Chapter 31
WILLOW
Half-way through my afternoon shift at the flower shop, I stare out the window, mindlessly watching tourists meander around the boardwalk. Weston’s words from last night are the soundtrack in my mind, playing on a loop—etched into my bones, imprinted on my ears, written beneath my eyelids.
In this lifetime, I’m starving.
I was so stunned, I merely whispered his name, all other words lost to me.
He hadn’t seemed bothered, though. He smiled as if he understood it—the exact, indescribable feeling floating in the center of my being.
I fell asleep wrapped up in him, wondering how the sensation he elicited in me was even possible.
It’s a slow August day, but Mom asked me to come in and help out since she’s swamped with preparing arrangements for a beach wedding tomorrow. She’s in the back, music blasting through her earbuds, organizing an array of seasonal blooms.
I’m dragged from my thoughts when a buzzing erupts in my back pocket. I pull out my phone to find a call from an unknown number with an unrecognizable area code. I press ignore, sending them to voicemail.
Last thing I’d be caught dead doing is answering the phone for someone I don’t know.
A moment later, it vibrates again with a text. My stomach leaps up my throat, splattering onto the floor at my feet when I read it.
Unknown Number:
It’s Parker.
I spoke to Chelsea. We need to talk.
My trembling hand nearly drops my phone as my thumb hovers over the screen.
Anxiety slithers through my chest, seizing my lungs and constricting my breathing.
My vision blurs as my mind loses focus—like I’m outside my body, watching this happen to some other girl.
The screen is fuzzy as I immediately block the number he contacted me from.
My eyes dart around the shop, glance out the windows, the skin on the back of my neck prickling as if he’ll be lurking around any corner.
I swallow the knot in my throat, slipping my phone back into my pocket and composing myself enough to hope my mother doesn’t notice when I peek my head into her work room and say, “I’m going to go grab a coffee. Are you in a spot to take a break and watch the counter?”
She pulls out an earbud and drops the scissors in her hand. “Yeah, I’m about finished. Can you get me a Honeysuckle latte while you’re over there?”
I nod, lips twitching with a smile when I’m reminded how my aunt named her coffee shop’s five signature drinks after the boardwalk businesses—each inspired by the family who owns them. My mom’s is her favorite cold brew with vanilla cream and honey.
I push open the doors to Honeysuckle and turn left, taking five steps before I reach the front of The Wicked Wildflower and swing it open. The cafe is buzzing with patrons littered at the tables, sipping on coffee and nibbling baked goods, but it’s otherwise slow.
Allie has her back turned, boxing up what appears to be a number of custom orders—variously decorated cakes and pies.
“Allie?” I ask quietly as I reach the counter.
“One sec, babe.” She finishes packaging the last of the orders before spinning toward me. Her brows knit as she studies my face, and the composure I’d garnered on my way over here begins to unravel. “What’s going on?”
“Can you take a break?” I ask, my tone hollow.
She nods, features softening into a solemn expression. “Hold on.” She stacks the orders, backing through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen. She calls to Dahlia, who must be in her office, informing her she’ll be taking her break.
Returning to the front, Allie loops her arm through mine, patting my hand as she says, “Let’s take a walk down the pier.”
“Don’t let me forget to order my mom a coffee when we get back.”
“Okay.” She leads me out the front doors before we take a left, heading for the pier that expands beyond the boardwalk, stretching out into the endless blue Pacific. “Tell me what has you all knotted up.”
It’s a flawless, breezy summer day—not one cloud obstructing the infinite azure of the sky above us. Seagulls circle our heads as waves crash against the pillars below, the roar dulling the hum of beachgoers around us.
These types of days are my favorite. The reminder of how far and wide people travel to experience this kind of easy living, and how lucky I was to have grown up inside it my entire life.
I’m disappointed in myself for having a raging storm cloud hovering over my head on an afternoon like this.
“Parker called me.”
Allie pauses, head whipping in my direction. “I thought you blocked him.”
“I did. I guess he got a new number or called from someone else’s phone. I don’t know.”
“Did you answer?” she asks hesitantly as we continue our walk.
I shake my head. “I ignored it, and then he texted me, telling me we needed to talk. I blocked the number after that.”
“Good.”
“I think . . .” I swallow. “I think he knows about the abortion.”
“That doesn’t mean you owe him a conversation, Willow.”
I nod, but some kind of trepidation slithers down my spine as we make a loop around the pier, walking in comfortable silence. It’s been months since the day I left him, and to learn it’s all still eating at him enough to go to such lengths to contact me—the guilt lingers.
He may have broken me, but what does that matter if I did the same in return?
“Do you think I did the wrong thing?” I ask Allie.
“Assuming you’re referring to offering Parker closure, no.
” She stops as we reach the boardwalk again, grasping my hands to halt me walking.
“He knows, Willow. He can ignore it, he can justify it, he can pretend, but he knows what he did. You made a clean break, your message rang clear. He doesn’t deserve closure, and the only reason he’s chasing it now is to attempt to manipulate you into absolving him of his own deep-seated shame. ”
“You think he feels shame?” I laugh incredulously.
“Not on the surface—not in a way he’s aware of, but deep down?
Yeah.” She nods, shrugging. “Men like that always do. He may not be capable of comprehending it, but it’ll eat at him little by little every day for the rest of his life.
Eventually, it’ll wither him down until there is nothing left of him at all.
Meanwhile . . .” She grins, grasping my face and lifting my chin, forcing my eyes to meet her convicted gaze. “You’ll be soaring.”
I muster the most genuine smile I can manage, and Allie’s eyes roam upward, taking in the sign above the door of the building we stopped in front of. Her grin spreads wider—mischievous. “Wanna get tattoos?”
I snort. “We’re both in the middle of a shift.”
Her nose scrunches, eyes narrowing, gaze unfocused as she thinks through a plan. “I can talk the sisters into letting us go early.”
“Doubt it.” I roll my eyes.
“Let me make your mom her coffee and bring it to her myself, she can’t say no to me. Dahlia owes me an afternoon off anyway.” She takes my hand, pulling me with her as she skips toward the coffee shop. “Should we get pussy willows?”
“What the fuck are you saying?” I laugh as I follow her back to the bakery.
“I have three other highly qualified artists who are more than capable of tattooing this . . . branch on you.” August eyes the image Allie has pulled up on her phone over his glasses.
“It’s a pussy willow, actually,” she says matter-of-factly.
His lip curls as his gaze darts between her and me.
“We want you to do it,” I drawl, rocking on my heels.
“Because you know I won’t charge you.”
I blink innocently.
He huffs, rolling his eyes, though a smile hides in the corner of his mouth. “Give me ten minutes to draw these up. Go wait on the back bench.”
I grin. I love both of my uncles equally, but I’ve always been closest with August. Something about us having artist’s souls, I think.
Allie and I meander through Ultraviolet, past the black chalk wall covered in decades-worth of doodles left by clients and staff, and the neon light in the center of the shop that reads: You are the artist and the art.
I hop onto the bench first, while Allie sits on a black leather couch against the wall beside me. “So . . . you know how I gave Declan that hall pass and told him we’d talk next month?”
“Yes . . .” I eye her suspiciously.
“Do you think it’s bad if I . . . maybe took a hall pass for myself too?” She winces, anticipating my reaction.
Rightfully so, because I toss her an exasperated sigh. “Really, Allie? You and Archer hooked up?”
I don’t know why I’m surprised. I don’t know why this summer would be any different.
Allie and Archer have had a tumultuous relationship since the first summer Allie spent here when we were teens.
It got more intense after they began hooking up in high school—refusing to commit to each other because they attended different schools in different cities hours apart, but refusing to be with anyone else, either.
When Archer moved to Texas to play football, they promised to spend their college years separately, dating and falling in love with other people, with the hope that if they were truly meant to be, they’d end up together someday anyway.
Dumb in theory—far worse in real life.
Allie dates the worst men on the planet, and Archer doesn’t date at all, supposedly opting to entertain himself with meaningless hookups instead.
But when summer and holiday breaks roll around, Allie coincidentally finds herself single, and they rekindle their lingering flame until Archer leaves again.
It’s a toxic cycle that breaks their hearts time after time—one that’s proven impossible to break.
“It was just once . . .” Her voice becomes rough and emotion filled. “The night before he left.”
Archer went back to Texas two mornings ago, and I know Allie’s been eaten up over it.
Regardless of their physical slip-ups, they’ve always been best friends first. It’s never easy for any of us to watch him leave—he’s the only one who has ventured so far from home—but it’s especially hard on Allie.