Chapter 2
TWO
Madeline
I am halfway through organizing my sweaters when Lottie’s music starts echoing through the shared wall.
Violin, of course. She’s been playing since we were teenagers, and it still carries the kind of haunting, dramatic sound that makes you feel like you’re living in a movie trailer of your own life.
For a moment I just sit and listen. It’s beautiful and I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound.
Lottie has always played like the music comes from somewhere deep in her bones.
In high school, when the rest of us were struggling through basic guitar chords, she was performing Bach at the winter recital.
Later, when her life was turned upside down by a major surgery, violin was the one thing that brought her back to life.
Suddenly, the music cuts off mid-note, replaced by the sound of her footsteps in the hall.
“Ready for a break?” she asks when she appears in my doorframe a second later.
Lottie’s hair is slicked into a perfect knot, a few strands purposefully escaping to softly frame her face. She’s barefoot, wearing faded jeans and an oversized sweater that looks designer, because everything she owns seems like it belongs on a runway.
“Maybe a quick cup of tea,” I say, stacking one sweater on top of another.
“Tea?” she asks, sounding skeptical. “Oh wow, you’re really going full grandma tonight, huh?”
“I picked up some chamomile. It’s calming.”
“Calming,” Lottie repeats. “You moved to a small, coastal town. Not a convent.”
I arch a brow. “Some of us find serenity in silence.”
“And some of us find it at Replay Brewery during half-price flights night.”
I blink. “During what?”
She waltzes into my room, violin still in hand. “Every Friday, they’ve got live music, trivia, and a guy named Nolan who brews an IPA that could change your life. Come with me. It’ll be fun.”
“Really?” I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear, looking down at my tights. “Half my stuff is still in boxes. I’m a mess. There’s no way to fix this.”
“It’s fine. It’s Deep Cove, not one of your parents’ stuffy cocktail parties with twenty-dollar drinks,” she says, setting her violin carefully on my desk to go look through my closet.
I laugh, despite myself. “Trust me, I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime.”
Lottie and I both have. We met at St. Margaret’s, the boarding school tucked an hour outside of Vancouver, where the tuition was obscene, and expectations were sky high.
It was the kind of place where everyone there had a last name that opened doors, and we were expected to walk through them without hesitation.
Lottie played in the school orchestra while I ran the debate team per my father’s instruction.
We bonded over our mutual dislike of weekend galas and resentment over being told to “act the part.” We both grew up in a world that looked perfect from the outside but felt hollow up close. I think that’s why she gets me.
I grew up surrounded by that lifestyle. Fundraisers, galas, rooftop parties with people who wore their family lineage like a status symbol.
As the daughter of a politician who oozes charm right down to his monogrammed cufflinks, I’ve had my lifetime quota of champagne and fake smiles.
Every dinner conversation was a rehearsal for the next campaign, every compliment crafted for optics.
My mother has perfected the role of the politician’s wife.
She smiles on cue, dresses like a headline, and never lets a hair fall out of place—even when everything around her is unraveling.
Cara and I were raised by nannies since we were born.
When we turned twelve, our parents shipped us off to boarding school.
We learned early to smile for photos, to keep our backs straight at the dinner table, and to pretend like we didn’t notice when our parents treated us like accessories instead of children.
By the time we were old enough to return home, it didn’t feel like a home anymore.
Lottie hums softly, knowing exactly where I’m coming from. “Well, then you’re in the right place. Deep Cove’s a lot of things, but pretentious isn’t one of them.”
“Thank God. But do I still have to come?”
“Yes.” She flashes me a grin then strides toward my closet. “Come on, Madeline. It’s local’s night. This guy, Marcus, plays the guitar and he cries halfway through his setlist. Every single time. One hour. One drink. You can make a list about it if that helps.”
“Funny,” I smirk.
“Please? You can wear this,” she says, handing me a short summer dress I reserve solely for the beach.
“I’m not wearing that,” I say immediately.
“Why not? It’s cute.”
“It’s tiny.”
Lottie grins. “Exactly. The men of Deep Cove deserve to meet the fun version of you.”
I cross my arms. “I’m wearing jeans.”
She eyes me like I’ve suggested I show up in a hazmat suit. “You’ll melt. It’s still summer, you need to dress like it.”
“You’re insufferable,” I mutter, snatching the dress from her hands, knowing she’ll argue with me until Christmas or until she gets her way. “I’ll go with you, but I’m wearing what I want, and I’m not making it a late night.”
“Perfect,” she says, already halfway to her room. “We’ll leave in ten.”
I stare after her. “Ten minutes?”
Her voice carries back down the hall. “You’re already beautiful, Madeline. You don’t need longer than that.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re on our way to Replay Brewery.
It’s not too far, so we decide to walk even though the sun has gone down.
The day’s warmth lingers thick and lazy in the air.
The scent of the ocean drifts through town, threaded with salt and pine.
It’s the kind of night that feels caught between the end of summer and the beginning of something new.
Lottie’s outfit turns more heads than I can count.
She’s in a silk mini-skirt and a cropped leather jacket that somehow manages to look both effortless and expensive.
Her boots click confidently against the sidewalk, her gold hoops catching the light every time she tosses her hair over her shoulder.
She looks like she belongs at a downtown rooftop bar.
But that’s Lottie. She belongs anywhere.
I, on the other hand, paired a simple white halter top with fitted jeans and kitten heels. My hair is pulled back in a slick low ponytail.
“See?” Lottie says, looping her arm through mine as we turn down Front Street. “This is nice. Fresh air, no traffic, no city lights. You can almost feel your blood pressure dropping.”
“I didn’t realize my blood pressure was the problem,” I tell her.
“It always is,” she teases, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Don’t worry. A little music and beer will fix everything.”
The sound of laughter reaches us before the brewery comes into view.
Replay sits near the waterfront—a renovated cedar building wrapped in string lights that glow like fireflies.
The extended patio is packed with people, long wooden tables stretching beneath a canopy of twinkling bulbs.
Inside, the warm buzz of conversation mixes with the low hum of an acoustic guitar.
We weave our way through the crowd, the floorboards creaking underfoot.
The air smells like hops, fried food from the food truck outside, and the ocean breeze that drifts through the open windows.
At the far end of the room, a girl stands on a small stage, singing into a microphone.
Her eyes are closed, her voice is smooth and unhurried, like she’s completely unaware of the room full of people.
Lottie smiles. “See? Isn’t this nice? No thumping music you need to scream over, no twenty-dollar espresso martinis.”
I take it in—the laughter, the warmth, the small-town comfort of it all. It’s a far cry from the curated cocktail parties I grew up around, where everything was a show, and nothing was real.
“Okay,” I admit. “It’s cute.”
Lottie grins, triumphant. “Told you. Deep Cove knows how to do Friday nights.”
She steers us toward an open spot at one of the long tables near the window, and we take a seat.
A few minutes later, a waitress brings us each a flight of beers that we ordered.
I take a sip from the first glass, listening to the hum of conversation around us.
Deep Cove is nothing like the world I came from and that’s exactly why I’m here.