Chapter 22 #2
NO! I wanted it to be a surprise. He’d been so lovely.
I couldn’t call and have him come out here and rescue me.
Again. I wanted to rescue him. If not today, then at some point.
And not so we would be even, but because I really cared about him, and I wanted to show that care in some big, ostentatious, obvious way.
But first, I had to find the freaking turn off.
I took the phone off its magnetic mount, squinted at the screen, and zoomed in and out on the grid of nothing. Even the map was reluctant to help, the cellular dead zone dragging every refresh into a five-second lag.
I tapped in “Redbud Lane” for the fifth time and got the same mockery of an address: “Did you mean Redbud Drive, Redbud Terrace, or Redbud Lane in Amarillo?” I did not mean Amarillo.
No one meant Amarillo unless their car broke down there.
I slammed my thumb on the "current location" icon, which bobbled for a moment, then gave me a blue dot floating in an ocean of beige pixels.
A pale blue line traced a suggestion of a route, but every time I zoomed in it disappeared, like it was ashamed of itself.
I sat with it for a while, the car’s engine rumbling under me. The road behind was empty, the road ahead even more so. I imagined this was what the astronauts felt like.
After a couple more pointless zooms, I dropped the phone in the cupholder and admitted defeat.
For now. If I couldn’t see and surprised Alaric today, then I’d use my time wisely.
I’d make that list of people who deserved apologies from me, and then I’d research what the world’s best girlfriend would gift the world’s best boyfriend for a belated Christmas gift.
No. Not the world’s best boyfriend. The world’s best man. PERIOD.
Closing my eyes, head tilting back against the seat, I struggled to remember if Alaric had ever once mentioned a mile marker, a mailbox, a goddamn anything to distinguish his gate from the thousand others that looked just like it.
All I remembered was his voice—low, gravelly with vulnerability, so damn sexy—telling me he wanted to be chosen.
I was trying my best to choose him. I swear, I was. But maybe this was a sign that my earlier suspicions—I simply was not worthy of the world’s best man—were true.
Squeezing my eyes shut tighter, I asked the god of Christmas (so, I guess Jesus) to do me a solid and help me out. I knew I didn’t deserve His help either, but maybe if He thought I was deserving, then there was a chance for me and Alaric.
Not a second later, the unmistakable sound of tires on gravel, somewhere behind me, forced my eyes open.
Soon, the crunch grew impossible close as a car came to a stop.
I checked the mirrors. White Ford Explorer, new model, windows tinted.
It parked about three car lengths back, which was just close enough to keep me in its sightlines but far enough away that they might be trying to say "I'm not here to help unless you want me to be. "
I instantly locked my doors. I glanced at the phone again, but all I saw was the battery icon slip from red to blinking. The Explorer’s lights flashed once—intentional?—then off. I hunched lower in the seat and waited.
Maybe I would die here. I wasn’t okay with that possibility, but—you know what? Better here, paving a new future and making plans to be a better person than in my sad little apartment surrounded by emptiness.
Abruptly, the driver’s side door opened.
A man stepped out. Well, not just a man—a whole archetype of man: expensive jeans, boots that looked too clean, hair that was professionally tousled and a very, very nice coat that looked European.
He took three steps toward me, then circled back to open the passenger door.
From the other side, a short, athletic-looking blond woman emerged, wearing aviator sunglasses.
I watched them confer near the hood, their mouths moving, and then the woman started toward my car with the man trailing her by a pace or two.
She made a gesture, palm-up, that could have meant “it’s fine” or “stay behind me, idiot.” I cracked the window, just a sliver, because even though I could tell they weren’t here to mug me (at least, not conventionally), you could never be too careful.
I thought I heard the woman say, “It’s safer for you to stay in the car! Would you just let me handle this?” and the man reply, “Absolutely not. I’m not sending you out on your own. If it’s dangerous, I’ll let you handle it. But if they’re fun, I want to be part of it.”
It was the kind of banter you expected from a couple who’d spent years together, or maybe just from people who spent a lot of time dealing with emergencies. The man’s voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it until he stepped forward, into the last angle of light.
I knew that face. Even with the sunglasses and the too-clean boots, even with the five o’clock shadow dialed up to Hollywood scruff, I knew it.
Cyrus Malcom. I had gone to school with Cyrus Malcom, the Cyrus Malcom, but now he was everywhere: movie posters, interviews, streaming platforms where he played a variety of brooding antiheroes, all of them with voices that sounded like they gargled razorblades for breakfast. He was taller than I remembered, but otherwise exactly the same.
I had not expected to see him in real life again, much less here.
Oh. Snap. Wait! Cyrus and Alaric were still friends!
I waited until the woman was five feet from my window before unlocking the door and pushing it open. She didn’t flinch. Cyrus, however, made a little noise, as though surprised, and then took a cautious step back. The woman glanced at him, unimpressed, then at me.
“Ma’am,” she said, in a tone that was half Texas and half secret service, “do you need help? Is your car having trouble?”
“No,” I said, then turned my focus to Alaric’s good friend. “Cyrus! Cyrus Malcom.”
He groaned. “Oh God. You’re a fan.”
I pointed at him, deadpan. “Not at all.”
He exhaled, shoulders slumping, and said, “I see. And you’re not fun either.”
I ignored him and turned to the woman, who still hadn’t blinked. “I’m trying to find Alaric’s house. I know it’s around here, but I can’t find the right turn.”
They exchanged a look, some silent
The woman said, “And you are?”
“Alison Weston.”
Cyrus’s head snapped up and he grinned. “Well, well, well. Alison Weston. Please tell me you’re here for revenge.”
I was so taken aback by how close he was to the truth—the truth of five days ago—that I just stood there for a second, mouth open.
But I wasn’t here for revenge. Not anymore.
That part of the story was over. Still, it was unsettling to realize that my brand, even after all these years, was “the one who holds grudges.”
“Please. Tell me where to find his house. I know we’re close.”
“Of course. Of course.” The movie star looked positively delighted. Happy to help. Just follow us! And when we get there, please promise me that I get to watch.”
I shook my head. “No, you’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not here for revenge.”
He grinned. “No need to lie. I’m on your side. It’s about time someone took him down a peg.”
“What?!” I rocked back on my heels. “Aren’t you two friends?”
The blond woman huffed, “They are, but Cyrus is jealous.”
Cyrus leaned in, dropping the playfulness for a brief second. “Why would I be jealous of Alaric? He has nothing I want.” Then he winked at the woman.
She rolled her eyes, then stuck out a hand for me to shake. “Hi, I’m Beth. I believe you went to high school with my sister Gabriella.”
A name I recognized! “Oh yeah? Gabi? How is she?”
“Really good. Listen, just follow us. We’re on our way there.”
Cyrus added, “And we’ve got shovels! I’m not saying you’ll need them for hiding a body or anything, because I am not an accomplice for whatever you have planned, I’m just saying, if you do, we have them.”