Chapter 32
Love and Other Perishables
It’s been days since the Quinn mess, and Gavin and I have barely exchanged syllables, let alone made eye contact. This morning, he looked like a ghost of himself: dark under eye circles, shirt wrinkled, tie missing, not even pretending to read The Wall Street Journal. Before he left for a two-day work trip, he set his phone on the counter while he hunted for his keys. The screen lit up with a stack of missed calls, all from Olivia.
Whatever’s happening, he won’t tell me. But it’s eating him alive.
And I’m still mad. Or confused. Or both.
The house is too quiet, and I am having way too many arguments with myself. I need to get out. Breathe some different air.
I drive into town for eggs and yogurt and maybe—let’s be honest—just to feel a little less like I’m pacing in my own brain.
Island Market has been family-owned since 1897, and it still feels like it. There’s a community corkboard covered in handwritten notes about lost keys and found kayaks, shelves stocked with handmade sourdough hearth loaves from Orcas Island Bakery, too many kinds of kombucha, and air scented with island-grown pears.
The magazine rack by the register is small: Bon Appétit, Food & Wine, Magnolia. Because Orcas Island does elderberry syrup and hand milled soap by Island Thyme, but it doesn’t do gossip rags.
Or so I thought.
I spot a woman in pristine white hiking boots and a fur-trimmed Arc’teryx jacket that’s never seen a trail and makes zero sense in September—she’s clearly not from here—holding a copy of National Enquirer. The tabloid looks like it stowed away in her tote from Sea-Tac, its crinkled pages as loud and misplaced as her outerwear. It’s like a flamingo appeared in the Arctic.
On the cover: a photo of a couple leaving The Plaza Hotel. Even from five feet away, I recognize the curve of Olivia’s cheek. And Quinn’s jawline.
Headline: Sweetheart Host Olivia Wood in Tryst with Ex.
Subheading: Spotted Leaving Plaza Hotel the Morning After.
My stomach drops.
I step closer, heart pounding. “Excuse me. Could I borrow that for a sec?” I ask the woman. She hands it to me, amused.
I stare at the page. It’s definitely them. Olivia and Quinn. She’s tucked under his arm, her hand pressed to his chest, his lips inches from her ear. The Plaza’s gold revolving door glints behind them like a spotlight.
Suddenly, everything makes sense.
Gavin isn’t moody. He’s devastated.
And I’ve been too busy being mad to see it.
I rush outside and call Patricia. My fingers are trembling as I type her name.
“Is it true?” I ask, before she can even say hello.
She sighs. “You saw the photos.”
“Yes.”
“It’s true. Gavin just got confirmation yesterday. His PR team was trying to get ahead of it, but it’s already out.”
“What can I do?”
There’s a pause. Then:
“Chocolate croissant bread pudding,” she says.