Vows We Never Made

1. AllNothing （Hattie）

ALL OR NOTHING (HATTIE)

I f this was another day, it would be perfect weather for lunch.

On any other day, I’d eat up the clear blue sky, the hint of summer-fresh breeze, the chance to wear shorts and a tank top for the first time all year. I even shaved my legs for the occasion and picked out my cutest white shorts.

But today is so not the time to kick back and enjoy the good things in life.

I step out of the Uber and stretch my legs, rolling my shoulders as the sun streams down the cobblestone sidewalk.

Girls bounce by in airy sundresses and there’s a pop-up churro stand on the corner. The place must be killing it because who doesn’t love a churro on a sunny day in Portland?

My stomach growls.

I’m about to have my usual iced caramel macchiato and I don’t need the extra calorie bomb.

Still, on a day like this, where it’s so scenic the universe demands I enjoy something…

I cave and get a small pair of lovely chocolate-filled churros, gobbling one down before tucking the paper bag in my purse.

I’ll save the other for my bestie. Margot has a sweet tooth, and moral support is the reason I’m here.

Our usual meeting place is one of my favorites, an adorable café-bookstore called Book Club. Its old brick storefront with the forest-green paint and the smell of potent coffee and pages instantly makes me smile.

Like I said, any other time, this would be wonderful.

But on this day, I’m taking a deep breath and steeling my nerves as I step inside the cool building, pushing my sunglasses up over my eyes.

While I patiently wait for my order, I pull out my phone again, unable to stay away from the local news.

Leonidas Blackthorn’s death is everywhere.

I think half of Maine is in shock, like people forgot that one of our most wealthy and powerful men was actually mortal. He’s been a local fixture for decades, only second to the historic Head Light itself.

The old lighthouse will live on, of course, but I’m not sure how we’ll manage without the money he poured into the art scene here. That’s what has everybody freaking out the most in local groups.

Nobody loved Maine’s culture and natural beauty like he did, and everybody loved his generosity back.

Me, though?

The gaping hole in the art world isn’t why there’s a lump in my throat. I’m going to miss that man because I knew him.

Our families have been unlikely friends forever, since the day I was paired up with Margot at summer camp.

And while the online chatter writes him off as a charitable old grouch who kept to himself in his older years, I know better.

Old Leo could be hilarious.

His dad jokes were the worst , and he could clear the room with one well-placed grandpa pun.

More than anything, he was kind.

Sure, he was rich, but he never let his colossal fortune go to his head. Plus, he was always nice to everyone around me—whenever our families met up for Christmas or New Year’s, he was the life of the party.

When I’d hang out with Margot, I was family. He’d take whole days away from his business empire to spend time with us.

Big dinners on the beach with seafood alfredo and lobster bakes he’d whip up with his own hands and a little help from his crew of kids. I still don’t understand how his heavenly blueberry cheesecakes were real.

The memories are a gut punch but not unwelcome.

Sailing out on his gorgeous yacht to spot whales in the summer.

Story time in front of his huge roaring fireplace in a library too beautiful for life—he kept us spellbound, reading Greek mythology or sometimes just Tolkien or Narnia.

He made my crush on old books an obsession.

He’d feed me, tease me, and make me feel like I belonged.

He wasn’t perfect— who is? —but that man could make people laugh or break down in tears.

I can’t believe he’s gone.

Despite the pristine summer day, the world feels colder.

Every news article screams it, too, taking my disbelief and shoving it down my throat.

Real Estate Titan Leonidas Blackthorn Dead at 85 From Cancer .

Blackthorn Family Reeling over Sudden Loss of Patriarch Leonidas Blackthorn .

Seeing it written out makes me regret the churro, but I force myself to read until my eyes sting and my belly hurts.

I can’t go to pieces like the emotional little kitten I normally am.

When Margot gets here, I need to be strong.

I also need to be up to date on the news. I can work on coming to terms with it later.

Leonidas Blackthorn is dead!

But Margot has it rougher than I do, even if it’s been a few days. The family waited to make it public, but it still came without warning.

I mean, yes, we all knew he was old and he’d gotten kind of reclusive the last few years. But I had no clue he was sick—and I don’t think Margot did, either.

Not until it happened.

From what she’s said, no one had a chance to catch their breath before he was hospitalized and gone less than twenty-four hours later.

I shake my head as a text comes in.

Margot telling me she’s just a few minutes away.

When my macchiato comes out, I order a vanilla latte with oat milk for Margot. Then with both drinks in hand, I head to the back of the café for some privacy, where old paperbacks are stacked on towering bookcases, almost hiding our small table.

I sigh.

This place feels like home today, a comfort when we need it most.

I return to my bittersweet scrolling on social media until the bell on the door jingles.

In comes Margot, dressed down in a pair of faded jeans and a burgundy t-shirt.

Not her usual look.

Oh no. The damage must be massive.

She keeps her oversized shades plastered on and I resist the itch to pull them off her face to see how red her eyes are.

“Hey, babe,” I say gently, standing up when she gets to me and crushing her in a hug.

She’s like my opposite.

Tall and graceful where I’m short and clumsy, slender where I’m curvy, and she has the softest blonde hair.

She squeezes me back with a slight rattle when she breathes.

“Hey, you.” When we let go, she glances at the table. “Hattie, you didn’t need to do coffee duty. I’m not crashing out that hard.”

I smile because a little quiver of her lip gives away the lie.

“I figured you didn’t need to talk to more strangers than necessary today,” I say, sinking back in my chair and subtly reaching into my purse for the churro bag. “Hey, try this. Just scored it from the new food truck down the street. You’ll thank me after your flight in.”

“Oh my God.” Her sunglasses come off as she grabs the bag and pulls out the chocolate churro, staring at it in awe.

“Art,” I say. “Or diabetes in a few small bites, but y’know…”

“Yeah, you know how much I love dangerous art.” She bites off the end and smiles as she chews. “You know what, it’s official. Churros can be better than sex.”

I giggle. “Bad girl. I’m telling the vendor that. He’ll be so thrilled he might ask for your Instagram.”

Her dusky blue eyes narrow. “Laugh it up, lady. You know how I feel about dating.”

“Joking,” I say dramatically. “I would never .”

“But I’m eating the entire thing now and I don’t care.” She clutches the churro jealously, not minding the slight dusting of sugar it leaves on her shirt.

Holy hell. That’s how I know things are bad with my always put-together friend.

Margot could be a model.

Not just because she has arms and legs for days and high cheekbones, or because her natural style pairs up with designer clothes like chocolate and peanut butter.

She’s also a shoe addict.

Even today, when she’s dressed down so no one recognizes her, she’s wearing a pair of elegant strappy slide-on sandals that I’m ninety percent sure are some custom Louis Vuitton creation.

So for her to shrug when she’s dusting her flawless self in sugar says a lot.

I lean forward, slurping my drink. Rich sweetness explodes in my mouth and the rush of caffeine and caramel goes straight to my veins.

“How was the flight?” I ask.

“Fine. Seatmate kept hitting on me, though. That’s what I get for not buying the other seat.” She grimaces, taking a sip of her coffee and toying with the arm of her sunglasses.

She rolls her eyes at the indignity.

I laugh because she could buy out an entire first-class Delta cabin without breaking a sweat. But she doesn’t flaunt her money, she just talks straight.

The sick part is, she has no clue how fantastically beautiful she actually is. She’s too busy rushing from one place to the next, being adorable, driven, and fabulously wealthy to think about men at all.

Unlike me.

I think about men too much, and I usually wind up drooling over guys who barely notice my existence.

“Did you threaten to throw him out of the plane?” I ask.

“Nope. I think the guy in the other row might’ve been an air marshal. He was pretty fit and a flight attendant joked about the bulge around his belt.”

“Missed opportunity,” I say flatly. “You could’ve made some scary threats and gotten yourself all tangled up with a hottie who packs heat at thirty thousand feet. Try harder next time.”

She gives the tiniest hint of a smile.

Victory. A shot of serotonin hits my system.

“Speaking of threats, did you know PopPop once offered to sic his lawyer on any guys who hit me up?” She pulls out her phone and glances at the screen before laying it on the table. “I mean, it might’ve worked. Legal stuff is a big turn-off.”

“I can see that.” I smile. “Did he ever offer to bail you out of jail?”

“Only twice.” She snickers and I laugh. “Do you remember when he took us out on Delphi to watch the seals?”

Oh, yes.

I have very vivid memories of our excursions on his luxury yacht. The large sailboat had everything you could imagine—a fully outfitted kitchen, several widescreen TVs, plush leather seats built like clouds. Forget the hot tub when it had its own sauna.

Most of the time, we hung out on the deck, throwing our hands out to catch the wind while Leo told stories about his worldly travels or pointed out wildlife.