Chapter 24
I KNOW EXACTLY HOW YOU TASTE AT THREE IN THE MORNING.
BILLIE
The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Someone’s built a fire in the pit. It’s beautiful. Perfect. Everything should feel right.
Instead, I feel like I’m slowly suffocating.
I’m pulling out my phone to check the time—to see whether I’ve been here long enough to make a polite exit—when Kennedy appears again, this time with her arm settling casually around my shoulders and jostling me a bit.
“Cold?” she asks. “We could move closer to the fire.”
It’s friendly. Casual. Means nothing.
But across the yard, I see Darcy’s face when he notices. See the way he goes completely still. See the exact moment he turns and walks inside the house without a word to the people he’d been talking to. It’s completely unlike him.
“I’m—I need to—bathroom,” I stammer, pulling away from Kennedy. “Be right back.”
I don’t wait for her response. Just head for the house, following the path Darcy took. I find him in Neve’s kitchen, standing at the sink, with his hands braced on the counter, head down.
“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” My words come out accusatory. Mean. But I can’t stop myself. “Get Neve to set me up so I’d stop… what? Tempting you?”
He spins around, eyes flashing. “Are you serious?”
“You’re the one who keeps reminding me we need to be professional and friendly and—”
“I’m also reminding myself. You think I wanted to watch Kennedy touch you all night?” His voice is low, dangerous. “You think that’s what I want?”
“So what, then? You don’t like that Neve set me up with a woman? My bisexuality bothers you?” I’m digging deep here. He didn’t seem fazed by my being with a woman in Halifax, but who knows if it was all an act.
“Elizabeth.” My name is molasses on his tongue. Slow and dark. “The gender and sexual orientation of the person making you laugh, touching you, or flirting with you doesn’t concern me in the slightest. That’s not what’s bothering me. That never was and never will be an issue.”
I take a step back, heart pounding. “You’ve been avoiding me. Making polite small talk like we’re strangers.”
“Because that’s what you asked for!” He moves closer, and there’s barely controlled emotion in every line of his body. “You said professional. Friendly. Civil. You set the rules, Beth. I’m trying to follow them.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? Because it reminds you of Halifax? Of when we weren’t pretending?” Another step closer. “Of when you let yourself feel something?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Here we go again,” he scoffs. I hate the sound. “No, what’s not fair is asking me to act like I don’t know you when I know exactly how you taste at three in the morning. What’s not fair is watching you smile at some other person when—” He stops himself, jaw clenching.
“When what?” I push, even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though this is dangerous territory.
“When it should be me.” His words are barely above a whisper.
Suddenly, the kitchen feels too small. Too hot. He’s too close and not close enough, and I can’t breathe.
“Darcy—”
“No, you asked. So I’m telling you. It should be me making you laugh.
Me knowing how you take your coffee, and not thanks to the barista who knows everyone’s orders.
Me meeting you after work and hearing about your day.
” His eyes are blazing now, all the careful control gone.
“It should be me, and we both know it, but you’re too scared to—”
“I’m not scared.”
“Liar.” He says it softly, which somehow makes it worse.
“Stop calling me that. I hate lies. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? Then tell me—do you feel anything for her? Kennedy. The perfectly nice carpenter who checks all your boxes and doesn’t come with any complications.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Can’t find the right words.
“That’s what I thought.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I do. I’m the wrong person at the wrong time with the wrong life and—”
“Stop,” I plead, but he doesn’t relent.
“—and you’re right to keep me at arm’s length because I can’t give you what you need—”
“Peter, stop.” The use of his first name freezes him mid-sentence. “You’re not wrong. You’re not—” My voice cracks. “This isn’t about you being wrong.”
“Then what is it about?”
How do I explain it? The fear. The certainty that anything this good, this intense, can’t possibly last. I’ll ruin it somehow. He’ll realize I’m too messy, too broken, too everything.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I finally admit, gesturing between us. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”
His laugh is humorless. “What I need is you. That’s it.
Just you. The woman who talks a mile a minute when she’s excited.
Who brings the wrong tools to job sites because she got distracted.
Who ordered Leo’s favorite cake two weeks in advance and pretends she doesn’t care much.
” He takes one more step, close enough I can feel his warmth.
“You think, what? You’re too much? Or you’re not enough for me? You’re everything.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at him as my heart tries to beat out of my chest.
“The thing is,” he continues, voice rough, “I meant what I said. I’ll follow your lead.
If you want professional, I’ll be professional.
If you want friendly, I’ll be your friend.
If you want me to stand here and watch you build a life with someone else, I’ll do that, too, even though it’ll kill me.
” He reaches up, like he’s going to touch my face, then drops his hand.
“But I need you to be honest. With me. With yourself. What do you actually want?”
“I—” The words stick in my throat.
“Outside, everyone.” Neve’s voice calls from the doorway, making us both jump. “Leo’s about to make his speech.”
We stare at each other for one more loaded second, then Darcy steps back, the inches between us suddenly feeling like miles.
“We should go,” he says, voice carefully neutral again. “Don’t want to miss it.”
He walks past me, and I let him go, frozen in place as I try to remember how to breathe normally.
By the time I make it outside, everyone’s gathered around the fire. Leo looks surprisingly at ease, given his anxiety, but it’s further proof of how comfortable he is here, with these people. Of course, it also helps that he’s got Neve tucked under his arm as he’s mid-speech:
“—never would have imagined this. Any of this. This place, these people, this life. I came here because I needed to figure out who I was without work defining me. Turns out, I’m someone who’s lucky enough to have found home in the last place I expected.”
His eyes find Darcy’s, and something passes between them. “Lucky enough to have my best friend visit us. Lucky enough to meet the woman who changed everything.”
There are collective “aww”s from the crowd. Neve’s crying. I’m trying to hold it together.
“So thank you. All of you. For being part of this. For making Balsam Bay feel like home.” He raises his beer. “To found family, second chances, and really good ice cream cake.” He flashes me a smile, and I nearly collapse under the weight of it.
“To Leo!” everyone choruses.
And through it all, I catch Darcy’s eye across the crowd. He’s looking at me with an expression that makes my heart ache—raw and open and wanting.
Then someone asks him something, and he turns away, and I’m left standing there with Kennedy’s hand on my lower back—when did she get here?—more alone than I have felt in months.
The party continues. The fire gets built up. Kennedy stays close, and I go through the motions of being present while my mind replays Darcy’s words over and over.
What do you actually want?
Around ten, I make my excuses. Tell Kennedy it was good to meet her, even accept her number when she offers it. I won’t call—we both probably know that. I hug Neve and wish Leo a happy birthday one more time.
I don’t look for Darcy. Don’t say goodbye. Just slip away and drive home with my mind racing and my heart aching and no answers to any of the questions that matter.
At home, I change into pajamas and crawl into bed, Kennedy’s number still crumpled in my pocket.
I pull it out. Look at it for a long moment.
Then I get up, walk to my kitchen trash, and throw it away.
Because Neve’s right. I am an idiot.
And Darcy’s right, too. I am scared.
But mostly? I’m tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of running. Tired of lying to myself about what I want.
I just don’t know if I’m brave enough to do anything about it, and that fact doesn’t have anything to do with my hormones and which phase of my cycle I’m in.