Chapter 10
BETH
The air clings to my skin as I walk toward the firehouse, my dress sticking to the backs of my thighs. I’ve got a brown paper bag in my hand—his favorite sandwich, chips, a bottle of iced tea sweating through the paper.
Sean. We needed to figure this out. He was the safe guy. The sex used to be good. Deep. Slow. Soul touching.
We just needed to reconnect.
I didn’t need the flame and fire that Ethan and Sage had. Nothing beats a steady burn.
The bay doors are open.
Inside smells like oil and metal and something fried.
Sean looks up when I step in.
The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey,” I say, bright, hopeful.
His shoulders tense.
“Beth—what are you doing here?”
I laugh, a little uncertain now. “Surprising you?”
He glances over my shoulder. Then back at me.
“I—I can’t right now,” he says. Too quickly. “We’ve got a call.”
No sirens.
No urgency.
Just dismissal.
“I’ll just leave this—” I lift the bag.
“Don’t,” he says, sharper than he means to. He scrubs a hand over his face. “You really can’t be here right now. It’s not a good time.”
The room feels wrong.
The guys don’t meet my eyes. Conversations dip, then restart too loudly. Someone clears their throat.
I glance towards his locker.
The photo.
The one of us at the beach—sunburned, laughing, my hair a mess, his arm slung around me like I belonged there.
It’s gone.
Just a torn piece of tape where it used to be.
My stomach drops.
“What happened to the picture?” I ask.
Sean follows my gaze. Hesitates.
“Oh—uh. It fell,” he says. “Got ripped. I was gonna fix it.”
I nod feeling my throat close. “Okay.”
He kisses my cheek, quick and distracted. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
I just nod feeling suddenly very stupid. Unease slides into my body like an unwelcome virus.
I walk back to my car, summer buzzing all around me—music spilling from open windows, laughter from coffee shops, life happening everywhere except with me.
Finally at work a half hour later, my inbox chimes.
From: Sage
Subject: Lunch Tomorrow
No greeting.
No smiley face.
Just one line.
Newbury Street. Noon. We need to talk.
I stare at the screen, pulse thudding in my ears.
It isn’t a question.
It isn’t an invitation.
It’s a summons.
And suddenly, the best summer of my life doesn’t feel so sunny anymore. I’d better make nice since she was going to be a huge part of my social life now—until Ethan pulls the plug or she does.
Sage is already standing when I get to the table.
“Hi,” she says brightly, leaning in for air kisses on both cheeks like we’re old friends. “How are you, sweetie?”
I blink, caught a little off guard, and smile automatically. “I’m good. Hi.” I’m still feeling guarded. Not knowing which version of Sage will show up today.
She’s taken the liberty of ordering—two margaritas already sweating on the table. Watermelon, judging by the pink salt rim and the little wedge perched on the glass.
“I ordered you a drink,” she says, sliding one toward me. “It’s so hot out.”
I don’t drink on workdays. Ever. But she’s already lifting hers, already taking a long, enthusiastic sip, so I wrap my fingers around the glass and take a polite one of my own.
Sweet. Too sweet.
She’s already halfway through hers.
“So,” she says, settling in like this is brunch with a girlfriend. “Ethan tells me you’re his favorite.”
My eyebrows lift. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” she says, waving a hand. “He’s always talking about you. How smart you are. How dependable. How you just get it. He says you’re like family.”
She giggles, leaning closer.
“Like a cute, little sister.”
I nearly choke on the margarita. Because last weekend I was not thinking if him in the same way.
“Same. He’s like a brother,” I respond quickly.
She watches my face carefully as she drinks again.
“Mm-hmm,” she says. “Ethan’s such a catch, I’m surprised no one at the office has made a move on him.”
“Like who? Gina? The sixty-year-old admin?” I joked. “There’s no one, Sage. No one’s a threat to you at the office.”
Then, casually— “What about the other girls? Tony’s friends…?”
“Just, Kate. A kiss. I already told you…”
“Have you ever seen him hook up at all?” she asks. “Like… drunkenly? And then act like it never happened?”
I hesitate. Just a beat.
“I’ve seen him drunkenly make out with random girls,” I say carefully. “But rarely. And not since months before he met you.”
Her eyes stay locked on mine. Color blooms on her cheeks. Her manicured nails tap on the table.
“But never with anyone like me?” she asks lightly.
I don’t overthink it. “No,” I say honestly. “I’ve never seen him want to be with anyone the way he’s with you.”
She studies me another second, then seems to relax.
“Okay,” she says. “Good.”
She drains the rest of her margarita and immediately flags the waiter.
“Another,” she says, then looks at me. “You’re good, right?”
I nod, even though my glass is barely touched.
“Tell me about your boyfriend,” she says, all warmth again. “I want everything. Did you make him pay for ditching you last weekend?”
I take a breath. “Sean’s a fireman. He never wanted to go college. He comes from a whole family of firefighters. He volunteered once he turned eighteen and never looked back. It’s a noble job. The hours suck—”
“I asked about him not what he does,” her brow rises.
My hands twist the napkin in my lap. I look away, being my lip.
It’s fine.
We’re fine.
“He’s….
“Oof,” she says. “Hero energy.”
I smile despite myself. “Our schedules are just… off. He works overnights. I’m nine to five. We kind of pass each other like ships. His father died last year. It’s been hard on him. So I don’t give him hell. I’m just there. You know—when he needs me.”
“But you’re happy?”
“Yes, we’ve been together almost two years. When we’re together, it’s really good. He’s very doting. He’s just been picking up overtime lately and dealing with family things.”
“Okay…” She doesn’t seem convinced.
She gives me a look.
Not mean.
Not kind.
Just… assessing.
“Mmm,” she hums.
Something tightens in my chest.
Who is she to judge my relationship?
“Oh my god,” she says suddenly, clapping her hands once. “We need to get you a new bathing suit.”
And just like that—the subject is changed.
I blink. “What?”
“And clothes,” she continues breezily. “Honestly, Beth, we need to update your whole look.”
I laugh, thinking she’s joking.
She isn’t.
“Meet me after work,” she says, already standing. “It’s non-negotiable.”
I watch her toss a bill on the table like this lunch was never really about food.
As she walks away, heels clicking confidently down Newbury Street, I realize something with a cold little twist in my stomach;
This wasn’t a friendly lunch.
It was an interview.
And I’m not sure I passed.
After work, Sage is… nice again.
Like nothing sharp happened at lunch. Like we didn’t just sit across from each other while she mentally rearranged my life.
It’s whiplash-inducing.
“Beth, honey,” she says, looping her arm through mine as we step onto Newbury Street, all smiles and sunshine. “You’re cute—dare I say pretty—but you could use a little spicing up. Like we did in Plymouth.”
I laugh awkwardly. “I don’t really like to show a lot of skin.”
She stops short and turns to me, perfectly manicured finger lifted.
“No, no, no. I didn’t say slutty,” she says gently, like she’s correcting a child. “There’s a difference between slutty and sexy.”
Before I can respond, she’s already pulling me into the first boutique.
From there, it’s a blur of color and music and mirrors.
She lifts a hot pink bikini off a rack. Tilts her head. Puts it back.
Turquoise. Holds it up against me. Hums. Back it goes.
Then black.
She pauses on that one.
It’s minimal but architectural—clean lines, wide circular detail at the center, structured triangle top.
“This,” she says decisively. “You don’t need padding. Trust me.”
“I really don’t—” I start.
“You’ll see what I mean.”
The dressing room is narrow and brightly lit, every mirror positioned to be unforgiving. I perch on the little bench, scrolling through emails on my BlackBerry, trying to pretend this is normal.
The curtain rustles.
“Beth?”
I glance up.
And freeze.
Sage steps out without ceremony, adjusting the straps like she’s changing in her own bedroom. She’s completely at ease, chewing gum, inspecting herself in the mirror.
“You can’t tell they’re fake, can you?” she says casually, turning slightly. “I mean—look. They’re really good.”
She gestures, matter-of-fact, like she’s pointing out a new haircut.
“My ex paid a fortune for them,” she continues. “Best silicone. The work is… impressive.”
She lifts the fabric just enough to indicate what she means, then—before I can look away—she reaches over, grabs my wrist gently but firmly, and places my hand directly on her breast. The skin is warm, impossibly soft, the weight and give so natural under my palm that my breath catches.
“Feel that,” she murmurs, eyes locked on mine in the mirror, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Feels real, right? You can’t even see the surgeon’s incision.
It’s hidden right here—” She guides my fingers lower, along the underside curve, tracing a faint, invisible line.
“Perfect work. Go ahead, squeeze a little. See for yourself.”
I’m frozen, heat flooding my face, my hand trembling against her like I’ve been caught doing something forbidden. She doesn’t let go of my wrist, just holds it there a second longer than necessary, her gaze steady and amused.
She finally releases me, drops the fabric back into place, unbothered.
I stare. I can’t help it.
Is this what it girls do? Inspect each other’s tits?
She notices my expression and laughs lightly. “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie. It’s just a body.”
“Yeah,” I say weakly. “They… look nice.”
She grins, pops her gum, clearly satisfied.
“Alright,” she says, turning back toward the curtain. “Enough about me.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “This day is about you.”