Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Grady
The sun beats down hard enough to turn the porch boards into a griddle while Chloe pours hot coffee into our mugs.
Steam curls up from the cup, and I think about how this woman has always been half-mad with her habits. I should’ve grabbed a cold bottle of water from Kyle’s fridge if I wanted to survive this little ritual, but we’ve been best friends too long for me to pretend I don’t know her quirks.
She slides one of the chipped mugs across the porch table, satisfaction tugging at her lips. I take it out of habit more than want, the scalding first swallow burning a track down my throat.
Chloe tilts her head toward the closed cabin door, where the air conditioner chugs to keep the single room at a more moderate temperature. “Quinn has made it through the first week of lessons without casualties.”
I squint at her, then at the mug. “She’s a good kid. Did you think she’d throw a fit?”
She sighs and leans back with a smile. “She’s becoming a tiny terror.”
My brow puckers. “Why do you look so happy?”
“She’s asserting her authority and testing her boundaries.” When I still stare in confusion, she adds in a whisper, “It means she’s confident enough that we won’t send her away when she acts like a normal kid.”
“Ahh.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how you’re hanging in there with all of you packed into such a tight space.”
“Lots of outdoor time.” A giggle comes from inside the cabin. “Leif’s already an upgrade over my parenting skills.”
“You put a multivitamin on her ice cream last week,” I remind her. “Hard to go anywhere but up.”
She throws back her head to laugh, the sunlight catching in her pink hair, and for a moment, I forget how she used to be such a hermit, holed up in her apartment in the city.
It had taken me months to talk her out of her hidey-hole, and now she’s out and about more often than she’s hunkered over her laptop.
My attention drops to my left leg, stretched out on a milk crate with an ice pack resting over the stiff joint.
“I-It’s good to see you happy,” I say, and wince at the stutter. After months of healing from my accident, it only sneaks in when I’m tired or stressed.
Then, my brain skips two steps ahead, leaving my tongue tripping to keep up. The heat of embarrassment works up my neck, but if Chloe catches it, she doesn’t let on.
Instead, she sips her coffee and stares out at the thick screen of trees, which offer shade from the summer heat.
Inside, Quinn’s voice floats through the screen door, muffled but intense.
The new nanny, Leif, is reading aloud. I catch the words “centipede,” “scavenger,” and “venom,” and I almost feel sorry for the guy.
Quinn’s fascination with gross things is only matched by her desire to share it with others, at full volume.
I shift on the crate and bite down on a groan of discomfort when my knee twinges. “Have you thought about what you’ll do for your next book?”
“Is this your subtle way of suggesting I get back to work?” Chloe sticks her tongue out at me. “I just spent five years cranking out two books a year, and I promised myself a sabbatical. Besides, I’m pretty good at loafing, now that I’ve had some practice.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I pick at the worn edge of my sleeve.
“It’s just, the indie world is a different beast. And your knotty elf tentacle smut book did so well.
You should capitalize on the momentum now that you’re not being held back by your publisher’s schedule.
With the novella length you’re writing, you could—”
“Zip!” She pinches her fingers at me. “I’m a rich woman sitting in a place of privilege. If I want to keep my release schedule to two novellas a year, that’s what I’ll do. You’re not my agent anymore, so you don’t have to worry about my release schedule.”
The reminder stings, though I know Chloe doesn’t mean anything by it.
And it’s my own fault for putting all of my focus into her author career instead of building up multiple revenue streams. But Chloe’s first series had been a unicorn, taking off right away and skyrocketing up the charts.
Four months ago, I hadn’t needed multiple clients.
Now that she’s gone indie, and I’m not her agent, I don’t know what to do with my life.
When I stay silent, Chloe tilts her head, suspicion flickering across her face. “You’re not thinking of leaving, are you?”
“Me?” I force a laugh. “I don’t know what to do with myself in Mosswood without you there. Besides, all of my plants are here.”
Chloe doesn’t buy it. “Are you okay? Really?”
I consider the question, and the answer that wants to crawl out of me is No, not really. But admitting it would only worry Chloe, and she’s gone through so much with her toxic family and a superfan turned stalker. She deserves her peace.
“I’ll get there. Physical therapy is going well with all my walks around the island.” My left hand drums the side of the mug. “And I’m keeping busy with your emails and social media. I need something to justify my rent in Kyle’s guestroom.”
She nudges my shin with her bare foot. “You’re family. You don’t have to do anything except keep showing up.”
It’s a nice thing to say, but it lands in the hollow place behind my ribs. Family, yes, but not pack. As a Beta, I fall outside of that dynamic. Most of us float around, building relationships with other Betas unless we’re born into larger familial packs, and then we’re tolerated helpers.
Coming from two Beta parents, I always knew to keep my expectations small until I met Chloe. She was a loner, like me, desperate for someone to give her a scrap of encouragement. We bonded when I worked as a teacher’s assistant in a creative writing class she took, and I realized she had potential.
I put aside my own writing dreams to support hers and spent years navigating Chloe’s meteoric career. Then she used a loophole to escape her publisher and started writing monster smut for fun.
Now, all I do is repost her memes and turn down requests from new publishers who want to sign her. I’m really happy for her, but it’s hard when she has the publishing world at her fingertips and rejects it, while publishers never gave my manuscripts a second thought.
“Hey,” Chloe says, softer now. “You know what I remember about you, from before we even talked? The way you used to walk through campus with your nose in a book. And then if you hit a wall or a bench, you’d keep reading and limp the rest of the way.”
“True story,” I say. “I once sprained an ankle during midterms. Didn’t realize it until finals week.”
“That’s you,” Chloe says. “You get where you’re going, even if you have to limp there. You’ll figure it out.”
I pat my leg. “Going to be limping for a while now.”
My joke falls flat, and her smile wobbles.
My accident wasn’t Chloe’s fault, but I know she still carries the guilt for it.
I was only on Misty Pines because she insisted on coming here instead of going to the Omega exclusive resort I tried to send her to, and it was her superfan who lured me out and pushed me into the Phase Two foundation hole behind the Homestead.
Her lips part, likely to apologize again, but Quinn’s excited shriek cuts through the tension. “Aunt Chloe! I think the centipede is eating the spider! You have to come see!”
Chloe rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning again. “Duty calls. Want to come inside where it’s cooler? It’s almost lunch time.”
“You won’t trick me into cooking for you. I think I’ll go for a walk.” I grab my cane and push to my feet. “Need to be sure I get my vitamin D.”
She squeezes my hand as she passes, trailing the scent of lilies and lilacs.
Through the window, I watch her lean over Quinn, hiding her squirms at the sight of bugs and murmuring appreciation for whatever story the little girl came up with.
I should go back to Mosswood. Chloe’s found her pack, and there’s nothing for me here. And I need to figure out what I want to do with my life now that it doesn’t revolve around my best friend.
Cane in hand, I make my careful way down the porch steps and onto the mulched path that leads upward. My knee resists at first, but after a hundred yards, the pain starts to ease.
I should give up my lease on the Mosswood apartment. It costs way too much for what it is. If I buy a place in Pinecrest, I can still visit with Chloe on the island but have a place nearby to go home to.
The thought of moving sounds exhausting, though. And lonely. Chloe and I have lived next door to each other since our university years. We’ve always been a knock away from sharing a coffee or bingeing a show.
At the main road, I choose a smaller one at random, heading down one of the easy trails toward the water. Logs line either side, with a fresh bed of sod and pine needles demarcating the safe route.
It’s uneven and hard on my dragging left leg, so by the time I reach the edge of the trees, my shirt sticks to my back, and my left hand tingles from gripping the cane.
But when I break through the last stand of pine trees, the view opens up, the water below shimmers with blue and gold. A salt-laden breeze sweeps around me, cooling the sweat on my skin, and I inhale, letting the wind fill my lungs.
I’ll miss this view. There’s nowhere else like it.
With a sigh, I turn up the path, feeling the ache in my knee, and decide to test how far I can go before it gives out.
The coastal path isn’t much, just a rut made by boots and, judging by the droppings, the island’s population of rabbits and deer. The earth is spongy in some places and so dry in others that dust coats the bottom of my jeans.
I pick my way along, letting the cane do more work than I’d prefer.
The quiet out here is different from anywhere I’ve ever lived. In Mosswood, even at dawn, the sound of the city intrudes. On Misty Pines, it’s only birdsong and the hush of water over rocks. It’s so peaceful I almost forget my unhappiness.