Chapter 21
“It’s a walk, Quinn. Why are you blowing this into a major ordeal?” I squeeze the Nikes onto my feet, annoyed I haven’t gotten the ASICS memo yet in this timeline. My arches are so much happier in the right shoes.
“Because I care about you. And you deserve better than emotional manipulation.” She folds her arms across her scrubs. “Not to mention mood disorders that—when unchecked—often result in abuse.”
I cinch up my laces, tight. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”
One week has passed since the wedding. Cool spring sunshine slants into our cottage windows, illuminating the living room.
It smells like vanilla and pancakes. As Quinn promised, I’m obsessed with our place.
My taste has matured since the apartment across from The Grove.
White drapes, antique artwork in gilded frames, bouclé cream couch, furry blankets, brass light pendants.
The neutrals feel sophisticated. Grown-up. Less girl and more woman.
I smile at the desk in the corner, piled with project binders and fabric samples. Even here, in another life, I am doing it. I’m working for Amber Allister as an entry-level assistant—leaps behind where I was at twenty-seven the first time, but my road still led me here.
And Amber’s got her eye on me. I can tell.
This life step feels like a miracle, like this unthinkable process is working—or rather, like some events can’t be altered by age, circumstance, or divine detours.
Even without meeting Reid so young, that great impasse, I eventually found my way to the same vocation.
I savor the comfort that this major facet of who I am has remained.
Quinn lets out a huff. “He’s driving all the way up here from San Diego?”
“He has a work dinner here tonight,” I defend. “He’s making the most of it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Stop.”
“All I’m saying is that it was a little dramatic when you couldn’t get out of bed for a month junior year.”
“I was twenty years old,” I argue. “We were both kids. Shouldn’t we all have a chance to change?”
She considers this, opening the refrigerator, retrieving her lunch sack. “Fine. Just be careful. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I release a sigh. Frankly, I don’t have a plan for this past the nice invitation to a beach walk and brunch on a gorgeous spring Saturday.
With a gorgeous . . . friend from my past.
“What about you?” I turn the tables. “This Alan. He seems—”
She glowers. “What?”
“I don’t know how to put my finger on it.” I half shrug. “Self-absorbed, maybe? Stoic. He doesn’t ever look me in the eye.”
“He’s been over once, Sutton. Come on.”
“I don’t know. He just feels a little shifty. And obsessed with his work.”
“Look who’s talking,” she scoffs with a glance at my desk.
Fair point. “I just care about you, right back.” I take a cautious beat. “You need connection—and affirmation. More, as the years go on. Trust me. Your job takes a lot out of you. You need an anchor at home. In the way that anchors serve a purpose beyond themselves.”
“Deep,” she says, thrusting her tongue out. She throws on her backpack. “What aren’t you telling me, Dr. Phil?”
I sigh, still uncertain of how much to say. “Just be careful. It’s all I’m saying,” I echo her words with a smirk.
“Whatever.”
We agreed to meet in front of the Beachcomber, one of my favorite restaurants in the whole world. Holden’s idea, to my delight. I was impressed he suggested it. Wear walking clothes, though, he clarified. I can’t wait to catch up with you more.
After my globe-hopping, the sensation of my tennis shoes back in California’s Gold Coast feels otherworldly, sublime.
I’ll never take it for granted again. I inhale the ocean air, savoring the charm of Crystal Cove’s historic district—the pastel beach shacks, leaning bicycles, the Bootlegger Bar.
As I descend the last part of the path, which ends at the Beachcomber, I think of the movie stars who dined here in film’s Golden Age, just one hour south of Hollywood.
True to the ambience of a 1920s seaside resort, the famous restaurant is a vintage cottage situated right on the sand. Its oceanfront view is unmatched. Surf crashing, coffee brewing, beignets sizzling. Serene. Like vacation.
Like home.
As locals know, the savvy move is putting your name on the list and taking a walk down the strand for the inevitable one-hour wait. Worth every second. Spectacular.
At the podium, ash wood and beach worn, I give them my name. I nod yes at the wait time, expected, right as Holden jogs up to me, wearing sweatpants and a navy zip-up. I can’t help but notice two young girls awaiting their table, whispering and giggling as they look at him.
And by young, I mean around my age, twenty-seven, give or take.
Holden is striking. No doubt. And what is it about a guy in gray sweatpants?
He pulls me into a hug. “So sorry I’m late!”
I check my watch. Ten on the dot. “You’re not late. I was early.” I smile, so prompt in this life.
“Oh, good,” he says.
“How was the drive?”
“Not bad. Two hours. I’ll be here till Monday. Staying at the airport Marriott.”
“Glamorous!”
“Corporate law.” He holds out his arms. “Show business, baby.”
“Shall we walk?” I suggest. “We have an hour.”
“Perfect.”
As we stroll, I sense the heat of his presence. Something about him is cozy to me, undeniably.
And I hate it.
The power of nostalgia, the pull of pheromones. The fact that I almost reach for his hand. He apologized at last, yes—but still. He once crushed my spirit. He is not allowed to feel like a warm beignet.
Waves smash the sand, seagulls sing, tide pools fill, and still I’m distracted by the surrealness of Holden beside me, more than the breathtaking view.
The current between us strengthens, the sheer reality of him matching my stride.
He uses the same hair wax, I notice. I smell it from two feet away. Honey and coconut.
He looks to me, arms swinging comfortably at his lean sides. “Tell me about your life,” he says, peering over his aviators. “The last seven years.”
I laugh. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“We’ve got time.”
Far more than you realize.
“No more LA for you, huh?”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s . . . not what people think. Or at least, not what I thought.”
“How so?”
“Hmm. Harsher?” I say. “We got a sense in college, obviously, but making an actual life there is . . . rough.” I look to the ocean. “I strongly prefer it here.” Home. “San Diego is beautiful, though. You like it?”
“Oh, I love it. I live in a loft downtown. In Gaslamp. That’s where our office is, so I figured, why not try the city life, and still get the coast, you know?”
I nod. “I’ve always loved it down there.”
He steals a look. “You should come visit.”
“Maybe I will.”
We exchange questions easily; it’s like playing catch with a childhood pal. Work, friends, family.
“How’s your grandma?” he asks.
I’m touched he remembers how much I love her. I almost tell him she’s never been the same since a massive stroke last year, but we’re just thankful she’s alive, every day left a gift . . .
I catch myself, barely.
“She’s great,” I say instead, hoping it’s true in this life.
I should go see her.
Soon.
“Any word from your parents?” I ask.
Last I remember, years ago, Holden’s mom moved in with a new boyfriend outside of Vegas. She drove to the Strip for work at a steak house, among other things. He never spoke to his dad, who lived somewhere by himself in the middle of Florida.
He kicks sand into the air. “My dad died last year.” No emotion about it.
“Oh, gosh,” I say. “I’m so sorry. How did you—”
“It’s fine.” He rubs his collarbone. “I mean, it sucks, but it’s fine. My mom called to tell me. He had a heart attack. He was . . . unwell. Not living a healthy lifestyle.”
One thing Holden and I always connected over was our common only-child existence. We both knew how lonesome it felt sometimes.
With age, it only gets worse, I silently warn him. You’re in charge of these kids becoming actual humans under your roof, and nobody shares your own childhood to help you make sense of it all—or to sit with you there in the impending future of parental caretaking, loss, and responsibility.
I touch my hand to his lower back, lightly. “I really am sorry. I wish I knew.”
He offers a grin. “What, you would’ve sent flowers?”
“Well, probably not,” I admit. “But . . . I don’t know.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “I might’ve thrown you some prayers.”
His smile grows. Holden always believed in God, just not in the way I lived my faith, woven into my days.
He admired my prayers, even found comfort in my devotion, but always stood just outside of it, like someone listening through a wall.
I think, deep down, I always knew it was an insurmountable gap between us—one we rarely discussed.
I never wanted to rock our already-tenuous ship.
He motions to a dune sloping up toward the cliffs. “Want to sit for a minute?”
“Would love to.”
We ascend the slope and sit next to each other, and before I can help it, our sides are touching, and I’m subtly nuzzling into him.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, hugging my knees.
“Anything.”
“It’s a rough one.”
“Oh no.” He laughs. “But sure. Why not. Shoot. You’ve earned it. And I’m pretty tough these days. Or at least I’d like to think so. Don’t let the skinny sweats fool you.”
I laugh. “I like the skinny sweats.”
Too much.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I pause.
“Okay, then,” I continue. “Did you ever think about me? During all these years? Think of reaching out?”
He leans back onto his hands, handsome face upward. “You really want me to answer that?”
Yes?
No?
Maybe?
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“No. Just kidding. Yes! Go. Geesh.” I bury my face in my hands.
He tugs on my hair, yanks on my heart. “I’m afraid, Sutton Lancaster, that you are impossible to forget.”
I sock his arm. “Stop. You say that to all the girls.”
But he’s solemn. “I really don’t.”