Chapter 6
SIX
SCOTT
Ilove the Fourth of July.
There. I said it. Scott Avery, allegedly heartless real estate developer and confirmed emotional disaster, genuinely loves America’s birthday.
The fireworks, the terrible hot dogs, the way the whole town smells like sunscreen and gunpowder.
The kids running around with sparklers. The elderly couples holding hands on beach blankets.
The general sense that for one day, everyone agrees to just.. .be happy.
It’s the most romantic holiday on the calendar, and I will die on this hill.
Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. I have a reputation to maintain.
Currently, I’m manning the ring toss booth at the Twin Waves Fourth of July Festival because Grayson guilt-tripped me into volunteering, and I’ve discovered I’m surprisingly good at convincing eight-year-olds that the game isn’t rigged.
It is absolutely rigged. The rings are slightly too small for the bottles. But hope springs eternal, and I’ve given away approximately forty stuffed dolphins to kids who “came so close” that I couldn’t bear to disappoint them.
I’m a soft touch. Another thing I’d never admit out loud.
“You’re hemorrhaging prizes,” Grayson observes, appearing at my elbow with two hot dogs and a grin. “The festival committee is going to ban you from booth duty.”
“They can take it up with my lawyer.” I accept the hot dog he offers. “Besides, did you see that little girl’s face when she won the purple dolphin? She cried, Grayson. Actual tears of joy. I’m not a monster.”
“Debatable.” He leans against the booth, watching the crowd stream past. The beach is packed—blankets and umbrellas as far as the eye can see, the boardwalk thick with families and couples and teenagers trying to look cool while sweating through their clothes.
“Michelle’s looking for you, by the way. ”
“Why?”
“Something about the local authors event. She needs volunteers for the planning committee.”
My stomach drops. “The event in August.”
“August ninth, yeah.” Grayson takes a bite of his hot dog, oblivious to my internal crisis. “Jessica’s running some kind of pen pal program, and they’re doing a big unveiling. Michelle thinks it’ll be ‘adorable.’ Her word, not mine.”
The pen pal program.
The reveal event.
The night my entire life implodes in front of the whole town.
“I’m busy that night,” I say.
“No you’re not. I’ve seen your calendar.”
“I have a...thing.”
“What thing?”
“A business thing. Very important. Can’t be moved.”
Grayson squints at me. “You’re being weird. Weirder than usual, which is saying something.” He polishes off his hot dog and wipes his hands on a napkin. “Michelle specifically requested you for the planning committee.”
“That’s flattering.”
“She also said Jessica asked for you specifically.”
My heart does something acrobatic. “Jessica asked for me?”
“Apparently you two had some kind of moment at the library? She said you were ‘less insufferable than expected’ and might be ‘useful for heavy lifting.’” Grayson grins. “High praise from a woman who once called you ‘an expensive suit.’”
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “I’ll help.”
“Great. Meeting’s tomorrow at The Fiction Nook. Ten AM.” Grayson claps me on the shoulder. “Try not to be insufferable. Or do. Jessica seems to enjoy it.”
He disappears into the crowd before I can respond, leaving me alone with my rigged ring toss and the dawning realization that I’ve just volunteered to help plan the event that will destroy my life.
A kid walks up to the booth, clutching three dollars and looking determined. “I want the big shark.”
“The big shark requires five rings on five bottles,” I tell him. “That’s nearly impossible.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Have you?”
“My dad made me a practice setup in the backyard.” He hands over his money with a solemn expression. “I’m ready.”
I give him his rings, and he lands four out of five.
I give him the big shark anyway.
Like I said. Soft touch.
The sun is starting to set by the time I escape booth duty, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be cliché if they weren’t so genuinely beautiful.
The beach has transformed from daytime chaos to evening romance with couples walking along the waterline, families spreading out picnic blankets for the fireworks, and the distant sound of a live band playing something vaguely patriotic from the boardwalk stage.
I should go home. Should check my email, review the letter that’s been burning a hole in my pocket since this morning, maybe have a quiet breakdown in private like a civilized person.
Instead, I buy a funnel cake and find a spot on the boardwalk railing to watch the sunset.
The letter is from Between the Lines. I picked it up this morning, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to open it because I already know what it says. Jessica mentioned the reveal event at the library yesterday. This letter is probably the formal invitation.
To my own unmasking.
I’m contemplating the pastry-to-existential-crisis ratio of my current situation when someone leans against the railing beside me.
“Funnel cake. Bold choice for a man in a black shirt.”
Of course it’s Jessica.
She’s wearing a red sundress with little white flowers on it, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she’s holding a cone of cotton candy like she’s auditioning for a Norman Rockwell painting. She looks like summer personified. She looks like every good thing I don’t deserve.
“I like to live dangerously,” I say.
“Clearly. You also volunteered for ring toss duty, which I’m told is a war crime.”
“Who told you that?”
“Grayson. He said you gave away half the prize inventory to children who didn’t actually win.”
“That’s...somewhat accurate.”
“He also said you made a little girl cry.”
“Tears of joy. Context matters.”
Jessica laughs, and the sound does something dangerous to my self-control. “I didn’t take you for a softie, Scott.”
“I’m not a softie. I’m generous. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Absolutely. Softies give things away because they can’t help it. I give things away because...” I trail off, realizing I don’t actually have a good reason for giving a four-year-old a stuffed dolphin she didn’t earn.
“Because you can’t help it?” Jessica supplies, grinning.
“Because it’s good PR.”
“For whom? You don’t own the ring toss booth.”
“For...the general concept of capitalism?”
“That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you. I’m very proud of it.”
We stand there in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sunset paint the water gold. The band has switched to something slower, and couples are starting to drift toward the beach for the fireworks.
“Grayson said you agreed to help with the author event,” Jessica says finally.
“He guilted me into it.”
“Michelle guilted me into organizing the whole thing, so we’re even.” She takes a bite of cotton candy, somehow managing to look elegant while eating spun sugar. “Thank you, by the way. For volunteering. I know event planning isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You seem more like a ‘delegate everything and review the spreadsheet afterward’ type.”
“That’s offensive.”
“But accurate?”
“Somewhat.”
She laughs again. I’m becoming addicted to that sound.
“The reveal event is going to be interesting,” she says, and a vulnerability in her tone makes my chest tight. “All these anonymous pen pals finally meeting face-to-face. Some of them have been writing for months.”
“Sounds...high stakes.”
“It is. For some people, those letters are the most honest relationships they have.” She’s not looking at me anymore, staring out at the water. “It’s easier to be vulnerable on paper, you know? When you can’t see the other person’s face. When you don’t have to watch them react in real time.”
I know. Goodness, I know.
“What if they’re disappointed?” I ask. “When they meet?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if the person behind the letters isn’t who they imagined? What if the reality doesn’t match the...” I gesture vaguely, unable to find the right words. “The version they built in their head?”
Jessica is quiet for a moment. “I think that’s the risk of any relationship, isn’t it? We’re all performing versions of ourselves. The question is whether we’re brave enough to show what’s underneath.”
“And if what’s underneath is worse than the performance?”
“Is it ever?” She turns to look at me, and her eyes are serious. “I think we hide the good parts, not the bad ones. We bury the softness because we’re afraid it’ll get us hurt. But the softness is usually what people fall in love with.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
Or how to tell her that I’ve been hiding my softness for so long I’m not sure I remember how to find it.
How do I explain that she’s the reason I’m trying to?
“You’re very philosophical for someone eating cotton candy,” I manage.
“Cotton candy enhances my wisdom. It’s scientifically proven.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Are you a cotton candy scientist?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t prove me wrong.” She grins, and the tension breaks. “Come on. The fireworks are starting soon, and I promised Michelle I’d find you and drag you to our spot.”
“Your spot?”
“Book club has a designated fireworks viewing location. It’s tradition.” She starts walking, then glances back over her shoulder. “You’re invited. Grayson’s already there. Just relax. Enjoy the explosions. Stop calculating the cost-per-firework in your head.”
“I wasn’t—” I stop, because I was absolutely doing that. “Fine. Lead the way.”