Chapter 21 #2
Several more beats pass, the sea air thick with salt and with feeling.
He sighs. “Well—I’ve only been in love once.”
My body does not like that answer, the words souring inside my stomach. I tense. I know what we had was a bit toxic at times, hot-cold like a broken faucet, especially toward the end. But still. He got all my firsts—and it means something. More than I’d ever care to admit.
“No one since you,” he adds.
Wait, what?
In love once.
You.
Me?
He continues. “I’ve found myself comparing every girl to you. I mean, our chemistry was always amazing, but more so—I don’t know. I missed the way you think and feel the world around you. The way you see people before you see yourself.”
He leans over, pressing his palm over my heart, firm and steady.
Leaves it there for a second.
The gesture is sweet, achingly so.
When he drops his hand, the warmth stays.
“Anyway.” He scratches his neck. “I knew I messed up huge. I had a lot to work through, in general. So, yes, I thought about it at least one million times—but reaching back out to you never felt like the right thing to do. I thought I should leave you alone. Seemed like I did enough harm.”
I palm his knee. “You’re not wrong.”
His mouth quirks. “You’re still feisty.”
“Some things never change,” I chide, then pause. “One more question?”
“Go for it.”
“What about God?” I inquire. “You still believe in him?”
He exhales, eyes on the sea. “Sure,” he says finally, like he’s reading it off a script. Dry. Detached.
I don’t press; I never did.
Shoulder to shoulder, we watch two gulls dive and duck like tandem kites in the breeze.
“That was considerate of you, by the way,” I say. “Leaving me alone back then. Letting me heal. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
I turn my face to him now, and it’s impossible not to inch closer. To stare at those full, smooth lips, flooding me with flashbacks in vivid color.
His room, his hands, his I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with-you.
I can’t look away.
“What next, then, you think?” I swallow. “Do you think we can be friends?”
The question hangs, my hand still on his knee, neither of us pulling our faces away.
Instead, he pushes his closer. Before I can think, his lips find mine.
It’s the slightest pull, his mouth on mine, but I tremble.
I let my lips melt and curve into the kiss, soft and slow.
He finds my tongue as my hands find his hair.
I reach for his sweatshirt, for something, waves smashing, hearts pounding.
It’s clear neither of us wants to stop this train, but I snap out and back, up for air.
We’re breathless.
Cheeks hot.
Self-consciously, I glance around.
I am untethered. A buoy without an anchor.
What was I saying to Quinn today about anchors?
Where is that wise lady now?
The hypocrite.
Where the heck did that kiss come from?
I don’t make out on public beaches!
“As much as I’d love to be friends,” he jokes, pulling me into a side hug, “that was—”
“Yeah,” I breathe.
“Yeah,” he echoes. “Wow.”
“So . . .” I have no clue what to say. “Breakfast?” I try, my oxygen still coming in sips.
“What, you don’t want to talk about it?” he teases. “I thought maybe we could really analyze what just happened. That. Kiss. Those lips, for starters.” He reaches over, lightly running a thumb over them. “Do I need to tell you how much I missed them?”
I press my finger to his, those pillows. “Stop.” I rise. “Race you to Beachcomber!”
I don’t know what else to do but run.
I take stock of myself in the ramshackle bathroom mirror, splashing my cheeks with cold water. My freckles are poking through makeup and sunscreen, my forever sign of spring, which will soon yield to summer.
I look fresh. I look young. My eyes are supposed to look wise—but they don’t in this moment.
They look freaked out.
They look shook, to quote the future.
I’m worried they might even look a little bit smitten.
Is nostalgia such a powerful thing?
Is attraction?
Apology?
Is it that easy, wiping the years away?
The tears too?
Speaking of erasure, what about my other life? If I try again with Holden—really try—could I risk losing it all, for good?
I dab my chest with a towel, willing the blotches to fade.
Holden took a seat at our table while I excused myself to the restroom. Truthfully, I just needed a beat to get ahold of myself.
Just breathe.
I’m almost ready.
By the time I’m ascending the restaurant stairs, my step has regained most of its bounce. The smell of bacon soothes me. The happy tourists enliven me. My mouth begins to water for warm beignets I can actually eat.
I spot Holden back in the corner, scrolling on his phone. Instagram is just on the rise, and so is humanity’s preoccupation with screens. I look around, seeing at least one iPhone on every table.
I have not missed this in my recent jaunts—the pervasiveness of the phone.
Now that I’ve experienced life again without the 24/7 obsession, I am cleansed, in a way, forced to admit my children were right.
I spend too much time on my phone. We all do, I’m becoming convinced.
In fact, I’m starting to wish we could all revert to the Dark Ages—or at the very least to Samsung flip phones, the blessed things.
Lacing my way through the breakfast crowd to my date, I slow at the sight of a table between me and him.
I spy an older woman in a canary-yellow cashmere sweater and slacks, giant Celine sunglasses, skin tightened by a facelift.
Cropped bob, pristine posture. She’s stunning.
Pure elegance, like one of Hollywood’s stars who once dined here.
She’s brunching with another woman her age.
And I can’t stop gawking as I soak her in.
Because I think I know this woman. As I get closer, I’m certain.
We’re family.
I’m looking right at Reid’s mom. It’s Mrs. Tabitha Layne.
My throat pinches. I love her so much. I thought I wanted to run twenty minutes ago, away from Holden, away from the truth—but I really want to sprint now.
Into her arms, into her Ina Garten kitchen, into her tips on how to be a classy woman of a certain age.
I’m so happy to see her here—and of course she’s here in Orange County.
Then, now, always. They’ll never leave Bayshores, down Pacific Coast Highway.
They’ve lived in the same coastal home since Reid was a toddler.
The coveted Newport Beach property in a regal gated community will stay in the family forever.
Before I can stop myself, I’m standing next to Tabitha’s table, gaping down at her and the basket of mini pastries. Would it be less weird if I just grabbed a muffin? The women hush their conversation.
Tabitha looks up at me, as politely as she can, given the absurdity of my proximity and my stance. “Can I help you?” she says, cutting her gaze to the table. “Oh.” She taps her glass with a crinkle of her nose. “We’re good on water.”
My cheeks redden. “Oh, no, I don’t . . . I don’t work here.”
She’d lift her brows if they weren’t surgically motionless.
“I just—” Can’t shut up, evidently. “You look so familiar to me.”
She smiles, mauve lipstick and kindness. “Do I?”
“Yes. Tabitha Layne, is it?”
Now she looks flattered.
I snap my fingers with fake recollection. “I’ve seen you in the society pictures! That’s it. In the local magazines.” It’s not a lie. Tabitha never misses a charity gala. “And I think I might know your son?”
“Oh, really?” Her mouth becomes a half-moon. “Which one?”
“Reid, is it?” I tap my temple. “Blond, good-looking . . .”
“You can say that again!” interrupts her friend, who wears a chestnut haircut identical to Tabitha’s and the same sweater in pink. “Those Layne boys.”
“Take after their mother, clearly,” I gush, shameless. “Anyway, yes, I used to be a dear friend of Reid’s. Old times. What is he up to these days?”
Right here and now, on the cusp of a breakthrough, a figure appears at my side.
No!
Holden squeezes my shoulder, kisses my cheek.
“Well, do you only fraternize with male models, young lady?” Tabitha’s friend extends her bejeweled hand to Holden. Emeralds. Rubies. Diamonds. “Alice Greggory.”
“Holden Locke,” he says. “Pleasure, ma’am. I was just coming to gather Sutton here.”
I slice a look at him.
What is he doing?
Can’t he see I’m playing detective?
“Holden, what a name!” Tabitha claps. “The Catcher in the Rye is one of my favorites.”
“Mine too,” Holden says. “But I try to be a more reliable narrator.”
The ladies guffaw. “Oh, my!”
“Handsome and smart,” Tabitha croons. “Listen, what was your name? Sutton? I’ll tell Reid you say hello, and you kids go enjoy your brunch. Thank you so much for stopping by. Have the most wonderful day.”
“I’m always telling her she’s a local celebrity!” chirps Alice as we walk away.
Holden pulls me to our table, but I’m still glancing backward.
“What was that?” I whisper. “Why did you do that?”
He looks perplexed. “Did you not want me to? You looked like you needed saving. Your face was white. You looked like you were talking to a ghost. And not the kind who doesn’t text you back.” He lowers his voice. “The kind who kills you in your sleep.”
I laugh and think sadly that they’re the same thing.
Did I look white, though?
I cough. “All good! Never mind. Just catching up with someone I haven’t seen in a lifetime.”
And darn it, I was so close!
I googled Reid often, but he still has no social media.
Internet stalking isn’t yet what it will be ten years from now—not even close.
Aside from hiring a private investigator, for which I don’t have the funds, for as long as my angel is keeping her trap shut, I cannot track him down.
My curiosity heightens with every pop, yet there is no headway.
No Reid.
No family.
No life?
I squirm.
“Do you want to go back?” Holden asks. “Finish the conversation? I feel bad. It seemed over?”
I sigh, opening my menu. “No. It’s fine. Forget about it. I’m sorry. I was being rude. I’m so happy to be here with you.”
I try to enjoy the rest of our brunch, the fluffy eggs, my latte, and at last, the legendary beignets. Everything tastes amazing, even as my tongue still tingles from our kiss on the shore. And yet, I’m distracted, shaky. I’m everywhere but here at the table.
Holden being the present one, Holden being the sane one, Holden holding up the conversation . . . It’s a new world, indeed.
I just can’t shake off the sight of my mother-in-law. Through the very last bite of our brunch, she stays in my line of sight.
Finally I watch as she leaves, tossing one corner of a silk scarf over her shoulder like Hollywood royalty.
Show business, baby.