After
AFTER
my return to Seagrove, a day passes. Then another. None of them blunts the chaos of emotion bubbling inside me. Or the way I miss Grayson so badly I can barely breathe.
But on the third day, in the midst of brushing my teeth, when I glance up and catch my reflection, a tiny, awed sound slips from my throat. I barely recognize the person in the mirror. That’s no defeated widow staring back, but a woman with a fighting spark in her blue eyes.
Shaken, I steal down the stairs, make coffee, and pull on my running shoes.
September has dawned cool and mist laden, and I jog my usual route. But instead of trying to outpace the memories, I lean into them today. I trail my fingers across Michael’s years of silence, then the fluorescent moments with Grayson—Grayson, who I met at a fair one day, who drove me to Canada and showed me how to open my eyes. Grayson, who once convinced me nothing could trump the power of now.
I let myself remember . And through it all, I keep going.
When I get home, I finally unpack the Porsche. Mostly to get the lantern, which I set on my glass work desk in the living room.
I light it. Even though it’s daytime.
Really, I just want to see it glow.
The next morning, I get an email from Travelique.
I sit at my desk, my heart a blur inside my chest. Siobhan Monroe—senior editor, apparently—wants to run my article as part of a collaborative feature with a “noted photographer.” She doesn’t give a name, but she doesn’t have to.
I try to calm the flurry of my pulse. That night at Grayson’s hotel—he must’ve taken those pictures right before I showed up. Purely for my sake.
Thinking about him hurts, but it also leaves an echo of warmth behind. I can’t figure out what that means. If anything.
Eventually, I give up trying and simply yield to the hum in my blood. This offer is a victory. A stepping stone toward building a life on my own terms.
I print out the Travelique contract, then sign it and send it back. They’re not offering much, but Siobhan’s email hints that if the article does well, she’ll be interested in more.
I text Kate the good news.
Within minutes, my best friend responds that she’s on her way with “skinny celebration margaritas.” It’s not even noon, and I don’t know what skinny celebration margaritas are, but by the time I open the front door, I’m convinced they’re the only thing that will do.
A refreshingly put-together-looking Kate stands on my welcome mat, brandishing a bottle. Her brown eyes widen as they travel up and down. Up again. Down again. “What the hell? What happened to you? I just saw you a week and a half ago.”
I raise an eyebrow. I honestly have no idea what she sees. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve gained weight. In a good way. And there’s something different about you. Also in a good way? I think? Or not? And...” She trails off, her attention fastening on my neck. “Oh my god. You have a hickey. Why do you have a hickey?”
My hand flutters to my throat. This is one distinct disadvantage to having chin-length hair.
“What happened ?” she demands.
I shuffle my feet, which only wastes time, because of course I’m going to tell her. “Um...Grayson Drake happened?”
She stares, her hand loosening around her gift. Since I have precisely zero replacement skinny celebration margaritas in the house, I swipe the bottle before it smashes all over my welcome mat.
“Mina,” she whispers, eyes round. “Did you have sex with your brother?”
“My brother’s dead, Kate. So no. But if you’re asking whether I had sex with my former brother-in-law , who is now no longer my brother-in-law, or, in fact, related to me in any way, then yes. I did. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. No, it’s like, a glimpse of the tip of the iceberg. From forty miles away.”
“Holy shit,” she says. “You’re so lucky I brought booze. Tell me everything.”
As we suck down our margaritas, which turn out to be even tastier than anticipated, I spill the whole story.
Kate’s eyes get wider and wider. By the time I finish, her mouth hangs open. Spots of color burn on her cheeks. “Please tell me you made all this up.”
“I wish.”
“You mean Michael lied to you? For years? Tricked you? And then just...never confessed?”
I hesitate, even though there’s only one answer. “Seems that way.”
She flops back against the couch arm, a hand pressed to her chest. “Wow. I’ve heard some stories in my life, but this one takes the cake. Shit. I’d murder Michael myself, if he wasn’t already dead.”
I bark a laugh, even though nothing she says surprises me anymore.
“At least you’re being rational about everything, though.”
“Am I?” Absently, I swirl my straw around in my glass. “Being rational?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know Grayson’s sinfully hot and all that, and it sounds like he genuinely believes he loves you, but he practically comes with a warning label that says ‘emotionally unavailable.’ Even if he didn’t, you obviously can’t date Michael’s twin.”
“No. Obviously not. But wait, you think he’s sinfully hot? You’ve never said that before.”
Kate straightens and sucks her drink so forcefully that the burble echoes off all the glass and steel. We’re probably the opposite of classy to use straws like this, but I found them left over from a tropical-themed dinner party Michael and I once had and couldn’t resist. They’re the fun kind—brightly colored and with lots of curlicues.
“Come on,” she says. “Everyone thinks that.”
“Did you think Michael was sinfully hot, too?”
“Ew.” Her nose wrinkles. “No. Don’t be gross.”
“You do realize they’re identical , right?”
“No. No way. It’s all about presentation.”
Okay. I leave that alone, especially since I agree. Besides, I can tell that Kate considers Michael’s role in this the only one of interest. To her, Grayson is no more than some bad-boy celebrity with an unrequited decade-and-a-half-long crush.
And why wouldn’t he be? She doesn’t wake up from dreams of kissing him in the firelight. She doesn’t know that looking into his eyes felt like being in the exact place I belong.
She didn’t fall in love with him on a mountaintop fourteen years ago.
I push back the flush battling for real estate on my cheeks. “Enough about me, though. How’re things with Tanner? The kids?”
She gives me a narrow look but takes the bait. “Pretty good, actually. Tanner’s babysitting right now, can you believe that?”
I guzzle half my drink. “I don’t think it’s called babysitting if they’re his kids. That he helped make. And who he’s obligated to keep alive in order to perpetuate his own DNA.”
“Hmm. Good point. And Evelyn and Hunter are probably swallowing everything in the medicine cabinet as we speak while their dad plays a vicious game of computer chess against some dude named Boris in Russia, but hey. I’ll take what I can get.”
Amazingly, that makes me laugh. Even more amazingly, it feels good. Natural.
“You know what?” I say. “Forget Michael. And Grayson. Why don’t we go out? Like, out out. To an actual restaurant. Or a bar. Talk to some people we don’t know.”
Kate’s eyes round. “Excuse me?”
I repeat myself.
“Um...exactly who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
I flash a rueful smile. God, she’s been so loyal, all these months when I had nothing to give back. I owe her so much. “I guess we’ll call me Mina two-point-oh. But I just happen to have Mina one-point-oh’s credit card, so I’m buying. Sucks to be her.”
Over the weekend, I list everything in the house for sale.
The red lantern keeps its place of honor beside my computer, but everything else—the black leather sofas, the chrome lamps, the glass tables—goes. I refurnish with one exhausting spree through the West Elm store in Seattle, which I’ve always loved but could never convince Michael to visit. The whole time, I’m on high alert, awaiting a familiar whiff of forest and rain.
I don’t run into Grayson, though. It’s a big city, and he’s probably in New Zealand, anyway.
Back in Seagrove, I open a bottle of wine and try to drink enough to forget how much I just spent. It doesn’t work. Mostly, I just go to bed wondering if I’ve made a gigantic mistake.
But when everything arrives and my home fills with light, bright fabrics and warm wood, I suddenly live in a different house. My house, complete with pops of color in the form of vibrant purple throw pillows and actual artwork on the walls instead of grayscale pictures of buildings.
Not a prison, but a haven. Lit by lantern light.
The only room I leave untouched is Michael’s office, where the divorce papers and magazine clippings still cover the floor.
I don’t know which intimidates me more, so I never once open the door.