Chapter 39
SNICKERS
The limo glides through the Brooklyn streets, the late-winter sun glaring off the buildings.
Through my tinted windows, I see tourists in bundled coats snapping selfies near the Brooklyn Bridge.
Even in February, the city doesn’t stop.
I roll my shoulders, adjusting the crisp pressure of the silk tie at my throat. Morning coat, cufflinks. A full tuxedo, tailored within an inch of my life. It’s the first time I’ve worn one in years.
I don’t know why I let Clare talk me into this much pageantry for a publicity shoot, but at this point, what’s one more ridiculous thing?
My car slows, and I get out.
Kit’s team is already setting up near what we’ve all named “the tree”—the old oak where Pip’s aunt and uncle carved their initials decades ago.
I sigh, remembering how I made light of that sentimental carving when I first saw it yesterday.
What a jerk I’d been.
But at the time, I hadn’t realized what the carving meant to Pip.
Or how much Pip meant to me.
And there lies the problem.
Pip had been a delightful diversion when our paths first crossed six months ago. A flapper-dress-clad groupie attending my concert, ripe for the conquest.
But she had turned out to be so much more than that.
If she hadn’t deserted me that very first morning, would I have deserted her soon after?
To this day, I don’t know.
It’s been ten long years since Kellie’s tragic death.
A decade since I swore to myself I’d never love another.
That no woman could ever replace her.
But that was before Pip sprang into my life...
"Hey, Snickers!" Kit’s greeting breaks my brooding thoughts.
I force myself into the present.
It’s the usual pre-shoot shuffle. One of the production assistants thrusts a cup of coffee into my hand. The makeup artist dusts powder over my face while muttering about “minimizing shine.”
And even though I wasn’t thrilled about traveling all the way here for the shoot, I must admit the stone towers of the Brooklyn Bridge, the East River, and the frigid blue sky make for a perfect backdrop.
Especially when I see her.
Pip’s standing near one of the heaters Kit ordered to keep the crew warm. From this distance, the heat radiates around her in a romantic glow.
She wears the vintage dress I had the bridal salon find for her. It glimmers in the cold sunlight, satin and pearl buttons as white as fresh snow.
Clare stands by Pip’s side, smoothing her train, checking every detail.
Beside Pip, an older woman sits on one of the crew’s fold-up chairs—a long braid of white-blonde hair, sharp blue eyes, and that same natural warmth Pip radiates when she’s not forcing herself to act a certain way.
Her aunt.
I remember Pip asking Kit if she could invite her to this afternoon's photoshoot.
Based on the way Pip rests her hand on her shoulder just a beat too long, I get the feeling she needs her aunt here. That she gets her fortitude from her.
Piglet rests near Vivian’s feet. A nice little family portrait.
Then Pip sees me.
For a second, she beams, full and bright, something automatic, something real.
And then—just as quickly—her smile flickers out.
Like she suddenly remembered we’re not supposed to be that way anymore.
I feel the loss of it. Like a door slamming shut.
Pip bends to whisper one last thing to her aunt, then straightens and walks toward me.
"Ah, the blushing bride," I say, keeping things light. "You look lovely."
"It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding." Pip’s tone has a teasing shape to it, but underneath, something is missing.
I noticed it earlier today.
She’d been responsive to me, flashing those knowing glances, playing the game like we always did.
But now? It’s like the signal between us has been cut.
"Snickers," she says after a pause. "I need to talk to you about last night."
I already know what she’s referring to.
And I already know this moment—here, in front of rolling cameras, waiting photographers—is the worst possible place to have this conversation.
But what would I even say? That I kissed her like I meant it—because, in that moment, I did? That every instinct told me to keep going, except the one that reminded me what happens when I let someone in?
That I’d only ever been reckless with her when she was a stranger, before she became real?
Still, I force a neutral tone. "What about it?"
A beat. Then: "About us."
She says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. Then immediately shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I know this pattern by now.
Pip walks up to the edge of saying something real. Then she backs away.
Maybe that’s for the best.
Instead, she forces a small laugh. “I was just thinking I might’ve gotten carried away last night. Must’ve been the drama of the evening, I guess.”
She’s testing me. I can tell.
But I don’t bite.
Everything between us only exists because of this fake engagement.
It must not go past those boundaries.
I tell myself this.
Even as I feel the weight of what I didn’t say last night.
"For what it’s worth," I finally offer, "maybe I got carried away too."
Her breath catches, just for a second—the tiniest stumble in her exhale, so small I almost think I imagined it.
But then Kit saves me.
"Alright! Let’s get into position!"
Just like that, we’re back in the script.
I follow Pip across the open space, toward the rough-barked oak that has taken on a kind of legendary status in this ridiculous storyline of ours.
She reaches the trunk first, smoothing a shaky hand over the familiar bark.
And then she gasps sharply. "No!"
I step up beside her.
And then I see it.
The initials—her aunt and uncle’s initials.
Scratched out.
The delicate dove... obliterated.
Ripped into by something sharp, then burned—scorched deep into the wood.
As if that person didn’t just want to erase it.
They wanted to punish it.
Burn it out.
Destroy the meaning it held.
Pip staggers.
I catch her on instinct, a hand steadying her waist so she doesn’t buckle.
Piglet rushes forward. He nudges his head against Pip’s ankles, whimpering like even he understands the weight of what’s just happened.
Then from behind us?—
Kit’s voice cuts in, fractured and thin.
"Oh, my God. She’s struck again."