Chapter 21
21
HUNTER
I’m sandwiched in the back of Dylan’s pickup between Nina and Rowena, my skin sticking to the leather seats as sweat beads down my spine. The seatbelt digs into my shoulder, an unrelenting pressure as we wind along the coastal road toward Mystic.
I keep my arms pinned to my sides, careful not to brush against anyone. Easier said than done in such close quarters. I glance sideways at Nina; she’s hijacked the car’s Bluetooth and is dictating the road-trip playlist. While on my other side, Rowena has her eyes closed, one hand resting on her still-flat stomach. Despite the cramped discomfort, I’m glad it’s just the five of us packed into the car like sardines.
I’ve become a person who celebrates funerals, or finds them convenient at least. But with Olivia sidetracked, the electric wire clamped to my spine that would zap me with 200 volts of current every time I imagined her tagging along this weekend has been cut. Horrible, I know. What does that say about me?
I’m not even sure if Dylan had invited Olivia or not; he didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. But either way, her absence is a small reprieve, temporary packed car ride be damned. Four whole days without wondering if she’ll be showing up in my life unexpectedly—at my apartment, in a restaurant, or wherever it is she and Dylan hang out.
The miles roll on, the road unwinding ahead of us in a line of coastal scenery accompanied by the steady sound of waves. Finally, the Thompsons’ house comes into view, and a new kind of excitement kicks in. I’m ready to leave the car—and thoughts of Olivia—far behind.
The sun hangs high in the sky, the afternoon heat shimmering off the pavement, and even if I can’t see it yet, I hear the pool calling my name. I tumble out of the pickup in my haste to escape, tilting my face up to the sun as I stretch my cramped limbs. The air smells of freshly cut grass and salt from the nearby sea.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Mr. Thompson booms from the porch, a wide grin splitting his face.
Mrs. Thompson appears beside him, hands on her hips. “Get in, the lot of you,” she calls, waving us forward. “I’ve got lemonade and cookies waiting.”
We grab our suitcases and troop to the porch, greeting the Thompsons as we pass them.
Dylan bumps my shoulder as we head toward the kitchen, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “Now you can tell me if my mom’s cookies are better than mine.”
I roll my eyes, smirking. “You’re fishing for compliments, Thompson.”
“Me?” Dylan brings a hand to his chest as if wounded. “Never.”
He winks before turning and pushing the kitchen door open, the cool air rushing out to meet us. It’s a walk-in fridge compared to the temperature we left in the front yard. But that wink has a traitorous warmth boiling through me that has nothing to do with the summer heat and doesn’t care about the blast of air conditioning.
As we all settle around the island, Rowena perches on one stool, her hand still pressed to her stomach, while Nina leans against the counter, eyeing the snack spread. I pull up another stool and position myself in front of Dylan, giving him my shoulders. My scalp prickles like crazy, but it’s a lesser discomfort than having to meet his eyes while I’m still flushed from a stupid, meaningless wink.
Mrs. Thompson hovers nearby, smiling as she passes the cookie plate. But her brow furrows with concern as she stops in front of Rowena.
She places a gentle hand on my friend’s shoulder. “You alright, dear?”
I check on my friend. Winnie looks a little green around the gills.
Rowena offers a wan smile. “Just a bit of morning sickness. The car ride didn’t help, but the pills I’m taking manage the nausea pretty well.”
Mrs. Thompson’s eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. “Morning sickness? Are you… are you… expecting?”
Nina shoots her mom a sheepish look. “I hadn’t told them yet, Winnie.”
“Oh, congratulations, sweetheart.” Mrs. Thompson envelops Rowena in a warm hug, her face alight with joy. “Do you want a glass of water? Milk?”
“Milk might be better.”
Mrs. Thompson gives Rowena a cookie and then pours her a glass of milk from the fridge. “Here, this should help settle your stomach.”
“Hey, do I get milk and cookies too, even if I’m not pregnant?” Dylan jokes behind me. And hearing his voice that close reconnects the electric wire fused to my spine, sending jolts through every nerve.
Mrs. Thompson levels her son with a look; Nina is next. “You two, come with me.”
As they disappear into the other room, Mr. Thompson takes out more mugs and keeps passing around the plate with the cookies. “I don’t see why we all can’t enjoy a snack while they sort out whatever it is they’re up to.” He chuckles, setting everything on the table.
I eagerly accept a still-warm cookie. The first bite is pure bliss—buttery, sweet, and utterly divine. But as good as these are, they don’t come with the sight of Dylan, tousled and flour-dusted, grinning in that heart-wrecking way that ruins my entire existence. So really, they’re missing depth.
Just as I’m polishing off the last crumbs, Mrs. Thompson returns with her children in tow. A brittle silence settles over the room following their entrance. Mrs. Thompson’s expression is carefully neutral. Dylan looks like he’s seen a ghost, his face pale and eyes wide. And Nina is grinning from cheek to cheek.
The stark contrast in their reactions makes my lower back grow tight. What could have provoked such opposite responses?
Mr. Thompson clears his throat, his gaze flickering between his wife and kids. “Alright, what’s going on?”
“Well, given the new… circumstances.” Mrs. Thompson wrings her fingers together as she looks at Rowena. “We can’t have a pregnant woman sleeping in the basement as planned.”
I frown, confusion swirling in my mind. The Thompsons have always had an extra room with a single bed that converts into a double; it’s where Rowena and I have bunked during previous visits. And true, everyone calls the spare Tristan’s room. But with him and Nina sharing now, no one should be sleeping in the basement.
As if reading my thoughts, Mrs. Thompson continues, “When Nina and Tristan got together, we converted Tristan’s room into a home office for me. Dylan’s room has a single bed, so…” She pauses, her gaze shifting to me. “Rowena will have to take Dylan’s bed.”
My heart stutters, a sense of foreboding creeping up my spine, especially since Dylan is looking everywhere but at me.
Mrs. Thompson offers me an apologetic smile. “Hunter, would you mind sharing the sofa bed in the basement with Dylan? You’re already roommates; it’s not that different, is it?”
Oh, but it is. It’s entirely different.
I stare at Dylan, my pulse racing, but he’s still studiously staring at the floor, his ears tinged pink. Realization dawns on me; his earlier expression of terror was about the prospect of sharing a bed with me. A sharp, unwelcome pang pierces my chest. He must be mortified at the thought of having to explain all this to Olivia.
“I can stay at a hotel in town,” I blurt out.
A chorus of protests erupts around me.
Mr. Thompson shakes his head. “You won’t find anything decent last minute on July third.”
Nina reaches out, squeezing my arm. “And it wouldn’t be the same without you here, Hunter.”
Rowena shifts uncomfortably on her stool. “I can sleep in the basement…”
But Mrs. Thompson cuts her off with a firm, “Absolutely not. You need a proper bed, dear.”
I sense the moment Dylan’s eyes lift to my face, and like a compass finding true north, I turn to him. The intensity of his gaze on me is a collision of galaxies. Time compresses and stretches simultaneously as I wait for him to speak.
Dylan offers me a small, tentative smile. “I don’t mind sharing, Hunter. Really.”
My pulse speeds faster than machine-gun fire. I know he’s being polite, that he’s probably still appalled. I should let him off the hook. But I don’t want to inconvenience the Thompsons, or put them on the spot, not after they’ve so graciously welcomed us into their home.
I nod, forcing a smile. “Okay, sure. It’s only for a couple of nights, right?” More four nights.
The room breaks into cheers and relieved sighs. Mr. Thompson claps his hands together. “Alright then, now that’s settled, who’s ready to fire up the grill?”
As the men head outside, chattering about barbecue techniques and the perfect burger, Mrs. Thompson and Nina follow them to the backyard, offering to help with the preparations.
Rowena stays with me in the kitchen. She still looks pale, her shoulders slumped. I reach out, gently touching her arm. “Hey, you okay?”
She meets my gaze, her eyes filled with uncertainty. “I don’t know. Are you?”
“I… I don’t know either.”
I hesitate, wondering what she guessed about my bad mood and what worries her. Is she missing Adrian, worrying about the baby, or just anxious about the future? But I get a sense that she, same as me, would prefer not to discuss it. We share a small, understanding smile, and without another word, we each reach for a cookie. Because sometimes, words aren’t necessary when sweets and denial are on the menu. Nothing says “emotional avoidance” like literally sugarcoating our problems.