Chapter Twenty-Two
Peyton stared through the windshield, her hands gripping the steering wheel, the ball of her foot hovering just above the gas pedal. Her phone lay on the seat next to her, its screen facing down. The car was still in the driveway. It hadn’t moved since she climbed into it fifteen minutes ago.
She was going nowhere. Not while her mind was moving in crazy circles, contemplating everything she had learned about herself in the last year, the weeks she had spent with Josie, and how she felt about the woman.
A blur of images, voices, and touches made her feel like she was trapped in a wild, chaotic carnival ride with no way off.
When Josie messaged her that morning, she had been more than ready to meet her at Morro Rock Beach, to tell her that nothing had changed, that Sorel showing up out of thin air was shocking, though not important.
But then Sorel had showed up at Peyton’s house that afternoon with pictures from her trip, eager to share every detail of her life over the last year.
And although Peyton wanted to rip each one into tatters, she sat there patiently.
Sorel’s knee bumped against hers, and she was oohing and aahing at each memory captured in a photo.
When Josie had called again, just once more, right before their meeting at the beach, Peyton had wanted nothing more than to make the drive over there and confess her feelings.
She wanted to tell Josie that she was the reason she felt so alive again, that Josie was the magic potion reviving Peyton, the sad, wilted rose.
But even then, Peyton hadn’t kicked Sorel out.
Instead, she had made each of them a cup of tea, and listened to Sorel go on and on about Francesca and the family she had met sailing along Madagascar and how she could imagine them doing something like that.
Peyton hadn’t even bothered to remind her that she got seasick just looking at boats and that living on one for an extended period of time would probably kill her—not that Sorel didn’t already know that.
Peyton felt like she was in the midst of a cold. Her brain was fuzzy, her body sluggish, her throat sore and phlegm-filled, making it difficult to speak.
Not that Sorel had noticed. She was speaking for both of them. Even commenting on the Halloween box set sitting like a trophy on the bookcase. “Ugh. I hate that movie,” she had said. “Can’t believe you’re still watching horrors, Peyton. Thought you had outgrown them at some point.”
Only after Sorel had left, promising to come back tomorrow—though Peyton had neither asked nor implied that she wanted a visit—had Peyton grabbed her car keys and headed outside.
But now it was already after seven p.m. It was too late to make up for all those unanswered calls, text messages and not showing up at the beach like she should have.
Was there a reason for that? A subconscious motivation for not meeting up with Josie? Did her brain already know something she hadn’t admitted to herself?
Peyton’s head was aching with all the questions. She touched two fingers to her right temple and rubbed in clockwise circles.
Fate.
It all came down to that silly cosmic force Josie so full-heartedly believed in.
But maybe there was something to it. Maybe Sorel, coming back after all these months, right in the middle of her new life, meant something important.
Maybe this was always how it was supposed to happen.
Maybe meeting Josie was just the interim before everything fell into place, and without Josie, she would never have healed enough to forgive Sorel.
The headache worsened.
Peyton tried to shove those thoughts out of her mind and instead concentrated on the leaves of the lemon tree whistling above her head.
The breeze was getting stronger. Rain was predicted for tonight, yet the only clouds in the sky were faint, wispy veils of white, barely substantial enough to block the sun, let alone bring rain.
Peyton started the car and reversed out of her driveway. Three minutes later, she was parked on the street in front of Madeline’s house.
Madeline opened the front door before Peyton even stepped onto the porch. “You look like shit,” she said when she reached her.
“Geez, thanks,” Peyton muttered, running her fingers through her thick hair. A knot stopped her, but instead of untangling it, she embraced the bird nest in her hair and walked into the square foyer. “You always know just what to say to make me feel better.”
“I try.”
Madeline’s house was sleek and stylish, and it shouted expensive taste.
The living room, kitchen, and dining room were basically one massive room with gaping windows taking up most of the wall facing the backyard.
There was a pool, a large deck, and a meditation nook with two hammocks strung up between the trees.
Every piece of furniture in that house came from a catalog and not from one of those big-box retailers like IKEA.
It all was thanks to her daddy’s money—Madeline was never shy about it—that she could afford to live in the more sought-after neighborhood with a much bigger house.
After Sorel had left, Madeline had begged Peyton to move in with her.
She told her not to worry about a thing, and that she could live there for as long as she wanted.
Peyton had taken up her offer for four months before discovering the listing for the house she had now.
Since she knew the place well, a second home of sorts, Peyton didn’t feel awkward ambling into the living room, grabbing one of the toffees sitting permanently in a glass bowl on the coffee table before she settled onto the couch.
“You know what this reminds me of,” said Madeline, standing in front of her, hands on her hips and her brows furrowed crossly.
“What?” Peyton sighed, not in the mood for a lecture. All she needed were wise words, some wisdom to tell her that she wasn’t the biggest idiot for letting Josie go, because that was exactly what she was doing, wasn’t she? She was letting Josie go.
“You’ve got the exact same look on your face that you had back then, right after Sorel left.”
“That’s not true. I looked way worse back then.”
“No,” Madeline said, shaking her head. “You didn’t. Your eyes are the same, glazed over like you’re fading or something.”
“Bullshit,” mumbled Peyton, looking away. The less Madeline got a look at her apparently glazed-over eyes, the better.
Madeline crossed the room and sat down beside Peyton, angling her body so that her knees were pushing right into Peyton’s left thigh. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“When you called on Saturday and said Sorel showed up at your door, I literally screamed. Mrs. Gunberry from next door even called the neighborhood watch to check on me. They thought I was being murdered.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” Peyton rolled her eyes.
“It wasn’t,” Madeline said, breathing in deep and then letting it go. “There’s something I need to tell you, Pey. A secret I’ve been keeping. And even though I could’ve told you when Sorel left, I didn’t want to rub salt into your already raw wounds.”
“What is it?”
“I never liked her,” Madeline replied, shaking her head, her face so deadpan, so serious, Peyton wanted to laugh.
It wasn’t a secret. In fact, it had always been glaringly obvious.
Whether it was the blank stares Madeline gave Sorel during their conversations, or the eye rolls whenever Sorel talked about the sea, her boat, yoga, or basically anything else, Madeline’s contempt was apparent.
Twice, when Madeline was blindingly drunk, she had whispered in Peyton’s ear, ‘I really don’t like your girlfriend. She’s kind of a bitch.’
But instead of laughing, Peyton patted Madeline’s knee. “I know.”
“Did I make it that obvious?”
“You did.”
“Well, not everyone is skilled at pretending to like someone.”
Peyton chuckled, feeling just a touch lighter than before she arrived. “At least you’re good at other things.”
“Like being a great friend,” said Madeline, rising. She then walked to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses out of the cupboard, along with a bottle of wine, and settled back onto the couch. “Do you know why I didn’t like her?” she asked, uncorking the bottle, and pouring each a glass.
“Is it necessary for you to tell me?” Peyton asked, her body tensing. Whatever the reason, she didn’t want to know, not now. Not while Sorel was inching back into her life.
Madeline handed Peyton a glass. “When you’re with Sorel, you look like you’re in greyscale.
It looks like somehow you’ve faded, the blood draining from your body.
And it wasn’t just at the end that I noticed it…
” She took a sip of her own wine as if steeling herself and continued.
“It was there from the beginning too, when you first started dating Sorel. You kind of just faded away, lost yourself. The real Peyton was gone. I just don’t want to see that happening again. ”
There were no words that could justify a reply.
Instead, Peyton looked down at the toffee she hadn’t bothered eating and placed the glass of wine on the table.
Her headache was back. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, closed her eyes briefly, and then turned back to her friend.
“She’s thinking of moving back to Los Osos.
Retiring Francesca. And I know what you’re going to say, but she seems different from before. Like she’s changed—”
“She hasn’t,” interrupted Madeline.
“Maybe things will be different this time.”
“It won’t,” said Madeline matter-of-factly. Her eyes were locked so tightly on Peyton’s face that she wondered if the woman had lost the ability to blink.
“You don’t know.”