Chapter 23
WILLOW
“Willow, is it too much to ask that you cover your hickeys while at the dining table?” Dad frowns at me over his bowl of cereal.
“Sorry.” My hand flies to my collarbone, having forgotten about the marks left by Weston that haven’t quite disappeared yet. “Honestly, though, I’d feel more inclined about covering up if you’d go a little easier on him.”
Dad raises his brow. “Did he say I wasn’t going easy on him?”
“No,” I drawl. “But I heard your tone when you called him the other morning.”
“He was late.”
I set my coffee mug down in front of me. “Did he tell you why?”
“I’d prefer he didn’t.”
I roll my eyes. “He has a trauma response to storms, Dad. You know a summer storm like that is rare too. It wasn’t expected, and he struggles.
” I sigh. “You know what he’s been through, and yet he continues showing up every day with more determination than any surfer you’ve trained since Liv. Give him some grace.”
My father pouts as he holds his hands out, palms up. “I have all the respect and empathy for what he’s been through, Sugar, but he works harder when he’s reminded he has something to lose.”
I toss him a resigned nod. I won’t argue with him about his methods when he has a track record of producing champions, but I’m certainly more defensive over Weston than I have been with any of his previous athletes.
“I’ll do my best to be nice to him, Willow.” Dad chuckles as I raise my coffee to my lips. “You’re being safe, right?”
I scoff, shooting him a look of disbelief over my mug. “Are you asking if I’m using condoms?”
“I’m asking if you are safe. With your body. Your mind. Every piece of yourself.”
That pulls a soft smile from me. “He makes me feel safer than anyone else ever has.”
Dad chews on his inner cheek, glancing toward my mom in the kitchen before his eyes find mine again. “I don’t want to tell you what to do . . . but I think you should take things slow.”
“Oh, we are,” I murmur.
I dip my head to hide my blush when I remember that Weston went out of his way to ask Allie for a list of my favorite books, ventured into my aunt’s store, and bought them.
I was ready to beg for him at that moment, but he doesn’t seem ready to take the next step yet, and deep down, I know I’m not either.
“I just want to make sure you’re being mindful about what you’ve gone through,” Dad says gently, reaching across the table to take my hand.
“And considering how things are going to change at the end of the summer . . .” He pauses, and I lift my head to find him biting his lip, as if he’s considering what to say next.
As if I’m fragile—glass—and he’s afraid to shatter me. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.”
I offer him a closed-lip smile that I hope portrays reassurance. “We’re taking it slow. Friendship first. Mostly. I promise.”
“I get the feeling Weston is a little inexperienced,” Mom chimes from inside the kitchen. “I think that’s good for you, though.”
“What gives you that feeling?” Dad mutters.
She shrugs, mixing a bowl at the counter with a smirk on her face. “Mother’s intuition.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I laugh beneath my breath. “His natural born talents extend beyond surfing.”
“Willow, don’t traumatize your father before nine a.m., please.”
I grin broadly, knowing my dimples pop when I smile like this. The ones my parents say I inherited from him.
He frowns, eyes narrowing in a crestfallen expression. “That is heathen behavior, Willow Maeve.”
I shrug, blowing them both dramatic kisses.
“I’m actually glad you’re eating with us this morning.
” My mom laughs, floating into the dining room and taking a seat next to Dad.
“I wanted to see if you have made a decision on schools yet?” she asks, mixing up her bowl of oatmeal—blueberries and peanut butter.
The same way she’s eaten it my entire life.
My favorite way to have it too. “No pressure if not, but I thought it was a good time for a family check-in.”
Dad reaches across the table, grasping my hand again. “We’re so proud of you for not giving up on yourself, Willow.”
“Thanks.” I squeeze back. “I . . . I haven’t made a decision yet, but I’m figuring it out, and I’ll make sure to respond before the deadline.”
Mom nods, smiling softly. “If you wanted to take another semester off and stay home, we’d support that too. Whatever you need.”
“If you wanted to live with us and be my baby forever, that would be more than okay with me.” My dad grins, dimples popping.
A laugh bursts from me, and I slide out of my chair to stand behind his, wrapping my arms around his neck and hugging him hard.
“I’m definitely not doing that, but I love you.
I’m going back to school. I want to go back to school, I won’t let my education be taken from me.
” I sigh. “I just haven’t figured out where yet. ”
Dad tilts his head, kissing my cheek as Mom extends her arm to brush her hand along mine in a tender caress. “How are you feeling? About . . . everything?”
My parents have done a phenomenal job giving me the space I’ve needed to process things on my own. When it happened, there was no question in my mind about where I’d run to. I wanted to be home with them, but as the memories settled over me, it became harder to voice my feelings to them.
We don’t talk about it outside the reminders that they’re here for me, they’ll support any decision I make, and the somewhat vexing yet gentle nudge to seek therapy.
“I’m feeling better.” I grin. “I promise.”
“And . . .” Dad clears his throat, shuffling in his seat. “Does Weston know about . . .”
I shake my head, lifting off him and stepping into the doorway that leads toward the stairs. “Not about the pregnancy. I . . . I’m going to tell him. I just . . .”
“For what it's worth, I think he’ll understand, and I don’t think he’ll judge you in the slightest,” my dad says softly, my mother nodding in agreement. “I also think it’s okay to take your time, and wait until you’re ready.”
I bite my lip as a smile clusters in the corner of my mouth. “Thanks,” I murmur before heading up the stairs.
My palms sweat as I wipe them down the front of my thighs, taking a seat in the corner of the cafe.
I wish Allie were here, but she’s taking the week off to stay with her parents up in Pacific Palisades.
I know it’s not normal to be this nervous for lunch with a friend, but Chelsea has never exactly felt like my other friends.
We grew somewhat close due to the sheer number of group dates Parker and Chelsea’s boyfriend, Hayden, would drag us on, but deep down, it never felt like she and I had much in common.
Yet, she’s always seemed to enjoy being around me.
My first year of college when I met Parker, Chelsea knew all the best study spots, and was eager to help me find my classes.
She advised me which professors to avoid and saved me seats at football games.
Sometimes it felt as if I were a pet project for her.
Someone to take under her wing and help her feel more elevated.
Then, I would feel guilty about thinking that way of her, because she’s so damn nice.
The kind of perfect that made me constantly question her motives—and the sort of kind that proved me wrong time and time again.
She’s intimidating. A year older than me, and seemingly always put together.
Chelsea has perfect skin, never misses a blow out or a manicure.
I have a terrible habit of shopping for jewelry but forgetting to wear it.
Chelsea never fails to dawn earrings, necklaces, rings, and bracelets—she’s never not sparkling. Plus, she always smells like vanilla.
I honestly don’t know why she’s taken such an interest in getting together after I left Berkeley.
She’s been checking in on me a couple times a week ever since I came home.
I avoided talking about our breakup and told her I wasn’t coming back.
She vowed that she didn’t care to know, she just wanted to ensure I was okay.
In the months since, she hasn’t even brought up Parker’s name.
We chat about our summer plans, my job at Honeysuckle, assisting Penelope, and which schools I submitted transfer applications to. Apparently, Chelsea is attending University of Southern California for grad school, and hopes that if I stick nearby, we can get together often.
It’s been a pleasant surprise to know her interest in me went beyond her friendship with my ex, but I’m nervous to see her nonetheless.
Despite her kindness, I’ve never felt like I held a candle to her. Never felt like I could measure up to her effortless perfection.
I comb my fingers through my long, blond hair that I forgot to brush this morning, still half-crimped from the loose braid I slept in last night, ensuring my strands cover the hickey on my collarbone because I don’t trust the concealer I covered it with to hold up.
When I pull my hands away, my eyes snag on the grown-out, chipped nail polish on my fingers, and the wrinkles in my sundress.
I’m suddenly questioning whether or not I should’ve worn sneakers with this outfit.
My stomach lurches as the front door swings open and Chelsea floats inside.
Sure enough, she’s glowing. Almost levitating around the patrons and tables, as if carried by clouds as she makes her way toward me.
I stand, feeling microscopic as she beams, squealing with delight and pulling me into her arms. She towers above me, because she wore a pair of wedges that likely have her pushing six feet tall.
She smells like vanilla and some kind of delicious hair oil—the likely reason why her brunette strands are so silky when they brush over my knuckles locked around her back.
“Willow.” She squeezes me. “I am so happy to see you.”
“Me too.” A mousey sheen coats my voice, and I’m suddenly reminded why I never quite felt myself up there in Berkeley.