Chapter 1 #3
Beau steps closer, and his attention carries a charge that’s subtle but unmistakable.
His eyes flick over me with a mix of amusement and curiosity, like after all these years, there’s still something about me that keeps him guessing.
The slow, familiar pull between us makes my core go a little liquid.
Beau Walker, I’d choose you again in a heartbeat.
“Despite my best efforts, you’re a chaos magnet.” He smirks.
“I prefer to think of myself as chaotic good.”
“Chaotic good, huh? Dungeons and Dragons? Now, we’re really flirting.” He kisses me slowly, but when he breaks the kiss, his voice softens. “You’re taking Polly out to roll a house, and lending out your lucky dress. You okay? You want to tell me where it hurts?”
It’s like he has a Doppler radar for when I’m avoiding something.
Like the twinge of grief I’ve been nursing since I had my lucky dress dry-cleaned for Gemma.
“I’m okay. I don’t need to talk about it,” I say, smiling through the faint ache in my chest. “I TPed Carol’s house about it.”
“Well, when you’re ready—or the list of misdemeanors wears thin…” He searches my face, adoration warming his eyes. “You know where to find me.”
“I’m sure talking about it is what a normal person would do.”
“Normal’s overrated.” His hands find my hips, and suddenly, I forget whatever it is I’m supposed to be getting ready for.
“Even when there’s grass on the floor?”
“Especially then.”
Beau pulls me into a long, slow kiss before leaning back and saying, “I hate to ask, but is there any chance Carol is going to start a brawl in the middle of tonight’s party?”
“Maybe she hasn’t noticed,” I kid, not believing it.
Beau’s brows knit together as if to say Seriously? Then he adds, “Unlikely.”
I brush a kiss on his jaw and head back to my closet. “I’ll tell you what I told Polly. If—or maybe when—she gets huffy at the party tonight, I’ll apologize and pay her lawn bill. It will still have been worth it to see Polly laugh like that.”
“Someday, you might not have an answer for everything.” Beau follows me, and I pause midstep, tilting my head.
“If I had an answer for everything, I’d know how to get Marcus and Nora to finally admit they like each other.”
Beau leans against the closet island. “Este, they aren’t the dolls you had as a kid. You can’t just put their faces together and make them kiss.”
“That’s offensive. I didn’t have dolls as a kid. You know that.”
My parents had been professors. Godless, data-driven types who considered Barbie to be “a gateway to the commodification of the female form.”
“Have you explored the idea that maybe that’s what this is about? Imagine if you had owned dolls? Maybe then our friends could flirt in peace.”
But he knows that’s not possible.
I’m allergic to leaving well enough alone. Always have been.
I wave him away, hooking a pair of vintage lapis Van Cleef earrings through my ears—armor disguised as elegance. Parties in Winter Park can be something of a blood sport—part pageant, part Mean Girls revival. I don’t care much for the game, but I know the rules well enough.
From his side of the closet, Beau grabs his bespoke blazer and pulls it on over a baby-blue dress shirt. “Pick a pocket square,” he says, holding up two patterned options. “Paisley or flamingos.”
“I like the white and blue floral. Matches the shirt.”
He winks and reaches for my choice, tucking the other options back into a drawer. Under the cuff of his shirt, the bracelet he always wears—a Buffalo Nickel on a chain—catches the light for a moment. He gives me one more kiss and says he’ll wait for me in the living room.
I take him in as he goes, thinking he’s the one—the guy you save your best outfits and jokes for. The one who can still make my pulse race with his crooked smile. I see the way other women notice him. But he’s mine. And here we are, having it all.
He disappears in the direction of the living room as my phone vibrates again, reminding me I have a missed call. Sighing, I dig through the clothes on the island. When I finally find my phone beneath a pile of dresses, I see I have a missed call and a text.
Both from a number with a 310 area code.
California.
The text came after the call, and it simply reads:
4:47 P.M.
Este. We need to talk.
My stomach flips.
The message cracks me open—unearthing a feeling I thought I’d buried. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even fear. It hums insidiously beneath my skin.
Gemma isn’t just the only person from California I speak to. She’s the only relic from my past life that I allow in my orbit. After my old life imploded, I didn’t exactly disappear, but I didn’t leave a calling card either.
It turns out leaving isn’t the same as being forgotten.
My thoughts swim as my heart rate kicks up. As I lock the phone, the screen goes dark, briefly reflecting the panic on my face.
The memories of Slack pings and phones buzzing at all hours flood my ears, colliding until they sharpen into a single high-pitched whine.
What if I’ve only been delaying the fallout?
“You ready?” Beau comes back around the corner.
His reappearance makes me jump a little, and I look down at the phone I’m still gripping.
“I’m just texting Nora.” It’s a lie. So I send Nora a text to make the lie true.
4:50 P.M.
Beau and I are headed up to Lemon & Fig. See you there.
As Beau strolls back out of the closet, my heart is still racing. I consider blocking the number.
Because here’s the thing: Fuck California.
But I can’t.
If the past is catching up to me, I need to be able to see it coming.