Chapter 29
The neighborhood’s quiet, sun low in the sky, and I’m halfway through organizing the records stacked along my wall when the sound of tires on asphalt draws my attention.
I glance out the front window. A car slows in front of the house, unfamiliar. It doesn’t look like a delivery or a neighbor. I straighten slightly, cautious for no reason other than habit.
Liv steps out of the back seat. She leans down, smiles and waves, then closes the door. What the hell is she doing here?
I head for the door, tugging it open right as she reaches it, clutching a brown paper bag to her chest like it’s shielding her from something.
She looks up and our eyes meet. She freezes. Her curls fall softly around her face, a few blown loose by the breeze, and her expression is a mix of nerves and second-guessing.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, more sharply than I mean to.
“I, um,” she fumbles, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. “I was on my way to Morella’s. I saw your car and… I don’t know. I just, impulse stopped. But then she texted me and said she’s running late so I, uh, figured I wasn’t ditching her, and I just… here I am.”
It’s not exactly smooth, but it’s honest. She’s chewing her bottom lip now, and for a second I just stare at her.
“Oh! Hello, sweetheart!” My grandmother’s voice floats in from behind me. She appears at my side with perfect timing, wearing a tailored navy wrap and the glint of understated jewelry, her heels soft against the floor.
“Liv, wasn’t it? Come on inside, darling.” She gently nudges me with her elbow. “Invite the lady in, Archer.”
I step aside without thinking, and Liv gives me the smallest, most apologetic smile as she slips past.
Liv glances around, taking everything in like it’s sacred. She should. Grandma’s home is like a living memory. Everything’s exactly where it’s always been.
“You’re Olivia Lovelace, I remember you from the grand opening of your fathers Medical Center.” Grandma says warmly. “I’ve also heard your name quite a few times here now.”
“Oh,” Liv replies, a little startled. “Hopefully in a good way.”
Grandma laughs lightly. “You’re standing in my house, aren’t you?”
That earns a smile from Liv.
“I’m Eliza Gravemont,” she adds. “Please don’t call me ‘ma’am’ or ‘Mrs.’ anything. It makes me feel like I should be holding a cigarette and threatening someone at a country club.”
Liv laughs. “Noted.”
“You’re lovely,” Grandma tells her. “Come sit. Archer will forget his manners if I leave him to it.”
They settle into conversation instantly. About California. About the move. About the weather. Liv talks about the town she grew up in, and Grandma listens like it’s a memory worth collecting.
They click. Naturally and easily. She fits here. That thought sneaks up on me. She fits. She fits like she’s been here before. Like she belongs.
Then the doorbell rings. Grandma excuses herself to answer it, heels clicking out of the room.
I glance at Liv, who’s still holding the brown bag. “So what’s in there?”
“Oh. Right.” She steps forward, handing it to me. “Birthday gift.”
I pull out the vinyl first. Master of Puppets. Limited edition. Reissue. I couldn’t get it when it dropped.
My chest tightens, but I don’t show it.
“I saw you wearing a shirt one time. Then I saw this and thought maybe you’d like it. I don’t even know if you have a record player so maybe it was a stupid gift.”
Before I can say anything, Liv reaches back into the bag.
“And this too,” she says. “It’s… kind of a tradition.”
She pulls out a little container with a single chocolate cupcake. Dark frosting. Gold candle resting against the side.
“My dad makes me one every year,” she says quietly. “So I figured… I’d bring one to share the tradition. I didn’t bake it, though. I swear. I wouldn’t put you through that again.”
I raise an eyebrow. “They weren’t that bad.”
“Archer.” She gives me that deadpan look. “Don’t lie to me.”
I laugh. “I ate the whole tray.”
She rolls her eyes at me and then smiles and it does something to me.
My grandmother returns, carrying a dramatic bouquet in one hand and a small white box tied with gold ribbon in the other.
“These are for you, darling,” she says, setting the bouquet down on the side table like she’s placing a relic in a museum. I glance at it, and yeah, she nailed it. Like she always does.
The arrangement is all sharp angles and shadowed tones. Long-stemmed calla lilies, almost black, curve around dark burgundy ranunculus and plum garden roses. There’s smoke bush fanned out behind them, and trailing amaranthus drapes over the edge in wine-colored ropes.
She’s worked in black scabiosa too, along with astrantia in deep purple, all tangled up with bruised eucalyptus and feathery grevillea. Even the leaves have that muted, moody tint.
The vase holding it all? Shaped like a skull. Matte black ceramic with faint crackle lines through the glaze. A silver ring pierces the nose socket like a septum ring. It’s dramatic, weirdly elegant, a little cursed and absolutely me.
“And your lemon crinkle cookies,” she adds, handing over the box. “Fresh from Rose & Rye. Barely baked, just how you like them.”
She turns to Liv, and I catch the way her eyes light up. Same way they do when she finds something rare in an antique store. “I order both every year. My version of confetti and balloons, just with more edge.”
Liv’s smiling now. “Honestly? This is way better.”
My grandmother nods approvingly, then gestures to the record in my hand.
“And that. Oh, he’ll love that. I don’t understand that music, but he sure does.
You know, he once saw an old record player in a secondhand shop, and every time we passed it, he’d ask to go back inside.
Would just stand there listening to it. So I bought it for him for his birthday. He uses it every day.”
I glance down, feeling a little exposed. “She’s exaggerating.”
“I’m not,” she says, proud and smug. “You still listen to every new and old record on that thing.”
I don’t deny it. And I don’t miss the way Liv looks at me, smiling like she just uncovered something secret.
Liv’s phone pings in her pocket and she pulls it out, glancing at the screen, and her expression shifts.
“That’s Morella,” she says, looking up. “She’s finally home. I should probably head over before she starts sending dramatic voice memos.”
I almost tell her she doesn’t have to rush off, but I stop myself.
She turns to my grandmother first. “Thank you so much for letting me crash your evening.”
Grandma waves her hand like she’s brushing it off, but her smile is genuine. “You were the highlight, sweetheart. Come back anytime. Truly.”
Liv’s cheeks flush slightly. “I’d like that.”
She turns to me next. “Happy birthday, Archer.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For the record. And the cupcake.”
Her smile is a little softer now. “You’re welcome.”
I follow her to the door, then out onto the front step. It’s quieter now, the air cooler as the evening settles. Her curls catch in the breeze again, and I can smell her. That subtle minty-sweet mix that’s starting to brand itself into my memory.
She turns back to me just before heading down the path.
“I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be around.”
And before she can go, I step forward and wrap my arms around her. It’s not long. Not even particularly tight.
She freezes for a second, then her arms slide around me in return. Light and unsure, like she didn’t expect it, but isn’t pulling away either.
I breathe her in. That scent again, strong, vanilla and mint. Something soft and clean and distinctly her. I hold the hug a second longer than I should. Then let go.
“Night, Liv.”
“Night, Archer.”
I watch her walk to the car, get in, and drive off toward Morella’s. I realize I haven’t felt like this on my birthday in a long time. Like it’s actually worth celebrating.