16. Az
— ? —
Az
The rental car sits at the gate like a threat.
I spot it from the kitchen window while I’m making tea, this anonymous white sedan that doesn’t belong here, and for one horrible second I think it’s Cody. My whole body goes cold, hand freezing on the kettle, until I see the blonde hair and realize it’s worse.
Brynn is standing by the gate talking to Luis, one of Lupe’s farmhands, and she’s got roses in her arms. Actual roses. Like she’s paying a condolence call.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say out loud, to no one, because apparently I’m losing my mind.
I could send Eli. He’s in the bunkhouse on a break from the morning work, and it would serve her right to face him after everything. But a cold, sharp resolve is uncurling in my chest, the part of me that wants to handle this myself, and I’ve learned to trust that instinct.
I put the kettle down. Grab my sweater. Walk outside.
The morning air is crisp, that late-summer California smell of dry grass and distant wildfire, and Brynn’s voice carries across the property as I approach.
She’s doing the concerned friend routine, all soft vowels and sympathetic head tilts, and Luis is buying it because of course he is.
She’s good at this, always has been, the professional best friend.
“Just five minutes with him,” she’s saying. “I promise I’m not here to cause trouble, I’m just worried about my friend-”
“Your friend isn’t available,” I say.
Brynn’s head snaps around. For a split second, before she gets her face under control, I see something ugly flash across her features. Then the mask slides back into place: warm smile, concerned eyes, a little wince of apology.
“Az. Hi. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”
“I don’t.” I look at Luis. “Give us a little room, but stay where you can see us.”
He nods and moves toward the cooler doors. I wait until he is out of easy earshot before I turn back to Brynn.
“You drove two hours to bring roses to a flower farm.”
She has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t think about that.”
“No. You didn’t think about a lot of things.” I jerk my chin toward the property. “Walk with me.”
Brynn falls into step beside me, still clutching her grocery-store roses like they mean something. “I know you’re angry with me-”
“Don’t.”
“I just want to explain-”
“Brynn.” I stop beside the barn, near the coolers, and turn to face her. Luis is still visible through the open loading bay. I want this conversation private, not unwitnessed. I let my expression go flat. “Drop it.”
The shift is almost instantaneous. One second she’s playing the apologetic friend; the next, a harder set takes over her jaw, her shoulders, the line of her mouth.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s drop it.”
“Good.”
“I always stayed, you know.” Her voice is conversational now, almost friendly, like we’re discussing the weather. “Through every tour, every PR nightmare, every time he came home exhausted and impossible. I was there. You were arranging flowers.”
“I was running a business.”
“You were playing house. And I know a custody lawyer who would love to hear how unstable you are.” She takes a step closer. “He married you because you were there when he was nobody. You were convenient. That’s all.”
The words land somewhere distant, like they’re meant for someone else. I’ve heard this story before, in my own head, during the bad nights when Eli was gone and I couldn’t sleep. It’s not new. But hearing it from her, delivered with such casual cruelty…
“You really believe that,” I say. “That’s sad.”
Her eyes narrow. “When he gets tired of playing farmer, I’ll still be here. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it’ll always be.”
“No. It won’t.” I pull my phone out of my pocket, swipe to the photos folder, and hold it up. “Do you recognize this?”
Her face goes pale.
The hospital bag is navy blue, stuffed with supplies, and the tag hidden inside the lining has her name on it.
brYNN HOLLISTER, printed in neat block letters.
I took the photos the day I searched it in the kitchen, after she left it on our coffee table.
And when I went through the shared calendar, the one where I’d been entering my appointments so Eli could keep the dates free, I found the blocks.
Blocks she put over the appointments I had already entered.
Her notes. My due date, with her plans all around it.
“This is your bag,” I say. “For my daughter. Tagged with your name. You brought it to my house already packed.”
“That’s-” She swallows. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.” I put the phone away. “I have the photos. I have screenshots of your calendar blocks. I have enough to make your life very uncomfortable if I decide to share it.”
“You wouldn’t-”
“Come within a hundred feet of this farm or my child again, and everyone gets them. Your contacts. Your socials. Every entertainment journalist who’s been sniffing around this story.
” I keep my voice pleasant, almost light.
“I’m a florist, Brynn. I know how to make things bloom, and I know how to make things rot. Which one would you like?”
She stares at me. Then she snaps, her hand coming up fast, aiming for my face.
I catch her wrist.
Her bones are thin under my fingers, her pulse rabbiting against my palm. She’s stronger than she looks, straining forward, but I’ve spent years hauling buckets and wrestling with thorns, and I don’t let go.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
Her face twists. “You think you’ve won?”
“I think you’re leaving.”
I release her wrist, step back, and gesture toward the gate. She stands there for a moment, breathing hard, the roses crushed against her chest where she grabbed them too tight. Then she turns and walks.
I follow at a distance, making sure she goes.
We’re halfway down the drive when Eli appears.
He’s coming from the bunkhouse, coffee mug in hand, and he stops dead when he sees us. His gaze moves from Brynn to me, back to Brynn, and his expression goes cold and still.
“She tried to hit me,” I tell him. “After I showed her the bag photos.”
Brynn walks straight toward him.
“Eli.” Her voice has gone soft again, wounded. “I just wanted to talk. She won’t even let me explain-”
She reaches out, puts her hand on his chest.
He removes it.
Not angry, not violent. Just… clinical. Like he’s handling something that doesn’t belong to him. He takes her wrist, gently, careful of her pregnancy, and sets her hand back at her side.
“You lied about a baby to my wife,” he says. His voice is flat. Empty. I’ve never heard him sound like this. “You told her you were pregnant with my child when you knew it wasn’t true.”
“Eli-”
“You harassed a pregnant woman. You packed a hospital bag with your name on it for a baby that isn’t yours.” He takes a step back, creating distance. “You’re not my friend. There’s nothing romantic here and there never was.”
“That’s not-” Her voice cracks. “Since we were kids, Eli. All those years I’ve been-”
“If you contact her again, I go to the police. And I go public with everything she just told you she has.” He looks at her like she’s a stranger. “Leave.”
The silence stretches.
Brynn’s face cycles through grief, rage, calculation, before it settles into a strange calm. She steps back, smoothing her shirt, and when she speaks again her voice is almost pleasant.
“Ask him about the tour, sweetheart.”
I feel Eli go still beside me.
“What tour?” I ask.
She smiles, small and satisfied, and walks to her car.
The engine starts. The tires crunch on gravel. The white rental disappears down the road, and I’m left standing in the morning light with my husband, who won’t meet my eyes.
“Eli.”
He takes a breath. “It’s not one I’m doing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Grayson called last week. The label’s been floating the idea of putting the fall run back together, feeling me out to see if I’d bite.” He finally looks at me, and his face is raw with it, exhausted. “There’s no offer on the table. No number. I told him not to bother writing one up.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I told myself there was nothing to tell because I said no. That was the same excuse in a different outfit.” He looks down at his mug. “I should have told you when he called. Any offer, even one I refuse, you hear it from me.”
I am tired enough to let the conversation end there. But being tired is how I swallowed too many things before. “I don’t want to find out from her again.”
“You won’t have to,” he says.
I look at him until he meets my eyes.
“I heard you say no. I believe you said no.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m going inside.”
I make it inside before my hands start shaking.
***
When Dez calls us to the porch later that afternoon, the walk feels longer than it should, my legs heavy, the baby rolling hard against my ribs. Eli falls into step beside me but doesn’t try to touch me, doesn’t try to talk, just walks with his hands in his pockets and his jaw tight.
Dez meets us on the porch, tablet in hand.
“I gave the deputy the plate when I reported what happened,” he says. “The rental company confirmed the booking for their inquiry. Cody Larkin paid for it.”
The name hits me like cold water down the spine.
“Cody,” I say. My voice sounds far away. “My ex-Cody?”
“The one who’s been texting you. The one you blocked.” Dez looks between us. “He paid for her rental car. Booked it three days ago.”
“They’ve been meeting,” he adds. “The booking puts his name on the trip. We don’t know what she promised him, but this wasn’t a chance conversation.”
Eli makes a sound, low and rough. When I look at him, his face has gone completely white.
“She didn’t come alone,” he says. “He sent her.”