. Instead of baskets of clothes and overflowing shoe bins, the space is empty. Derrick and my sister will be gone for a year, so it makes sense that they’d take most of their belongings, but the drastic change is baffling. Gone are the washer and dryer, the shelving unit, and storage bins. The room is now outfitted with a long wooden bench, a coat rack, and potted plants. Real plants.
My brows lift and bunch in confusion, but I’m not here to judge, so I push my thoughts on this aside and wander into the kitchen. That’s when all the breath whooshes out of me. Other than the table and chairs, the space is completely empty. I blink several times, taking it all in, worried I’m in the wrong house.
But the kitchen setup is familiar, as well as the view out the window over the sink. I storm past the refrigerator, drop my sunglasses on the table, and make my way into the living room.
“What the actual fuck?” I say again. Aside from the furniture, everything is gone. Empty. Staged. Like the way realtors set up a home before they list it.
I grimace at the thought. There’s no way they’d move permanently. Not without telling me. A thought of them leaving forever floats through my head, but it leaves just as quickly. Tessa wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave Hope Island. Temporarily, yes. Permanently, never.
Maybe they hired a management company to rent the place out like Tessa first suggested. That’s probably why they didn’t want me here. It had nothing to do with rats or raccoons. The fucking bitch didn’t want to tell me the truth.
Why the hell didn’t she just tell me? I thought we were finally being honest with one another.
As I head through the room, hoping like hell her files are still in her office, a small picture frame on the entertainment center catches my attention. Behind the glass are two people I’ve never seen before. It’s a man and a woman about my age, standing in a field of wildflowers.
I pick it up and examine it. Who are these people? Something is off. I eye the front door, frowning, noticing that the enormous wedding photo of my sister and Derrick is missing. It’s been replaced with a wedding photo of the man and woman from the picture frame I’m still clutching. I drop it. When it hits the floor, the glass shatters, the sound loud in the eerily silent room.
Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.
I pull out my phone and tap on my sister’s contact. It goes straight to voicemail. I try Derrick, and the same thing happens. I have no idea how long the flight is from Atlanta to Barcelona, but they left early this morning. Surely, they’ve arrived.
Finally, because I don’t know what else to do, and because the bizarreness of this situation has my hackles up, I try Ethan. It rings two times before a shadow crosses the floor in front of me, causing me to scream and drop my phone on top of the shattered glass.
“Kinsley Grant,” a tall silver-haired man says, stepping out from the hallway. I recognize him instantly. He’s the bartender from the biker bar where I canceled a wedding not long ago. “Or should I say Karina Hernandez?”