23. Lily
Chapter 23
Lily
T he memory that haunts me most—more than the moment my mom told me Dad had left us, or even when I left my cheating fiancé at the altar—is the moment I told Ava that I was leaving.
Before heading to New York, I had arranged with Ethan to meet with Ava to talk. I hadn’t seen her for a couple of days, and when she laid eyes on me, she gave me the most heartbreaking smile.
Ethan had left her with me without saying a word, and I’d taken Ava for a sea salt caramel ice cream from the stand near the pier.
“When are you coming back to live with us?” she asked as we walked along the beach.
“Honey,” I replied, my throat tightening. “I’m not.”
Ava’s ice cream melted, dripping onto the sand. Mine sat forgotten in my hand, a sweet reminder of a bitter moment.
Ethan was right. I’d abandoned them. It hadn’t been my fault. Not exactly. What choice did I have? If Ethan didn’t love me back, then I couldn’t stay in whatever confusing limbo he was suggesting for us. But still, he hadn’t wanted me to go. Nor had Ava. And I’d left them.
I re-read the text Ethan had sent me yesterday. Asking me if I was going back to Bluehaven Beach any time soon. If I’d consider meeting up with Ava.
My fingers hovered over the phone screen, heart pounding as I typed out the words I’d been holding back for weeks.
Ethan, of course I want to see Ava. I miss her. I miss you. I miss Bluehaven. If only you wanted me, if only you could love me, I’d be back by your side in an instant. Please, please, let me back into your life. Into your heart.
I stared at it for a while, then added a P.S.
I don’t care about a happy ever after, by the way. I just want a happy for now.
My thumb trembled over the send button, poised to tap.
A muffled siren wailed in the distance, pulling my attention to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Midtown office. Eight stories up in this glass and steel skyscraper, the bustle of Manhattan felt surreal—a crawling mass of yellow cabs and pedestrians below me, so different from the close-up, seaside life of Bluehaven.
Ugh. What was I thinking? There was no resolution waiting for me back home, just more pain and what-ifs.
With a frustrated groan, I deleted the message.
I tossed my phone aside and turned to the stack of manuscripts on my desk. Another day of blood-curdling horror awaited me. At least in these stories, the monsters were obvious, unlike the subtle fears that had driven me from Maine.
“Everything all right, Lily?”
Coco’s voice snapped me back to reality. I blinked, realizing I’d been staring at my blank phone screen. Looking up, I saw her peering around my glass door, concern etched on her impossibly elegant face. Her black pantsuit—crisp, tailored, and screaming “sexy boss lady”—was a stark reminder of the polished world I now inhabited, and how I needed to keep my personal turmoil hidden.
I forced a smile. “Good thanks. Just trying to compose an email. Words are . . . hard sometimes.”
She laughed, stepping into my office. “Need any help? What’s the email?”
“Oh, uh, I’m chasing up feedback on Jonathan’s novel.” A lie, but easier than the truth.
Coco perched on the edge of my desk, her saffron and frankincense perfume wafting over me. “Any nibbles?”
“Nothing yet. I don’t know if the public is ready for a horror romance featuring a were-rat.”
“It’s a tough sell,” Coco agreed, “but honestly, it was weirdly hot and scary at the same time.”
“Nothing sexier than a man-sized rat,” I said, my forced smile feeling a bit more genuine.
“Except two man-sized rats,” Coco countered.
“Oh yeah. That chapter. I’d forgotten about that chapter.”
We laughed together.
On paper, I should have been loving this new life. Discovering new authors, working with smart, bookish colleagues, attending lavish parties awash with champagne and caviar. It was the New York literary dream come to life.
The trouble was, beneath the glossy surface of my new life, I was drowning in an undercurrent of longing for a small coastal town and the family I’d left behind.
“Let me know if you need any help, okay?” Coco said, shifting off my desk. “Sometimes I forget how new you are. You just fit in so well!”
“It’s weird, huh? Right, I better get back to the slush pile.” I gestured at a huge stack of horror manuscripts.
“Good luck!”
When Coco had gone, I slumped into my aggressively ergonomic chair and propped the horror manuscript up on my desk like a shield. With a furtive glance around the office, I slipped out my Kindle from its hiding place and nestled it inside the pages.
The familiar cover of book two of Marge Statten’s Lavender Farms series flashed up before the e-reader found my place.
“Come on, Millie,” I whispered, rooting for the plucky heroine. “Tell that sexy candle-maker how you really feel!”
I’d left my physical copy of the novel back at Ethan’s place by accident. I’d kept it under the bed, waiting for the moment I might feel like rereading it to prep for the Marge Statten event. The moment never came. Ethan had likely found it by now. I imagined him rolling his eyes, saying, “I was right. She wants a fairy tale, not real life.”
Ironically, since starting as a horror agent, my appetite for romance had returned with a vengeance. So what if the stories weren’t real? Real was boring. Real was sad. Give me a fantasy world where bad guys get amnesia and turn into good guys any day of the week.
I hated having to wait for book three in the Lavender Farms series. I’d preordered it, of course, and I’d spoken to Yolande to make sure they had plenty of stock at the bookstore. Yolande had assured me that everything at the store was ready for the maestro’s big event in a few weeks. Part of me wished I could attend, but there was no way I’d risk running into Ethan.
I looked down at my Kindle, preparing to get lost in the novel, when my phone buzzed.
Ethan?
No.
Vlad.
What the hell?
Babe. I hear you’re in NYC. I’m coming out next week. Let’s catch up. My cock misses you. ??
My stomach churned. The audacity of that cheating bastard. Without hesitation, I fired back a reply:
I literally hope your cock falls off.
“Arrogant jerk,” I muttered. My phone buzzed again, but this time it was Mary-Beth.
I can’t wait for tonight!
We were heading out for cocktails later to a brand-new bar in Manhattan. Mary-Beth had just closed a six-figure deal for a manuscript and was taking me out to celebrate.
Why do you insist on texting me when you are three feet away from me?
Because there’s a wall between us!
It was about a second before Mary-Beth’s head popped around the door into my office. “Tonight’s gonna be awesome. I’m gonna get a drink with actual gold in it.”
“Gold?”
“Apparently, it tastes of nothing.”
“Mmm, my favorite.”
For a moment, I wondered how Ethan would react to the idea of drinking a flavorless, gold cocktail. I was instantly annoyed with myself for thinking of him. For letting him become the context for everything in my life.
Mary-Beth frowned. “What’s up, Lils?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I sighed. “I . . . just miss some stuff about, you know, Bluehaven. Home.”
“Homesick, huh? I think what you need is some fun. Wipe out the memories of Nathan.”
“Ethan.”
“I know—I’m just being dumb. Joking. Not trying to upset you.”
“It’s okay. I don’t think that meeting someone new is going to help, though, MB. I just need a break. A real break this time. No men. No kissing. Just . . . gold drinks and fish eggs.”
Mary-Beth shrugged. “You just need to find the right person.”
“Ethan was the right person. The right person for me. But I wasn’t the right person for him.”
Mary-Beth’s eyes softened. “Which means he’s not the right person for you. And it also makes him very, very stupid.”
I laughed dryly. “You want to know the worst part? We were trying not to feel anything. Trying to keep things purely physical. And yet, I felt more for him than any other man I’ve ever been with. And with everyone else I was trying, desperately, hopelessly to feel something—anything. It was always so much effort. But with Ethan, it was as easy as opening my eyes.”
“You poor thing,” she said, walking over to me. “Listen, tonight we’re gonna— hey, wait! What’s that?”
Oh, shit. She’d spied my Kindle.
“Uh, nothing. Just . . . oh, how did that get in there?”
“You’re reading smut , aren’t you?” Her eyes narrowed, her lips curled into a wicked smile.
“What? No! I’d never—”
“Spill the beans.”
I’d been caught red-handed. “It’s a Marge Statten.”
“Oh, my goodness, I’m going to tell her—this will make her day.”
“Don’t. Coco would kill me if she knew.”
“You’re reading romance again. That means you’re ready to move on. This is very good news, Lily.”
“It’s not. It means I can’t move on. I can’t get Ethan McCoy out of my head.”
Mary-Beth rolled her eyes. “Then tell him. Please, tell him.”
“No. I already did. He didn’t feel the same. I just need time.”
“Time . . . and drink. We’ll have fun tonight. Promise.”
I blinked rapidly, fighting back tears as memories flooded my mind. Ava’s laughter as we baked pancakes together. The pride in Ethan’s eyes when I helped her with her reading. The warmth of his hand on my back as we looked up at the night sky.
A bird. A deer. A shooting star.
None of it meant anything.
***
One murder. Two dismemberments. Three ominous prophecies. Seventeen creaky floorboards. That was the rest of my afternoon. Having been caught reading romance by Mary-Beth, I forced myself to get back to the horror, keeping a tally of gore to try and make it more fun.
It didn’t really help.
Before I left work, I went to the bathroom to adjust my makeup. As I looked at my face, eyes dark from exhaustion, skin pale from being inside all day, lips turned down at the corners— a memory hit me like a punch to the gut.
Ethan had just kissed me. We were about to take things further when the fire station had called him in.
He looked at me like was drinking me in.
“I never want to forget how you look, and how I feel.”
“How do you feel?”
“Alive.”
The person saw in the mirror didn’t look alive. She looked numb.
The early summer heat was sweltering as I navigated rush hour traffic to Lucille’s Apothecary. Without Bluehaven’s sea breeze, the city felt suffocating. After a stuffy subway ride and a short walk, I arrived at the swanky high-rise, my heels clicking on polished marble as I made my way to the rooftop bar.
Despite my foul mood, I couldn’t help but gasp when I saw the place. The entire rooftop was encased in a glass dome, creating a greenhouse effect that allowed exotic plants to thrive in the heart of Manhattan. Massive ferns cascaded from hanging baskets, their fronds swaying gently in the climate-controlled air. Vines with heart-shaped leaves climbed ornate trellises, weaving between tables and around support beams. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and tropical flowers, a stark contrast to the car exhaust and hot asphalt I’d left behind on the street.
But the more I looked around, the more artificial it all felt. All this effort, just to create a semblance of nature. The urge to feel real sand between my toes, to breathe in the salty Bluehaven air, was stronger than ever.
“Lily! Over here!” Mary-Beth waved from a sleek table near the edge of the roof.
I plastered on a smile and made my way over. “Hey, MB. This place is . . . something else.”
“It’s like a rainforest.”
“Encased in a bubble. With a . . . steampunk vibe?”
The bartenders definitely leaned into the steampunk aesthetic. They wore crisp white shirts with brass-buttoned waistcoats and goggles perched on their foreheads. Copper pipes snaked behind the bar, connecting to various brass taps and valves.
“Yeah. Rainforest meets steampunk on a balcony in Manhattan. I swear this city has it all.”
A waiter materialized beside us, his approach silent on the moss-covered floor. “What can I get for you ladies?”
Mary-Beth’s eyes sparkled. “We’re celebrating, so we’re going to need something fancy. I’ll have the Midnight in Manhattan. That’s the one with edible gold leaf, right?”
“That’s correct, ma’am.”
“Great. What about you, Lily?”
I scanned the menu, my eyes landing on something that sounded appropriately dramatic. “I’ll have the Siren’s Call, please.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared as silently as he’d arrived.
Mary-Beth leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. “So, tell me about your afternoon. Any exciting new manuscripts? Or were you too caught up in Lavender Farms to read anything blood-curdling?”
I was about to launch into a half-hearted description of a mediocre slasher novel when a voice called out from across the bar. “Mary-Beth!”
My heart jumped into my throat as I saw none other than Marge Statten, the Queen of Romance herself, making her way toward our table.
Marge looked just like she did in the photos on the back of her books. Her platinum blonde hair was teased into a voluminous style that looked both perfectly coiffed and effortlessly bouncy. She wore a fitted blazer in soft pink over a silky white blouse, the neckline dipping just low enough to hint at curves that defied her mid-fifties age. Her makeup was flawless, with long lashes framing warm brown eyes and lips painted a bold coral that matched her manicure.
As she navigated the crowded bar in teetering rhinestone-studded heels, Mary-Beth grinned at me. “Surprise,” she hissed. “I told Marge I was here with one of her biggest fans, and she said she wanted to meet you.”
“Well, hello there, darlings,” she drawled, her Southern twang as sweet as honey.
After I’d mumbled an awkward introduction, trying not to fangirl around her too obviously, Marge sat at our table and ordered herself a Shifting Sunset.
“So, which of my books was it?” she asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Which one were you reading today? When you were meant to be going through your slush pile?” Marge’s eyes danced with mischief.
I was struggling to contain my nerves. I’d admired Marge for years and it was difficult to stay calm. I was literally fighting the urge to say “Squee.”
I gave Mary-Beth a look. Then, I mumbled: “It was Lavender Farms book two.”
“Ooh, that’s just delightful to hear! The new one’s comin’ out faster than a jackrabbit, sugar.”
“I love Lavender Farms,” I said, leaning across the table.
“I’m so pleased, honey. What is it that you enjoy about the series?”
I sighed. “It’s just so comforting. So safe,” I said. “I mean, it’s pretty far-fetched, but I like that about it. You’re not afraid to turn everything up to a hundred, and yet . . . it’s still like being surrounded by friends. As for the love stories, your characters are just so damn perfect for each other, it’s like their emotional wounds are tailor-made for . . . oh god, I don’t want to gush.”
“Please, gush away,” Marge said, chuckling softly.
“What I love most about Lavender Farms is that you make sure the characters in the series really work for their happy ever afters.”
“I know it’s naughty,” Marge said, “but I do love to put them through the wringer.”
“Sometimes I think you’re actually evil, Marge,” Mary-Beth said as our drinks arrived. Her gold drink looked like a glass of Ava’s glitter glue. Marge’s seemed to shift colors like a mood ring. Mine? Mine looked disconcertingly like fresh blood.
“It’s true,” Marge said, shrugging.
As we sipped our unsettling drinks, the conversation flowed surprisingly easily. We discussed the publishing industry and Marge’s upcoming book release. She told me that she was looking forward to the book signing in Happy Ever Affogato, and I said I was sad I’d be missing it.
“You won’t come along?” Marge asked.
I swallowed hard, the taste of my blood-red drink suddenly bitter on my tongue. “I don’t really have plans to head back to Bluehaven Beach,” I said, trying to ignore the twinge in my chest as I spoke the words aloud.
“How come?”
“Just . . . baggage.”
“Man baggage?”
“ Men baggage,” I stressed. “An almost husband followed by an almost love-of-my-life.”
“That’s why we need to find someone new for Lils,” Mary-Beth said.
“Tell me about them,” Marge said. “The almost husband and the almost love-of-your-life. I promise I won’t write about you.” She batted her eyelashes at me. “Probably.”
Well. It’s not every day that your favorite author asks you about your love life. So, I did it—I told her all about it.
“Oh my stars,” she said at the end of my long, strange story. “Don’t take this the wrong way, sugar, but your life sounds like a romance novel without the happy ending.”
“If my life were a romance novel, I’d rate it one star,” I said, taking a gulp of fresh blood. “No. Zero stars.”
“It’s because you haven’t read the ending yet, darlin’.”
“Except for the fact that I’m still in love with a man who wants nothing to do with me.”
Marge’s expression softened. “You know, dear, the best love stories often have a few false starts. Don’t give up just yet.”
I shook my head, fighting back the lump in my throat. “I appreciate that, Marge, but I think I already have. Some things just aren’t meant to be.” I stood up, nearly knocking over my chair as I stood. “I need some air.”
I made my way to a quieter corner of the bar, my hands shaking as I pulled out my phone. Before I could stop myself, I typed out a message to Ethan:
I miss Ava too. But it’s best if we don’t keep in touch. I don’t want to speak to you or Ava. I need to move forward with my life. Take care, Ethan.
I hit send, then turned off my phone. Rushing to the bathroom, I locked myself in a stall and finally let the tears fall. My body shook with sobs as I slid down to the cold floor.
This was it. I’d officially closed the door on any future with Ethan. It was for the best, I told myself. He didn’t want me, and I couldn’t keep torturing myself.
No happy ever after, not even a happy for now. Just this: drinking blood-red cocktails in a glass dome, reading one murder after another, and pretending Ethan McCoy had never existed.