Chapter Eight #2
“Mmhmm,” she nods slowly, unconvincingly, but mercifully without commentary.
Jack’s eyes land on mine and linger there. His smile spreads like moonlight slipping through a window.
“Didn’t even have to look,” he says, stopping in front of us and leaning in to kiss Sloane on the cheek. “Just followed the gravitational pull.”
Sloane swats his shoulder lovingly. “You still clean up nice, Jack.”
“Just trying to keep up around here,” he says, turning to me as his voice lowers. “Hi, Luce.”
“Hey,” I smile nonchalantly. “Nice of you to join us.”
He shrugs, a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes. “I timed it just right. Knew you’d be here by now.”
Sloane watches us with a sharp look that could cut glass. After a beat, she sighs. “Some things never change.”
Jack and I turn back toward her, and she gives a breezy little shrug. “I’m going to mingle and see about a cute boy. Or two.”
She winks at me before slipping into the crowd, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume. I look over at Jack, expecting him to crack a joke. But he doesn’t. His gaze trails down my body before meeting my eyes again.
“You look beautiful, Luce.”
I can’t stop my cheeks from flushing, but I tilt my head and reply, “You’re just now realizing?”
He laughs. “I just thought I’d say it out loud.” He reaches out a hand, almost as if he wants to touch my hair, but then pulls back. “Your hair is already lighter than the day you got here. It’s amazing how quickly it does that.”
“You always say that.”
Jack steps a little closer, shifting to stand beside me rather than facing me.
“These parties haven’t changed too much,” I offer.
“Nope,” Jack replies, glancing over the room. “Same band, same tuna tartare, and I’m pretty sure that’s Mr. Dunning with his third fiancée in five years.”
My eyes drift to a woman in a low-cut dress laughing too loudly on the arm of someone else’s husband.
I feel Jack glance over before he nudges me gently. “I know that face. You’re already writing a whole narrative.”
“Old habits,” I smirk.
“Feels like we never left.”
“We did, though,” I say, meeting his eyes for a moment before turning back to the crowd. “And then we fell apart,” I whisper.
I feel the heat of his gaze. “You think I wanted that?”
I hesitate, the words already pressing at the back of my throat. The late flights, the missed weekends, the slow unraveling of something that once felt sacred. “You didn’t exactly stop it.”
I turn and meet Jack’s eyes, filled with hurt and longing. “Do you really believe I didn’t want to figure it out, Luce?” His voice is quiet, careful. “You were the only thing I ever got right.”
Except you didn’t. I look away before he can say more, pretending to study the crowd. “I wonder if the band is taking requests.”
He smiles faintly but it doesn’t reach his eyes. We stand in silence for a few moments.
“I should go find Dawn,” I say lightly.
Jack nods. “I think I saw her on the lawn.”
I take a step away, then pause, “Good to see you, Jack.”
He smiles, but it’s halfhearted. “You too, Luce.”
I slip back into the current of the party, determined to shake the heated look in Jack’s eyes out of my mind. Why did I have to go there tonight? What did I expect him to say?
The music has shifted into something younger now, the kind of song that makes people sway in place while they pretend they’re not watching each other.
I spot a few familiar faces near the back patio, some old friends from surf camp, that one woman I only ever see at this party but still greet like we share a rich history.
The night becomes a soft blur of excited hugs and catching up with longtime island friends. I chat with Davis and Annie near the vintage rum tasting table. They got engaged on the island over New Year’s on Davis’s boat and are planning a wedding next spring at The Other Side.
I spend a few minutes with the Lennox twins, whom I used to babysit, who tell me about their semester abroad in Spain, which sounds like it consisted of tapas and sangria and very little school. They try to talk me into camping on Man Island with them in two weeks.
“Everyone’s going,” Lila exclaims, tugging on my arm. “We’re doing the whole thing, tents, bonfire, sunrise plunge, campfire breakfast.”
“You should come,” her brother Finn adds. “You can be, like, the cool older girl who won’t forget the sunscreen.”
I laugh, holding up my hands. “I’m flattered, but I make exactly one major concession to nature per season, and it already happened a few days ago when I found a bird’s nest in my outdoor shower.”
They groan in protest, but I’m already backing away. “I’ll send snacks though, I promise.”
As I move back into the crowd, I can’t help but smile, because there is something sweet about being asked.
But there’s absolutely no chance I’ll be camping on Man Island.
The last time I went was nearly five years ago, and I shared a sleeping bag with Jack and woke up with a hermit crab in my hair. I’ve earned my exit badge.
The band has changed to a DJ now playing a hip-hop remix of “Forever Young.” I spot Dawn in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by our friends, already barefoot and flushed. There’s glitter on someone’s shoulders, and at least one person is using a palm leaf as a fan.
I move without thinking. My body remembers this exact dance floor from all the previous versions of this party.
I love nights like this. Underlit, over poured, completely untethered from reality.
I always forget how good it feels until I’m in it.
Time disappears as the music folds around us, the night stretching wide and endless.
Someone grabs my hand, warm and sure, and before I can register who it is, I’m being spun out and then pulled back in. Jack’s grinning, looser than before and so handsome in the string-lit glow, like he’s done this exact move a hundred times and knows exactly when to hit the beat. Because he has.
“You looked like you needed a better dance partner,” he whispers in my ear.
I laugh, off balance but happy. “Is that what this is?”
“This is me saving you from Finn’s elbows.”
I glance over my shoulder. Finn is indeed flailing like an inflatable tube man, completely oblivious to everyone around him. “Fair point.”
The songs blend one into the next, and we stay. It’s hot, our skin slick from sweat, and we’re grinning like idiots who forgot they ever broke each other’s hearts. He keeps his hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd like he never stopped knowing how.
He starts singing along to “Something Just Like This,” a song we used to play on repeat driving around the island in his golf cart, and I can’t help joining in. It’s stupid and perfect and entirely a bad idea for me to have this much nostalgic fun with him.
“You remember all the words,” I laugh.
“You made me memorize it.”
“Yeah,” I grin, scrunching my nose at him. You’re still offbeat.”
“You never minded,” he says, leaning in close.
Jack’s hand settles lightly at my waist, fingers applying pressure that sends chills down my spine. We fall into step like no time has passed. When the song ends, he doesn’t move away. Just stands there, looking down at me like he’s remembering every version of us.