Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The apartment was bright and clean, with enough space to feel like a new beginning.
Not too big. Not too small. A balcony that let in more than enough natural light to feel like optimism itself.
It was on the sixth floor. High enough to glimpse the city, low enough to watch people moving on the street below.
Bea stood in the lounge, imagining for a second that she really was just choosing one Northgate apartment over another.
“It’s bigger than I thought it would be,” Lillian murmured, hands clasped behind her back as she padded softly across the space.
“About half the size of Mayfield Hall,” Bea said, “which means it’s pretty decent.”
Her and Georgie’s top-floor apartment in Mayfield Hall was palatial by student standards. Comparing anything to that was unreasonable.
“And two bathrooms,” Lillian added, a little reverently.
The realtor smiled. “Let me know if you’d like to apply. I’m expecting a couple of applications on this one, but I’ll give you priority if you get back to me today. St. Ives tenants always get fast-tracked.”
They looked at each other and smiled.
But Bea’s was strained. She hated this part—the pretending. The not-yet-telling. The slow-motion betrayal of someone who’d trusted her enough to make a plan.
But what was she supposed to say? She’d tried, several times, to suggest that Lillian might be better off finding someone else to live with. But Lillian had been adamant.
Across the street, a bakery sat like a lure. Fig’s Fable.
They’d passed it on the way in. It had a soft glass glow, chalkboard menu, and the smell of cinnamon in the air. Nothing fancy, just staples that were probably made from someone’s grandma’s handwritten recipes.
They snagged an empty table, one of only a handful inside, each holding a little paper bag and a coffee cup.
Bea tore hers open, took a bite, and nearly levitated.
“I’m not saying this croissant is a religious experience,” she said, mouth full, “but I would confess things for it.”
The Freudian slip made her immediately stop chewing, then swallow guiltily.
Like the fact that I don’t know if I’m staying. That I’m probably not even going to be here next year.
Lillian thankfully didn’t notice. “We’ll be walking distance to work. Twenty-five-minute drive to St. Ives,” she said. “Which isn’t so bad since grads only have classes two days a week.”
“The rent’s either very reasonable, or St. Ives is very generous,” Bea added. “It’d be covered by one and half of our subsidies.”
“It feels like a real life, doesn’t it?”
It did. It really did.
It felt like the version of her who stayed.
Not Mrs. King. Bea.
She blinked back into the moment. “Speaking of real life, are you going steady with…what’s his name again?”
Lillian flushed, but she didn’t look away. “Adam.”
“How many dates?”
“Three and a half.”
“Only?! It’s been two months since Gage and I witnessed the lint seduction.”
“He went somewhere straight after that for over a month.” Lillian blushed deeper. “We texted.”
“Okay. So, three and a half dates in four weeks. Respectable. You going to explain what half a date is?”
“I was eating lunch alone. He walked in, saw me mid-noodle-slurp, and asked if he could join.”
“That sounds like a full date.”
“Well there was no eye contact at first. But he got up to get me chili oil.”
“Lils, that’s flirting in the UR.”
Lillian pressed her lips together. “We talked about books.”
“Foreplay,” Bea whispered.
“Then we shared mango pancakes.”
Bea stared at her. “You shared a plate? That’s three quarters minimum.”
Lillian sipped her coffee. “It felt like…zero point six.”
Bea grinned. “So after three point six dates, have we unveiled the word boyfriend yet?”
“No!” But she was biting her lip. “But he’s asked if we could.”
“And you’re going to say?”
“Maybe…yes?”
Bea held up her hand for a high-five. “Lils, I am so proud of you.”
A companionable silence fell between them. They both stared across the road.
Outside the window, the apartment building sat like it, too, was waiting for them to say yes. It looked like the perfect building to begin.
“We should…maybe ask the realtor to hold it?” Lillian suggested.
Bea nodded, her smile tight. “Yeah. Just until we’re sure.”
The low hum of the Aston filled the space between them. City lights slid across the windscreen as Gage turned onto the boulevard, one hand steady on the wheel. They were on their way to Naomi’s opening night.
Bea shifted slightly in her seat, smoothing the hem of her dress over her knee. “Do you remember how St. Ives approved the off-campus accommodation request for Lillian and me?”
His eyes didn’t leave the road. “Yeah.”
“We found a place in Northgate today,” she added. “It’s perfect. There’s this amazing bakery across the road. The current tenants leave late November and we could move in early to mid-December.”
He paused. Glanced at her, then nodded once. “I’ll book packers for you both.”
“Movers would probably be fine.”
“You’ll have too much going on with finals. Packers can get done in one afternoon what you’d take days to do.”
That was true. It would be a relief to outsource one thing from her ever-increasing to-do list for that part of the year.
“Early to mid-December makes sense.” Gage merged into the faster lane. “I’ll likely need to move first anyway. I thought I could delay until late January, but London’s pushing for an earlier start.”
“How early?” she asked.
“Second of January.”
She looked out the window. “That is early.”
“There’s a boutique firm in London,” Gage said after a beat. “Not female-run like Monaghan and Stowe, but a lean operation. Everyone gets pulled into the real work.” His voice was even, almost idle. “I think you’d thrive there.”
Bea turned toward him.
“I could ask Victoria to set up a coffee with the founder. If you’re interested.”
The lights of Southgate were coming into view in the distance.
“Sure. That sounds good.”
Part of her had been bracing for him to offer her a role at the London office of King Global.
Options elsewhere she could handle. It was a relief.
“Have you applied to King’s College yet?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she replied, playing with her fingers. “I’m going to finish the academic year here. The next intake there is April. Applications close at the end of December.”
“So there’s still time.”
She nodded. “I’ve bookmarked everything. Course lists, personal statement prompts, references. It’s all open on my laptop. Just…not filled in.”
He didn’t say anything at first, but she felt the pause. Like he was weighing something invisible.
“Bea.”
She looked up.
“Everything okay?”
“I’m…trying to stay focused,” she said finally. “There’s a lot to finish here first.”
The car slipped past a row of lit storefronts. His hand remained relaxed on the wheel. But she could see the barest trace of tension that her response caused at the corner of his jaw.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
“The article is going out next week,” he told her.
“How does it read?”
“Factual. You’re not named,” he assured. “But to people who know us…your friends, your parents…the implications will be obvious.”
She watched the light flare gold against the glass.
“Cool. So I’m anonymous…but only to strangers,” she joked.
“Are you ready for that?” It sounded like a question, but it wasn’t really.
She thought of Lillian’s excitement about the apartment. Of Umma and Papa, parsing an article for clues, wondering why their daughter hadn’t told them first.
“Can I tell my parents, at least, something before it runs?”
“Of course. Just keep the business details vague.”
She nodded.
“I’ll protect you as much as I can for this next part, sweetheart,” he said. “But it’s a Pandora’s box. We don’t know what will come out until we open it.”
Bea wasn’t sure she wanted to lift the lid.
They weren’t here to party. They were here for Isabel.
Which was why Mayfield Hall had been transformed. Glamorously, of course.
Several layers of thick duvets covered the rug in front of the TV. Five beanbags were positioned, along with five blankets, neatly folded. Matching silk pajama sets had been distributed upon arrival—Georgina’s idea, naturally—while Lillian organized snacks into thematic categories.
Isabel sank into a beanbag. “This is the most glamorous pity party I’ve ever attended,” she muttered.
“We’re not doing pity, Iz,” Bea replied, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “This is emotional recovery. With catering.”
On cue, Naomi returned from the door with their delivery: truffle fries, wood-fired pizza, salads. She laid her burdens out in porcelain platters like it was a tasting menu.
They ate at the table, brushing crumbs off themselves.
Isabel picked up a slice, took a small bite. “He used to pick off the onion for me.”
At the end of the meal, once they’d cleared up enough to have some space, Georgie dropped a paper bag onto the table.
“Stationery,” she announced. They all gathered to inspect. “Pens, notepads, and scented gel ink because if we’re going to exorcise demons, we might as well do it in lilac.”
“What exactly are we doing?” Lillian asked.
Georgina grinned. “Writing letters to the men we should never have entertained. Past or present. No names required. Just reasons. Why he’s not good for you. Why it’s good you’re not with him.”
“Mine’s meant to be about Mason?” Isabel asked.
“If it helps,” Naomi said.
“I thought this was a no-drama night,” Bea said, already reaching for a notepad.
“It is,” Georgina said. “This is the pre-drama purge.”
Lillian handed out pens. “What do we do with the letters after?”
“Fold them. Toss them in the shoebox. We could burn them tomorrow, witch-style,” Georgina said. “Figuratively.”
They all began scribbling in silence. The only sounds were the occasional sigh from someone remembering how bad an ex had really been.
Bea shifted slightly in her seat. Clicked her pen once, then stared at the blank page.
She’d never had a boyfriend before Gage. That should’ve made this easy. No heartbreaks. No disasters. Nothing to regret.
Georgie wouldn’t accept it if she wrote nothing.
A name floated up to her mind. Uninvited. Unwelcome.
Not an ex. Not even close. Not anything, really. But he fit the bill for Why he’s not good for you and Why it’s good you’re not with him.
Her pen moved.
When she was done, her heart was in her throat. She folded the paper twice and slipped it into the box, which Georgina had labeled on the top in thick black Sharpie:
Operation Exorcism.
They didn’t read them aloud.
Later, curled into blankets and against beanbags, Isabel in the middle, the girls watched explosions, fistfights, and ridiculous one-liners. They’d vetoed anything romantic. Nothing that could cut too close. Naomi laughed so hard at one scene she choked on a marshmallow.
Somewhere around one o’clock, they passed out.
The box of letters sat quietly on the shelf.
The reproof of five women. One still brokenhearted.