Chapter 3 #2
I preferred working at the gallery, though.
It never felt like work for me. I’d loved art for as long as I could remember, and Allie’s aunt, Penelope—another good friend of my parents—is a professor of ancient art and the gallery’s owner.
Working around her quickly morphed my hobby-like interest into a full-blown obsession, and an artist is all I’ve wanted to be ever since.
I interned with Penelope every summer before I was accepted to Berkeley, and luckily for Allie, she found the same kind of passion in the kitchen at The Wicked Wildflower.
She’s attending Golden State University’s prestigious culinary program.
She tells everyone she wants to be a pastry chef, but I know secretly, her dream is to take over my aunt’s bakery someday.
She’s afraid to voice the desire, assuming the business will go to one of Dahlia’s three kids, but honestly, I don’t think any of us could imagine my cousins running it better than Allie would.
“No problem.” I smile as my best friend freezes at the sound of my voice. “I’ve got all day.”
She immediately drops the portafilter she’s holding and whips around. The dark curls framing her face bounce as she spins, and I can’t help but laugh when her chocolate eyes go animatedly wide, jaw dropping before a piercing shriek leaves her lips.
She’s a flash of movement, running around the counter and into my arms like we’re two long-lost lovers that have been searching a lifetime for the other. It feels like that sometimes with her. I’ve never quite fit with any other person the way I do Allie Evans.
She jumps into me, and I stumble back at the force of it, wrapping my arms around her back as she locks her legs at my waist and forces me to hold her.
“I missed you,” I murmur.
“I can’t believe you’re here all summer,” she says into my shoulder before dropping her legs and stepping out of the embrace. She grabs my face, studying me like she’s not sure I’m real. Her entire body vibrates with an aura of excitement that is wholly her before she squeals. “I’m so excited!”
She jumps up and down a few times before pulling me into another hug, and I can’t help but laugh, squeezing her extra tight.
I’m hoping I can absorb her energy, let some of her zest rub off on me.
I need it right now. Everything in life has felt upside down lately.
I’ve been exhausted and drained and sad. Confused and lost.
Allie hasn’t been far, not physically. It only takes about a half hour to get to Golden State from Pacific Shores, but in the midst of her finals, I didn’t want to add my issues to her already full plate, so I down played the situation with Parker after he reached out to her.
Plus, she has a new boyfriend, and I didn’t want to take her away from him on top of everything else.
But now she’s back here for the summer and has a break from her classes, and I’ve missed her desperately. “Please tell me you don’t have plans today and you’re off soon.”
She smiles. “I just moved my crap into the studio upstairs last night, so my only plan was to unpack. If you can come help me, I’m all yours, baby.”
“I’m all yours too.” I squeeze her hand, realizing just how much we look, act, and sound like we truly are long-lost lovers. We’re both straight, though, which certainly feels unfortunate at times.
“Do you want something to eat in the meantime? I’ve got about twenty minutes left.”
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
I’ve been feeling nauseous lately. I think it’s a side effect of all the stress and gnawing anxiety.
Allie’s lips cluster at the corner of her mouth, eyes etched in concern, but she only nods.
I find a table at the back of the cafe and pull out my e-reader, returning to the deliciously angsty small town romance I’ve been reading while I wait for Allie to finish her shift.
Allie and I exit the bakery out the back before slipping through a second door that takes us up a narrow stairwell, and to the locked door at the top.
Allie presses her code into the pad, and I already know what it is without having to look.
One-one-two-three. My cousin’s birthday.
Just the same way his passcodes—and his ATM PIN—have always been hers: zero-seven-zero-six.
After punching in the code, the door clicks, and she pushes it open.
All the boardwalk suites have studios above them, but our family has renovated them over the years.
There are offices above the surf shop and storage spaces above the flower shop and bookstore.
This studio and the one above the tattoo parlor were made into apartments.
They’re only ever rented out to trusted friends or family.
Directly to my left is a tiny kitchen along the wall, with enough counter space for a sink, stove, coffee maker, and microwave.
At the end is a fridge, with cupboard space above and dishwasher beside it.
To my right is a small round dining table that only fits two chairs, stacked high with unopened boxes.
Past the kitchen is an open room with a queen-size bed beneath a large window spanning the far wall.
A pale pink couch sits in front of it, and a TV is mounted on the opposite wall.
Beside it is an alcove that houses a clothing rack and a dresser, with a door leading to the bathroom.
“God, it’s somehow smaller than I remember,” I say.
“I know.” She sighs. “It’ll work for the summer though. Plus, I don’t have to pay rent.”
She tosses her keys onto the table, slipping off her shoes by the door before padding to the couch and throwing herself onto it. I do the same, sitting down beside her.
“It’s cute, though.” Her curtains match the couch, and the embroidery on her comforter is the same color.
Boxes line the floor, overflowing with trinkets and decor.
I see cream with pops of blue. Inviting and bursting with color, which is the embodiment of Allie.
“How did you get the furniture up here?”
“Oh my God.” She laughs, hugging a throw pillow to her chest. “My dad and Everett had to do it, and I swear it almost gave them both an aneurysm.”
I force a giggle from my lips before crossing my legs beneath me, head swiveling around the room. “Well . . . what should we start unpack—”
“What’s going on, Willow?” Allie asks, and when I turn to face her, she’s studying me with a hard expression.
I cock my head. “What do you mean?”
“Nope.” She shakes hers. “We’re not doing that.
You knew I’d ask. You were supposed to stay in Berkeley this summer.
You broke off your relationship of two years, and prior to you doing so, I’d never heard a lick of concern about Parker from you.
It was nauseating, in fact. How perfect you made him out to be.
Now, he’s messaging me about your whereabouts, and you’re back home, pretending like you’re fine, when I know there is no way you can be. Spill.”
She’s right. I knew she’d immediately see right through me, and maybe I need her to.
I was nauseating about Parker. I did think he was perfect.
At first. He swept me off my feet from the moment I met him—kind, attentive, driven.
He made me laugh, he surprised me with flowers, and planned dates.
He looked at me like I was the reason the world spun, and I thought all of those things meant we were something special.
I’ve grown up around a pretty perfect example of what love is supposed to look like, so when Parker offered me a painted picture of that, I thought I got lucky. I thought I found my person at eighteen, just like my parents had.
Maybe that’s why I still can’t process the way I feel.
Maybe that’s why, after our first few months together, when he became paranoid about who I was speaking to or spending my time with, when he started policing how I looked and what I wore, I let it slide.
It was infrequent and vague, most of the time.
Tiny digs that shouldn’t have made an impact.
I told myself it was just who he was, that he had no filter, and his words were always laced with care, even when they were harsh.
Comments that hurt in the moment, but he chalked up to being concern over my well-being.
He was outgoing and funny and boisterous—brutally honest, sometimes, but people loved that about him.
He was supposed to be perfect. We were perfect together.
Still, I try to convince myself that what he did—what he said that night—was merely a misunderstanding or a mistake.
I tell myself I should call him, go back, hear him out.
I ponder how awful I must be for leaving the way I did, for not offering an explanation.
I wonder if I broke his heart, if I tore him open, if he’s bleeding out without me.
But, when I imagine seeing him again, touching him .
. . his laugh and smile—I feel sick. He feels like a mirage that’s been wiped away, and all I can see now is the truth.
It feels like I’m broken. I’m torn open.
I’m bleeding out, but I’m the only one who can see the color red.
“Willow.” Allie gasps, and I realize I’m crying. She tosses the pillow in her lap to the floor and crawls across the couch, wrapping me in her arms. “What the hell happened?”
My tears drip off my cheeks and into her neck, but she pretends not to notice, only squeezing me tighter. I want to tell her so badly, but I can’t escape this feeling of oversensitivity.
I must not remember it correctly.
I must be overreacting.
It must be my fault, just like he said.
It could’ve been so much worse. I should feel lucky.
Either I tell Allie this, and she agrees I’m being ridiculous—or she validates my feelings and . . . what then? How do I move past it? How do I make these feelings go away and what if they never do?
I pull back from her quickly, wiping my eyes. “I’m being silly.” I attempt to laugh through a sob. “It’s nothing. Really. We just broke up, and it’s been tough.”
She studies me, her eyes deep and assessing. Her full lips twitch with a frown, jaw tight and tense. She’s waiting for me to say more, but I don’t. I can’t. I cast my gaze downward.
“I don’t believe you, Willow, but if you’re not comfortable sharing with me, I understand.”
The broken tone in her voice, the clear indication of a lack of trust. She thinks I don’t trust her, when in reality, it’s myself I hold no faith in. The defeated sigh that leaves her lips may be the only thing to pull me out of the selfish stupor I’ve found myself trapped inside.
“I feel like I was raped,” I whisper, so low it’s hardly audible. Only her choked gasp tells me she heard. “But I wasn’t.” I raise my eyes to hers. “I wasn’t. And I don’t know why I feel this way.”
She pulls my hands from my lap, wrapping her fingers in mine and squeezing. “Tell me everything.”
And I do. Every detail. All of the confusing and chaotic thoughts raging in my head.
By the time I’m done, Allie’s crying too. Silent tears drip off her chin and into her lap. She’s still holding my hands when she says, “Willow, have you seen a doctor?”
“Like a therapist?” I ask.
She lets out a rough laugh. “Well . . . yeah. But I meant a gynecologist. You should get checked. An STI panel and probably a Pap smear too. Just to be sure.”
“I honestly hadn’t thought about any of that.” I swallow. “Parker would never have cheated on me, I couldn’t imagine . . .”
“You probably couldn’t have imagined this either.
That’s why you’re so unsure of your feelings around it.
” She lets go of my hands, wrapping me in another hug.
“But your body doesn’t lie to you. This is real, and I’m so sorry it happened.
I’m sorry if the confirmation hurts to hear, but you need to know that the way you feel is valid, and I’m happy you ran away. ”
I’m crying again. Locking my arms around her lower back, hugging her tighter. Like she’s anchoring me to a reality I really fucking wish I wasn’t living in, but one I need to confront.
“Will you come with me?” I whisper. “To the doctor.”
“Always. I’ve got you.”