Chapter Thirty-Two
Parker
Austin doesn’t believe in summer evenings. It’s all one brutal day until night takes over. The sun’s glare cuts through the windshield as I pull into Isabel’s driveway.
I can’t see a damn thing until I’m practically on the porch. Belle barks from inside the house, excited yips as she spins in circles through the front window.
Grace opens the door before I can knock, one hand on Belle’s collar.
“We were starting to get worried,” she says with a frown. “You’re never late.”
“Traffic.” I hold up the store-bought cheesecake as evidence. “And the H-E-B was packed.”
Grace stares at the plastic clamshell container, her brows pinched together.
Shit.
I always bake one of my mom’s recipes for girls’ night.
Not that anyone but Grace knows they’re my mom’s recipes.
Kolaches, cobblers, her famous pecan pie.
In a year of Wednesdays, I’ve only shown up with a store-bought dessert once, and that was after a brutal chest cold that almost turned into pneumonia.
Emi’s in the kitchen with a cocktail shaker in one hand and a rocks glass rimmed with spicy salt in the other. “There you are! Get yourself some queso and chips. You want spicy or extra spicy for your margarita?”
“How is that even a question?” I slide the cheesecake onto the island. Isabel, who’s rummaging in a drawer for napkins, stares at it, then at me.
“Extra queso and now cheesecake? From H-E-B?” She reaches over and lays her hand on my arm. “You okay, hon?”
My shoulders hike halfway up to my ears.
“Fine,” I manage. “Caught a big case. The fire in the Mueller district?” I glance at Emi.
Her eyes narrow, her head tilting half an inch as she passes me a margarita.
“Nate keeps gettin’ to the station at fuck-no thirty in the morning.
Makes me look lazy for showin’ up at eight. ”
Isabel puts on her “mom” face. The one she uses to tease secrets out of her nineteen-year-old daughter who’s smarter than all of us combined.
“You think we’re gonna buy that line of malarky?” she asks.
“Malarky?” I start laughing so hard, a sip of extra spicy margarita threatens to come out my nose. “Who…says…malarky?” I wheeze.
“Parker’s right.” Emi wraps her arm around Isabel’s shoulders. “Veronica’s at college, probably swearin’ a blue streak every damn day. You can cut loose once a week if you want.”
Her cheeks on fire, Isabel drags a chip through the bowl of queso.
“I spent years tellin’ that girl to watch her mouth.
I can say malarky in my own damn house if I want to.
Now, can we get back to whatever’s got Parker lookin’ like she just lost her favorite stuffed animal?
Because it’s definitely not long hours on an emotional case. We all know what that looks like.”
I glance over at Grace. She’s fine. She’s been fine—well, as fine as anyone can be after what she went through—for three months. But no one’s forgotten what it cost her.
Grace rolls her eyes, grabs the bowl of queso, and takes it into the living room with Belle trotting along behind her. “All y’all need to get comfortable. I don’t think this is a kitchen island conversation.”
We follow, because though Grace is the newest of our group, she’s also the heart of it.
She sinks down against one arm of the couch, and I take a seat next to her, the cushions welcoming me like a warm hug. If my sofa was this comfortable, I’d never want to leave.
Emi tucks her legs under her in the recliner, and Isabel sits crosslegged on the floor next to the coffee table.
I solve problems for other people. That’s what investigative work is, at its heart. Solving problems. Talking about my own issues? I’d rather let Nate drive me all the way to San Diego than tell my closest friends how I fucked up this morning.
I take another healthy sip of my margarita, letting the muddled jalapeno send sparks along my tongue. “I don’t know where to start. Or what happened. One minute we were talking about having breakfast in bed and the next—”
“Hold up.” Isabel sets her glass down, leans forward, and gives me another “mom” glare. “You. Parker Elmore. Were in bed with someone? When did this happen?”
Fire crawls up my cheeks. I lick some of the salt off the rim of the glass and make a face. “This morning.”
A plop of queso lands on Emi’s thigh. Her mouth forms a perfect O. “Breaking news ain’t got nothin’ on Parker. Just how long has this been goin’ on? And who’s the guy? Or…gal?”
And people wonder why I don’t open up more often.
I cover my face with one hand, the other holding the cold margarita glass to my forehead. “This was a bad idea.” The words are muffled, almost whiny, and I hate how pathetic I sound.
Grace curls her fingers around my wrist and gently tugs my hand away.
“You always…” Her lips twist, brows drawing together, and she tries to shape the word again, but fails.
Eventually, she brings her hand to her ear, thumb touching the lobe.
Extending her first two fingers, she curls them twice in rapid succession.
Listen.
“You do,” Emi says. “All the silly fights Jasper and I had when we first moved in together? Remember that ratty old recliner he wanted to keep? And the twenty-year-old dresser he bought at a yard sale for five dollars? You helped me pick my battles. That dresser looks amazing with a fresh coat of paint. And our new recliner is almost as comfortable as this one.”
Isabel picks up her drink again, takes a healthy swallow, and shakes her head. “Veronica called you when she decided to get an apartment with her friends next term and didn’t know how to tell me and Connor.”
“What does listening have to do with me fucking up the first date I’ve had in almost five years?” I ask, still hiding behind the margarita glass.
“You slept with a guy. On the first date.” Emi fans herself. “Lord, have mercy. Who is he? How’d you meet him? We need details before we get to the actual problem.”
Isabel plucks the TV remote from the center of the coffee table and tosses it into a basket of throw blankets in the corner. “The Life and Times of the World’s First Sentient Plant can wait for next week. Talk, Parker.”
I look to Grace, who gives me an encouraging nod. “Let us help.”
With a heavy sigh, I drain the last of the margarita and set the glass on the coffee table.
“His name is Eliot,” I begin.
“Wait. Eliot. Eliot Flint? The arson investigator on the Aldrich fire?” Emi asks.
“You work with him?” Isabel gasps. “Isn’t that against the rules?”
“No! He’s with the State Fire Marshal’s Office, not the Rangers.”
For the next ten minutes, Emi and Isabel pepper me with questions. Who made the first move? Where did we go on our date? Whose place did we end up at?
“So…you had a fun dinner, and some hot sex,” Emi says. “How did that lead to”—she waves her hand—“whatever happened this morning?”
This is the part I don’t know how to say.
Eliot’s burns are his story to tell. Not mine.
“He has an old injury that flared up this morning. I asked him what I could do. And he… He said I couldn’t fix him.
That it was best I understood that now before we caught feelings.
And then he locked himself in his bathroom. I…well…I left.”
“Parker!” Of my three closest friends, I didn’t expect Grace to be the one to chastise me. Even if I do deserve it. “You walked out on him? That ain’t like you.”
I reach for my glass again, find it empty, and set it back down. “I know. But I had to get to work, and…I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t tryin’ to fix him. I wanted to know if he was okay.”
“And you haven’t talked to him since?” Emi asks.
“He came to the station to drop off a report. I hid in my office.”
“You…hid. In your office.” Isabel shakes her head. “Parker Marie Elmore. How could you?”
I blink at her. “That’s…not my middle name.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Isabel says. “I still have the same question. How could you?”
“I didn’t know what to say! I still don’t.” Hearing the words aloud confirms just how much of a coward I am.
Grace wraps her arm around me and pulls me close.
“You have to tell that man the truth, hon. He doesn’t need to be fixed, and you’re allowed to care about his pain without trying to take it away.
But you also need to call him out for hidin’ in the damn bathroom.
” She gives my hand a squeeze. “Then you apologize for walkin’ out without sayin’ goodbye. ”
I unlock my phone and stare at the messaging app for way too long before I start to type.
I shouldn’t have run this morning. That’s not me, and you deserved better.
But storming off and locking yourself in the bathroom?
Not the right call. I wasn’t trying to fix you.
I was trying to let you know I care. If there’s a next time for us…
if there’s a next anything…we both have to stay in the room.
I read the text half a dozen times before Isabel snatches it out of my hand, glances at the screen, and taps Send.
“Isabel!”
She slides the phone back across the coffee table. “You were starin’ so hard at the screen, I was worried about your eyesight.”
Grace nudges my shoulder. “Proud of you.”
“Now I get to be on edge all night until he replies. This ain’t me. Pining over a man? Second guessin’ every text? We’ve been on one date.”
“Connor and I didn’t go on a date for almost two months after we got together,” Isabel offers. “When you know, you know. So…” She grins, a sparkle to her brown eyes. “Do you know?”
The phone vibrates on the table, saving me from one conversation but forcing me to confront another.
Turning tail was a shit move. You deserved better, too, and I’m sorry. I want there to be a next time. Many next times.
I melt back against the cushions, the stress and strain of the day leaving me so quickly, I’m surprised I don’t fizzle out like a deflating balloon.
Dinner tomorrow? My place. I’ll cook. Come over at six.
The dots dance across the bottom of the screen for less than three seconds.
I can bring breakfast fixings. For Sunday morning.