Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lennon
“Done!”
I lean back in the armchair, admiring the soft ballet pink now coating Tessa’s nails. The color looks perfect against her skin and is exactly what she would have chosen herself. I cap the nail polish bottle with a satisfying click and set it on the small table between us.
“What do you think?” I ask, even though I know she won’t answer. “I think it’s very you. Understated but pretty.”
Tessa stares out the window at the leaves swirling in the afternoon breeze, her hands resting limply on the arms of her reading chair.
The fresh polish gleams on her nails, which looked so sad the last time I visited.
Neglected. Wrong in a way that tugged at my heart harder than it should have.
Tessa never let them get like that—French tips or solid colors, nothing wild like mine, but always pristine. Her nails mattered to her.
I know they still matter.
People think little rituals stop mattering when bigger tragedies move in. They don’t. Sometimes they matter more because they’re the last place a person still looks like themselves.
I’ve been here for hours now, way longer than I meant to stay, but last night was something. So when I woke late in the morning, heavy and disoriented, I needed my best friend.
If I couldn’t reach her in dreams, I’d be near her the only way left.
Even silent company counts when you’re lonely enough.
I grabbed my nail kit and stopped for coffee and croissants, one for Nora, one for me, and one for Tessa, fully aware that only two of us would be eating, then drove over, still half wrapped in exhaustion.
I shift in my chair, tucking one leg under me as I study her profile.
“So, where were we? Right. Paul hitting me with his car, which, yeah, still insane, but get this.” I lean forward conspiratorially, even though she’s not looking at me.
“He showed up at the inn last night with the tumbler I bought and had with me when he hit me. One of those insulated ones? Were they already a thing in our twenties? Anyway. He washed it and filled it with ice water, Tess. Ice water. Who does that?”
The wind picks up outside, rattling the window, but Tessa doesn’t react.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I continue, reaching for my nail polish bag and rummaging through it. “You’re thinking he’s only doing this because he feels guilty. That’s what I keep telling myself too. But Nevan thinks Paul’s actually interested. Which is ridiculous, obviously.”
I find my favorite yellow polish and pull it out, frowning when I see how low it is.
“Damn. Almost empty.”
Story of my life lately. Everything good is running low at once.
I dig back into the bag and pull out a peach shade instead. “But yeah, the dinner shift last night was fun. Nevan’s great to work with. He’s… I don’t know, he’s kind and funny when he’s not tripping over his own feet. He’s cute.”
I ignore the heat that fills my cheeks when I think about how I kissed the dream version of him last night and twist open the peach polish and carefully start painting my left hand.
“Oh, and he said he wants to be friends, which is… nice. Really nice, actually. I mean, obviously, nobody could ever replace you, Tess. You know that. But it’s good to have a friend again.
And if you count his little brother, Jasper, that’s two, which is more than I’ve had in a long time.
At least real friends. I think they’re not the kind to talk bad behind my back like Sienna and Aubrey.
” I finish my left hand and blow on the nails.
“But yeah, I’d rather have your advice. You were always better at telling me when I was being an idiot.
“I’d rather have a lot of things.” Your voice, your coffee orders. How you used to call me Dolly when you thought I was being particularly idiotic, which was often, and which I always pretended to hate.
“I used to call you every day, did you know that? After you… went under. I kept picking up my phone to call you. And I left you voice messages. Nora said she played them for you. I don’t know how many of them you heard, but it’s not like they were important. Just little things. Every day things.”
Damn. I miss talking with her.
“I’m sorry my voice notes have gotten fewer over the years. But I’m going to try again tonight,” I tell her, switching the brush to my other hand. “The lucid dreaming thing. And then maybe you’ll show up and tell me what you think about all of this. About Paul and Nevan and Ri—”
My phone pings from inside my purse, and I freeze mid-stroke, staring at my half-painted thumbnail. “Dammit.”
Carefully, I set the brush back in the bottle and reach for my phone with the tips of my fingers, trying not to smudge anything. The screen lights up with a text notification, and my heart does a stupid little flip when I see the name.
Paul
Are you home? I’m in front of your door.
“Oh my God,” I breathe out, staring at the message. “It’s Paul.”
I look at Tessa as if she might have some wisdom to offer, but she keeps staring out the window. Checking the time, I see that it’s already four o’clock. Shit.
“Okay, okay, I have to go.” I’m already moving, shoving the nail polish back into my bag with clumsy fingers, barely screwing the cap on properly. “I’m sorry, I know I just got here… well, I’ve been here for hours, but…”
I grab my purse and lean down to press a quick kiss to Tessa’s cheek.
“I’ll be back,” I promise. “Soon. And maybe when I manage to actually go lucid tonight, you can yell at me about whatever dumb thing I’m doing.”
I’m halfway to the door when I remember my nails are still wet, and I have to hold my hands up like a surgeon as I navigate the hallway and the stairs.
Nora appears in the foyer as I’m fumbling with the front door handle, her elegant eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Lennon? Is everything all right?”
“I’m late!” I blurt, finally getting the door open. “But I’ll be back soon, I promise!”
She laughs, a warm sound that follows me out onto the porch. “Drive safe, honey.”
I’m already jogging toward my Beetle, hands still held awkwardly in front of me, my purse bouncing against my hip with every step.
He’s at my door. Paul is at my door. Right now.
My heart hammers as I carefully yank open the car door so I don’t smudge my nails and slide into the driver’s seat.
This is fine. Everything is fine. It’s just Paul.
Just Paul, who smells like espresso and looks at me as if I’m something precious.
I start the engine and pull out of the driveway, probably a little faster than I should, my still-wet nails drumming anxiously against the steering wheel the whole way there.
When I finally pull onto my street, I spot the black truck immediately, parked right next to where my Beetle usually sits.
“Bennett Logging” is painted in bold white letters on the side.
My stomach does that stupid fluttery thing again, and I have to take a breath before I can even think about parking.
This means nothing.
I slide into my usual spot, cut the engine, and sit there, staring at the truck. It’s guilt. That’s all this is. He feels guilty for running me over with his car, so he’s being nice. Perfectly rational. If I’d hurt a stranger, I would at least cook for them for a month. Maybe two.
I grab my purse and the nail polish bag, checking my nails one more time. Still a little tacky, but they’ll have to do. Carefully, I push open the car door with my elbow and slide out, heart fluttering again when I look up at my window.
Yeah, okay, maybe it’s a crush.
The thought hits me as I’m closing the car door with my hip, staring at my blushing reflection in the window.
Fine. It’s a crush.
Which feels wildly unfair, considering he hit me with a car.
It can be a crush and still not go anywhere. I’m very good at having feelings I don’t act on. Months of learning to want things quietly and then talking myself out of them in Spencer’s bathroom mirror have made me excellent at it.
A crush can be just a crush. It can just sit in my chest like a warm rock, without needing to become anything.
I agreed to the whole “help each other with our crushes” thing so I could help Nevan with Sydney, because watching him fumble around her is painful, and I genuinely want him to be happy. I don’t think for a second that he could actually help me with anything Paul-related, though.
Because Paul is only here because of guilt.
Maybe I need to think it five hundred times more before my heart gets the memo.
I have to use my elbow to open the building door, wedging myself against the heavy frame until it swings open. Of all the times for my nail polish to still be wet. At the elevator, I jab the button with my knuckle, then stand there bouncing on my heels while I wait, my nerves buzzing.
He’s waiting for you. Right now. At your door.
The elevator arrives with a tired groan, and I step inside, pressing my floor button with another careful knuckle-jab. The slow ascent feels eternal, and I use every second of it to have a very firm conversation with myself.
He feels guilty. That’s it. That’s the whole explanation.
The fact that my stomach is currently behaving like I’m fifteen and about to knock on a boy’s front door for the first time is embarrassing and unhelpful and needs to stop immediately.
It doesn’t stop.
The elevator lurches to a halt, and my stomach goes with it. The doors slide open with their usual reluctant groan, and I take one breath before I step out into the hallway.
He’s still there.
Leaning against my door with his back pressed to it, arms crossed over his chest, ankles crossed casually like he’s been waiting a while. His long legs stretch out in front of him, and beside him, stacked neatly against the wall, are several large cardboard boxes.
He hasn’t seen me yet, and for a single suspended second, I stand in the hallway, heart doing stupid things, thinking that Paul Bennett looks completely at ease outside my door, that this is either very good or very bad, and I cannot tell which.
Not to mention how good he’s looking while he’s doing it.