Chapter 22
Wade
The mayor is halfway through thanking the volunteers who helped organize the party when Ari leans toward me and whispers, “We’re at seven meaningful looks at Lisa Ellis, four for Sharon Price, and only two for Genevieve Hazleton.
If Mayor Monroe wants to keep the rumors alive that he’s dating all of these women, he’s going to have to spread the wealth a little better. ”
We started keeping score halfway through his speech, once we realized Mayor Monroe was subtly flirting with half the women in the audience from the podium.
I choke on a laugh.
Unfortunately, the sound carries.
Mayor Monroe pauses mid-sentence and looks at me.
“Oh, dear,” Ari whispers. “That’s one meaningful look for Wade Stevenson. I didn’t know you were in the running for the mayor’s heart.”
I laugh again. This time, half the room spins to look at us before turning back to the speech.
“We’re going to get kicked out,” she mutters while trying not to move her lips, and it’s kind of cute what that does to her expression.
Mayor Monroe finally finishes, and the party begins to break apart around us. But all I can think about is how I don't want to get caught talking to random people. Or to my brother Ryan, and his wife, Lily, who just walked in the back.
I just want to spend time with Ari. Alone. Leaving the party isn’t the smartest thing for our fake-dating arrangement, but who cares?
I stand, holding out my hand to her. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Ari looks up. “Where?”
Before she can argue, I grab her hand. Not because anyone’s watching. It just feels like the fastest way to get her moving. She lets me pull her from her chair. We weave through the crowd, saying quick goodbyes to people we can’t avoid on our way out.
The cool September air hits us the second we step outside.
“I love this time of night.” Ari takes a deep breath, her head falling back as she looks at the stars. “It’s so peaceful.”
The night feels softer than it did earlier. The town square glows beneath streetlights. Music from the party drifts faintly through the open activity-center doors.
I shoot her a side smile. “Is it the time of night? Or is it distinctly Autumn Ridge that’s so peaceful?”
She smiles. “Maybe a little of both.”
Our hands separate somewhere between the church steps and the sidewalk. I don’t even notice exactly when. Ari starts toward my truck parked across the street. I catch her elbow and tug her the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?”
“How about a walk?”
For a second, she just studies me. Then she lifts her shoulders. “Okay.”
And just like that, we’re heading toward the river.
The sidewalks are mostly empty this time of night. A few business lights from Main Street pour over the pavement. I shrug off my jacket and put it around her shoulders, letting my hands linger for a moment before I force them to drop.
“Ah”—she smiles back at me as she shoves her arms into the sleeves—“such a gentleman.”
“I have my moments.”
For a while, neither of us says much. And weirdly, it isn’t awkward.
It’s nice.
Comfortable.
The kind of silence that makes me think maybe we should walk slower.
“I forgot to check and see if Ashtyn was watching us at dinner,” she says.
That surprises me. Because now that she says it… “Same with me. Was she even there?”
I think back through the entire evening. The party. Dinner. The speech. The fake-dating war. And I realize something amazing. I hadn’t looked for Ashtyn once.
“Oh, she was there. I saw her right when we walked in.”
“Huh.” I kick a pebble with the toe of my shoe.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
But it’s not nothing. For the first time in weeks, I forgot to be worried about the teenage menace who’s currently ruining my life.
“All that effort at dinner, and I didn't even get to see if it paid off.” Ari tsks.
I puff out a laugh because I know I would’ve enjoyed seeing Ashtyn’s reaction too.
“We’re lucky my mom wasn’t there tonight. She’d have hated every second of our little performance.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You combing my mustache might’ve convinced her we’re made for each other,” I joke, but Ari takes it seriously.
“No.” She looks toward the river. “She still would’ve said you were bad for me.”
Something about the way she says it makes me glance over. “And why is that?” I ask the question even though I know I won’t like the answer.
“It’s what she used to say about Andy.”
The name hangs between us like an unexpected reveal.
I keep my voice casual. “Your ex-fiancé?”
“At first, that was exactly why I liked him—because my mom didn’t like him.”
“That checks out with everything that I know about you.”
“He surfed all the time. Had a motorcycle. Was charming.”
None of that sounds like me. Except for the charming part.
“But did he have a ‘stache?”
This gets me a smile. “No, he did not.”
“Alright, if he didn’t have a ‘stache, then what was it about him specifically that your mom didn’t like?”
“He just didn’t seem responsible or stable. He wasn’t a sure bet. He represented everything she didn’t want for me, which naturally made me want him more.”
Of course it did. That’s the most Ari thing I’ve ever heard.
“I knew he wasn’t end-game material.”
That catches my attention. “You did?”
“Absolutely.” There’s no hesitation. No uncertainty. Just honesty. “I knew exactly who he was. I just thought eventually he’d become somebody else or at least grow up a little more.”
Suddenly, I understand. Everybody thinks Andy fooled her, but that’s not what happened. Ari fooled herself. Not because she’s stupid. Because she hoped. She trusted a man she shouldn’t have.
And that’s almost worse.
“He couldn’t keep a job,” she continues. “He always wanted to surf, or play video games, or go on some adventure with his friends. He needed a car, but his credit was awful, so I cosigned.”
“You cosigned?”
“We were engaged.” She lifts one shoulder. “It was our car, and he promised he’d make the payments.” Ari’s laugh has no real humor behind it. “He didn’t.”
We stop on the bridge without even discussing it. The river flows beneath us, dark and steady, like the background music to our conversation.
“He started disappearing on surf trips. Sometimes for weeks.”
My stomach sinks.
“I’d be teaching school while he was off at the beach somewhere. If he missed a car payment, I’d cover it.”
“Ari…”
She keeps talking like she needs to finish now that she’s started. “Then, last May, he called off the engagement. He packed up his stuff while I was at work, and he left.”
I stare at her, watching how she uses a casual shoulder shrug to protect herself from the pain.
“He kept the car. He still has it.”
“You’re still paying for it?”
Ari looks away, which is answer enough.
“Ari.”
“I know. But if I stop, my credit gets destroyed.” She shrugs again. “That’s why I had to move home. I couldn’t pay for an apartment, my car, and his car. I was out of money. Plus, all his friends were my friends, and once he left, I had nobody.”
I don’t say anything. She doesn’t need me to give advice or anything like that. She just needs me to listen.
“But the worst part about coming back to your hometown is telling everyone your life story like it’s some kind of coherent story you endorse.”
This makes me smile. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I’d endorse my own life story either.”
“Oh, come on. You’re the principal.”
“Barely.” I laugh.
She faces me on the bridge, letting her hip rest against the railing. “Well, it’s more than I have going for me.”
We stand there, just looking at each other.
The wind lifts a strand of hair across her face, and without thinking, I reach up and tuck it behind her ear. The second I do, everything changes.
Ari goes still.
So do I.
Because nobody’s watching.
Nobody needs convincing.
And yet my hand remains there for one second too long, tangling into her hair, and I don’t know why. But even more confusing, why does she let me do it?
A dog barks somewhere down the river trail, breaking the spell.
I drop my hand and clear my throat. “I should probably get you home. We don’t want Barb to worry.”
She agrees because we both know the one thing Ari doesn’t need right now is another Andy in her life. And right now, that’s exactly who her mom thinks I am, and perception is reality even when it might not be true.