Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Cleo
I towel my hair dry until it stops dripping, fold it across my knees, then slide into the lounge chair facing the glass. The ocean keeps throwing itself at the cliff. Today, the rhythm sounds more like a metronome than a threat, and for a wild second, I think I can breathe.
This morning after my therapy meeting where I discussed why I decided to leave my guys in the first place has brought a lot of memories. Memories of the first time I saw them together and I wanted to be one of the girls they picked up in a whim after a concert.
One of the girls who they chose because I was poised enough, beautiful enough and .
. . well they never looked at me that way.
At least that’s what I always thought. The reality was different, of course.
I remember the first time that they finally paid attention to me.
Roderick had OD and was in the hospital. They were the firsts to arrive.
Everyone thinks I’m the one who decided where to send him to therapy or paid for his apartment, or .
. . Eddie took charge of everything. They were there for me—for us.
Barret didn’t leave my side unless it was strictly necessary and once Rod was out of rehab.
I didn’t notice the caresses, the attention, the take charge moments until I was so in love with both of them.
Until I was sharing their bed and being who I wanted but afraid of what would happened when they were tired of me.
I regret not talking to them, not knowing what to do.
Wishing things had been different doesn’t change my present and right now I have to focus on healing—me, us and hope that we can have a future without me flinching every time I feel like I did something wrong.
While in my head, I don’t notice when Eddie and Barret come into the pool area together.
Eddie’s the first one. Sleeves rolled once, his shirt collar open like he’s trying to be less business-armor and more approachable human.
He sets a tray on the table: a teapot, a lemon, and a small jar of honey.
Barret follows, blanket over his arm, the guitar pick rolling between his fingers like a tiny, nervous drum.
He lays the blanket near my feet and doesn’t fuss to tuck it around me.
He leaves it within reach. It’s like they’re still not sure if they should get close without asking.
I guess it’s a matter of time . . . of trusting myself not to freak out.
I love these men, I really do. It’s just too hard not to flinch or wait for someone to strike.
“We need to talk,” Eddie says.
He lowers himself beside me as if closing a distance. Barret drops to the floor cross-legged, knees level with mine, eyes tracking the shape of my hands like a man studies a map.
“We spoke with the Bradleys, and it’s time to act. There are options,” Eddie begins.
His voice is clean and businesslike, which he probably uses in meetings. He explains what Arthur said—how the story will be arranged, how they’ll make it look like a life rerouted without anyone pinning blame in the wrong places.
They even have an alibi for them. When he finishes, he says, “It’s all up to you. Whatever you decide. We follow your lead.”
Lead? The word tastes sour in my mouth because I never wanted to lead anything.
Not shows, not headlines . . . not even when my mother tried to push me into becoming an actress, like her.
If I couldn’t make it into the music business, I at least should be able to act like her.
It was probably Clara projecting herself and trying to make me into someone she’ll never be.
Maybe that’s why she wanted to pass me off as Caleb Wilder’s daughter.
Not that Caleb ever gave two fucks about me.
He was good enough with me. Tried to be a father figure, but never loved me the way he loved his boys. Some days, I wish it were just him being a misogynistic asshole, only loving his sons. Nope, the guy doesn’t like me because I was never his. My mother cheated on him.
Finding out was challenging, and I made a lot of bad decisions .
. . hence, I’m still in the middle of a big predicament.
Do I fake my last moments in the world, or .
. .? They have options that might land me in front of a judge and a jury, where I’ll have to tell them what I know about my fiancé—the criminal.
“Okay,” I say, and the room changes. “Let’s murder me.”
They’ll bring in a dentist to copy my dental records and create whatever illusion the authorities can’t question. They’ll fabricate gaps and leave breadcrumbs that point the story the right way.
“But . . . can I talk to my brothers first?” I say. “Talk to Kit? She’s my best friend—before everything went sideways, she was my ride-or-die.”
Barret nods.
“We’ll set it up,” Eddie promises, and I hear the promise like a tether.
“I’ll leave whatever they need me to leave behind. Is this an . . . are we faking an accident or—?”
“It’ll be open,” Barret explains. “So the police will think it could’ve been an accident—or that someone carefully arranged it. They might interview anyone who’s been near you, or decide there wasn’t foul play.”
His hand finds the blanketed place by my foot and rests there, palm flat to the floor.
The contact is small but sends something through me—an ache, equal parts comfort and panic.
I glance down at him. He looks like a man who’s been asked to do things he wouldn’t choose for himself, yet he’s already stepped into the work.
I taste lemon and honey in the air. Outside, the ocean keeps insisting against the cliff. The sound reminds me that no matter what, we will keep going. As long as we remain together, we’ll be fine.
“What about us?” I suddenly ask.
Eddie’s hand comes up, palm open like he’s putting a word between us to hold. “We’ll remain here for as long as it’s necessary,” he says. “We’ll rotate. We’ll keep the place locked down. We’ll script what the world sees and control who gets to hear the truth.”
“A script,” I repeat. “Like a performance. Like Clara wanted.” My laugh is brittle. The thought of my life reduced to notes and cues makes bile rise in my throat.
Eddie nods. “Exactly. Arthur’s team will plant the rest. We make a version of you that’s impossible to disprove.”
“If you want to speak to Kit, we’ll arrange a controlled meeting,” Barret continues. “With everyone you need to be here, but they’ll know they have to be discreet.”
“What if they stay here until it’s over?” I ask because that could be a good solution, right?
Eddie taps his chin. “We could try, but it might be weird that your brothers disappear the moment they found out you . . .” he trails off his voice as if it’s impossible to speak. “It’d make sense if Rod and Kit disappear, honestly. Sometimes they don’t come out of their farm for months.”
Barret laughs. “They wouldn’t leave their animals unattended for too long.”
“True, but we can pay for someone to help them.” Eddie sighs.
“Animals?”
“Remember all the land they bought when—” Eddie stops because I have no idea what they’re talking about. I was barely around after they figured out their way back together.
Instead of trying to be there for Kit, I avoided her because she was with Roderick, and back then, it felt like every Wilder betrayed me.
Now . . . I understand it wasn’t their fault.
They had no idea I had so many daddy issues, and then when we found out that Daddy wasn’t even mine, I just rejected the entire family.
“It’ll be good to reconnect with them in any capacity,” I say instead of giving them a list of all my regrets.
Barret slides his hand from the blanket to my ankle, the pad of his thumb finding skin and pressing. “Is this okay?” he asks as my pulse stutters—part fear, part want.
I nod. “It’s always okay when it’s you—” then I turn to Eddie— “Or you.”
“We’ll get used to each other again,” Eddie says, voice soft like he’s testing the sentence before letting it land.
“And will I get to choose how they remember me?” I ask. The question feels naked in the air.
“You could make a board,” Eddie offers, fingers steepling as if plans and images can hold a life. “Photos, song lyrics, things you want people to remember you by.”
“I’ll write a song,” Barret says before I can blink. His voice is quieter than I’ve ever heard—less bravado, more bone. “A stupid, awful love song if you want. Or something that sounds like you.”
He rises slowly, like a man moving through syrup, and then sits beside me.
Close.
Close enough that the heat from his thigh brushes mine.
He doesn’t crowd me. Barret’s hand finds the blanket at my feet for a heartbeat, then slides up, fingers ghosting over the edge of my hand until he cups it.
“Can I—” he begins, voice low, and stops as if afraid the next word might break what we both need. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, slow and careful, asking permission like it’s holy and dangerous all at once.
There’s an ache in me that answers before my mouth can make sense of it.
I tilt my chin, a small, near-invisible yes.
His thumb traces the cut at my knuckle—the memory of a stupid fall last month—and the tenderness of that small attention makes something unclench in my chest. He leans in, and the world contracts down to the line of his face, the brush of his breath, the scent of smoke and lemon and a life I am not ready to give up yet.
His lips find mine like returning home after being lost. The kiss is not tentative.
It’s worship disguised as hunger. He presses there, then deeper, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of me with a mouth that’s been starving for truth.
The sound he makes—half-curse, half-plea—vibrates against me, and I taste metal and honey and something that feels like regret and relief braided together.
I answer with everything I have. My hands thread through his hair, tangling in the dark strands, and his other palm slides down my spine, warm and sure—the motion itself a promise: I’m here.
He kisses me like he’s mapping the parts of me he wants to save and the parts he already knows he can’t fix.
It’s brutal and tender in the same breath.
When he pulls back for air, our foreheads rest together. His lashes are dark against my skin, his breath ragged. “If later exists,” he whispers, voice raw. “I want to remember this.”
“Me too,” I confess, and the truth tastes like sin and salvation.
Eddie clears his throat like a professional stepping back into his role. “We’ll call Kit tomorrow morning.”
I want to ask Eddie if he wants to kiss me too, to make this not just mine and Barret’s but ours.
The question sits at the edge of my words.
His fingers find mine and curl around them, warm and patient.
His eyes hold mine with something fierce and quiet, and in the press of his palm, there’s an answer that isn’t given to my lips but means as much: Later, when we’re both ready.
Barret’s hand tightens at my hip. The room tilts, full of promises we haven’t yet spoken but soon . . . once we’re all ready, if we’re ever ready.