Chapter 33
thirty-three
PRESENT DAY
KATE
“For the last time, Anthony! I’m on a call!” Amantha yells.
I wince, holding my phone away from my ear as I peruse my closet. My suitcase lays blown open on the bed behind me, already brimming with more swimsuits, sundresses, and sandals than I could ever use for a week-long vacation.
The mosh pit of butterflies throwing a rager in my stomach is making me nauseous. They’ve been nonstop since two nights ago when Brandon agreed to come to Marisol Bay.
“Amantha, helppp,” I whine.
“Sorry, girl. I’m focusing, I promise. I’m also trying to do laundry before the work week starts tomorrow, and Anthony won’t stop bugging me about a science experiment.”
Amantha regroups. “Okay. Let me get this straight. You got snowed in with Brandon at a motel, you guys slept together, you asked him to be your fake boyfriend, he got weird, you guys fought in the boxing ring, then he agreed to come on your family vacay?”
My mouth flaps. “There was so much wrong with that.”
“Am I at least close?” Amantha grunts, and I can picture her lifting a laundry basket.
“Kinda.”
“Good enough. So what’s the emergency?”
“I’m backsliding! That’s what!” I wail, dismissing outfit after outfit into a heap on my closet floor.
“Kate, backsliding means going back to a guy that’s bad for you. Brandon is great. I’ve always rooted for you guys to give this another shot.”
“A fake shot.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Amantha’s voice turns irritated as she shouts, “Anthony! For the freaking last time, I. Am. On. A. Call!” She sighs. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“You were telling me this was a horrible idea and to call everything off.”
Amantha snorts. “No, I was not. I really don’t get your hesitation here. You’ve grown. He’s grown. You two are completely new people than you were back then. Why not ditch the ‘fake’ title and try things out for real?”
Because I feel more like a hot mess than ever, and disappointing Brandon now that I know what he’s been through terrifies me.
He’s a good guy. He deserves a good girl.
“Because I don’t want to,” I say.
“You are too stubborn for your own good, I swear,” Amantha says. “You’ll figure it—ANTHONY FRANK WILLIS WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU DOING?!”
A muffled bang sounds from deep within the call.
“Holy sh—I gotta go, Kate. Anthony just blew up my kitchen. Ew! What kind of goo even is this?”
The call drops before I can say goodbye.
I chuckle as warm affection for my friend and her nutty son fills my chest.
A peek at my phone chases it away and spanks my butterflies back into action.
I have a new text.
BEFORE YOU DO, DON’T: Hey. Thought it might be a good idea to set some ground rules before we leave for Marisol Bay. You free today?
I bite my lip, debating as I rename Brandon’s contact info. Judging from the category five hurricane of awkwardness we endured at work on Friday, a reset sounds necessary.
KATE: I’m free. When and where?
brANDON: 10 o’ clock? I’ll drop a location pin from my phone.
KATE: Sounds good.
My wild eyes whip to the time, then to the mirror.
I’m still wearing rumpled pajama shorts and a baggy t-shirt that drapes off my shoulder.
My messy bun could pass for a bird’s nest. Panic skirts up my spine.
I bolt from my room toward Liza’s, intent on thieving her curling iron that heats faster than mine.
Someone speaks, and I crumple like a stringless puppet.
“Where’s the fire?” Liza asks calmly from the couch, sitting primly in jeans and a knit sweater. Her brown eyes are amused atop her mug of tea.
“I didn’t hear you come home last night.” I pant, collecting my limbs.
“Obviously.” She laughs, then takes another sip. “Whatcha doing?”
“Meeting Brandon.”
“Oooh la la.” She tucks her knees to her chest with a wide grin.
Her glowing happiness reminds me that I never told Liza this whole thing is a sham. Guilt pinches the edges of my stomach like a humble pie in the making. I usually tell Liza everything. She must see the worry on my face, because hers soon mirrors mine.
“What’s going on?” Her sigh of disappointment is palpable. “I thought you were finally going to be happy.”
For some reason, her choice of words rubs me like sandpaper. Perhaps they sound too much like Mom, or maybe my feelings are too tied up in knots. Either way, I can’t quite bring myself to fess up.
“I am happy,” I insist. “It’s just that Brandon only gave me forty-five minutes before I’m supposed to meet him, and I don’t know what to wear.”
Liza brightens instantly. “Come on. I’ve got just the thing.”
In no time, I’m standing in front of the entryway mirror wearing Liza’s latest purchase—a high-waisted pleated miniskirt. Paired with my thigh high black boots, bodysuit, and a loose black cardigan, I look casual enough for a day date, but fancy enough to make knots twist in my stomach.
Do I want Brandon to see that I put in extra effort for him? Nothing about the way I look says platonic friend.
“Don’t get weird, Kate. You look fantastic. Plus, he’s your boyfriend. He’s gonna think you’re sexy no matter what.”
I paste on a smile, threading my arms through my cream overcoat. “Thanks.”
She squeezes me before shoving me toward the door. “Have fun!”
I stumble out the door with a laugh. The door clicks behind me, and I almost crush a cardboard box beneath my boot. All amusement vanishes as I pick up the box.
It’s another nondescript delivery, but the unease twisting in my gut already knows who it’s from.
I whip my head to survey the area. The community gates are closed, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have glitched earlier.
My skin crawls with the thought that Liza and I have both been home all night and all morning. H.Y. stood here, in this very spot.
I breathe through my nose for a moment before opening the box.
Piled in the bottom of the box are loose leaf papers of various sizes. I flip the top one over before realizing they aren’t papers at all.
They’re photos.
Of me.
My stomach convulses so hard, I have to breathe through my nose.
A photo of me in my pink sports bra at the gym. The back of my head as I ascend the museum steps. A twilight soaked photo of me at the Lunar New Year Parade a few nights ago.
A note is scrawled on a jagged piece of paper.
So you never forget how beautiful you are each and every day. - Hopefully Yours
Clutching my pepper spray, I fling myself into my cab and order the driver to “go.”
The cardboard box that will haunt my nightmares watches me leave from where I ditched it behind our front shrubbery. Terror doesn’t begin to describe the vise around my lungs. It’s one thing to suspect you’re being followed but another entirely to see proof.
Proof.
Is it enough to take to the police? I bite my lip, sinking against the backrest. Involving authorities makes it seem like this whole thing is very, terrifyingly real.
Doesn’t a perpetrator have to have motive before the police will offer protection?
H.Y. is creepy as all hell, but they’ve never threatened to hurt me.
If anything, their method of communication seems like a boundary-ignorant crush on steroids.
I relax my grip on my pepper spray. All of this will blow over once H.Y. sees me with Brandon. If it doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.
The cab rolls to a stop, and my poor heart skips again as my eyes catch on a leaning figure against the building.
Brandon is sporting a thick hunter green fisherman’s sweater beneath a leather jacket. He smirks at me, glancing up at the cafe awning.
My eyes follow his, and I read the large, emboldened text across the cafe.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” The words hang under my breath as I step out of the cab. “Roasted?” I shoot Brandon a look, and he laughs. “You wanted to meet at Roasted?”
His smile is blinding against his tanned skin. “Of course. I remembered how much you liked this place.”
I try to maintain my annoyance even as a laugh slips out. The laugh feels good, feels normal. One look at Brandon tells me I’m safe now. My lungs expand with my first full breath in twenty minutes.
He offers an arm, acting every bit the fake boyfriend. “Let’s get inside, love.”
I’m besieged by a blast of sugary-scented air, followed by the tang of bitter coffee. Brandon places a hand on my lower back, guiding me to a corner table before heading off to order for us. A tiny smile climbs my cheeks, because I’m not worried in the slightest. He knows me. Knows what I like.
That thought alone fills my chest with heat.
Sure enough, he returns with an iced matcha latte, an Americano for him, and three glazed croissants. He slides beside me in the booth, close enough that we’re almost touching.
“You remembered our order?” I take the latte and one of the croissants, leaving the other two for him.
“Yup.” Brandon’s grin is lopsided, endearing, and stirring up way too many feral butterflies. His green sweater sets the emerald hue of his eyes ablaze, leaving me fumbling for words.
“Rules,” I sputter. “You texted something about rules.” I busy myself with a long pull of my drink.
He tenses for a millisecond before he nods.
“Yeah, rules. I thought about it, and I wanna make sure we’re both comfortable in this…”
It’s like he can’t even bring himself to say “relationship.”
“Situation.” He rallies with a tight smile. “I’ll play the part in front of whoever you want, but by ourselves…we gotta stay just friends.”
I hear the strain in his voice, as if the words were physically painful for him to say. Even though I wholeheartedly agree, I can’t deny that it knocks me down a peg or two.
“That’s a good idea,” I agree. “But what about… erm… physical affection? We both know I don’t shy away from PDA.”
Brandon laughs at this. “Trust me, I remember. And I’ll do my best to sell it all, but…” His expression pulls taut again. “Kissing you is a bad idea, Kate…” He traces the rim of his coffee mug, staring deeply into it. “Not unless it’s real.”
I grow roots, but the atmosphere carries on around us.
“But, do… you…want it to be real?” My question is a breath, a whisper toward a skittish animal.
Brandon drags a hand from his sharp cheekbone to the light dusting of stubble he skipped shaving this morning.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Do you?”
“I…don’t know, either,” I reply.
He huffs, and I balk at the frustrated sound.
“See?” I say, angling my body to face him in the booth. “This whole thing is already causing issues. Brandon, I don’t want to make everything worse!”
“Worse? Worse than what, Kate?” Brandon rakes a hand through his hair. “Worse than us not being friends, or not being able to be civil for the last six years?”
My mind spins at the sudden turn into an argument.
“We are friends,” I say. “And I can be civil.”
“Prove it, then,” Brandon says. “Be civil. Show me what being friends looks like. Show me that you care.”
A flicker of pain lances his expression, and remorse twists in my stomach. I do want Brandon in my life, but can I maintain a complacent relationship with a man that sets my very soul on fire? Or am I only going to disappoint him by breaking his heart the second time around?
“I do care,” I say weakly.
His expression softens more with each passing second. “Then that’s all I need to know. We’ll stay friends who care about each other, even after this is all over.”
Over? Is he already looking forward to our week-long expiration date? Does he regret agreeing to this already? Is he going to stick around long enough for H.Y. to believe we’re together?
I swallow another sip, trying to force optimism into my smile.
“It’s a deal, friend.”