My throat tightens as my fingers curl tighter around the bag. I turn toward Ford’s house, hoping—stubbornly, deeply—that this means something.
When I head down the steps, I look to another house on the street. Jessica’s. And I start wondering about her as well.
But first, I go to the meeting.
I steel myself as I arrive at Ford’s parents’ house in Trevyn’s car. He pulls into the driveway, turns off theengine, and gives me a supportive smile. “You’ve got this, girl,” he says.
“Of course I do,” I reply to my good friend.
I push open the door and step outside, the sea salt air from Richardson Bay drifting under my nose. I told them about the dog biscuits Ford left on my porch this morning—eager to dissect the meaning,but also wary of reading too much into the wordsI miss you.They’re not the same asI want you back.
“What do you think?” I ask again.
“I think you need to get your butt into the house. We have a show to do,” Mabel says, then shoos me toward the front door. She hauls the podcast equipment, but it’s not much. Just our lavalier mics and phones. We’re pretty DIY. The Internet is like science—magical.
“Fine, fine, make me suffer,” I say.
“We can spend the rest of the dayafterwe shoot dissecting what it means. Does that work for you?” Mabel asks as we head to the home’s entrance.
“Yes, thank you very much. You get me.”
“We so do,” Trevyn says.
I punch in the code and open the door.
The place is warm and welcoming, but I knew it would be, since I designed it. I’ve seen it, too, since it all came together, but it’s still gratifying to take everything in—from the couch to the lamps to the kitchen cabinets. To—wait. What is this? There’s another bag by the front door. A big brown one. And am I losing my mind or is that a fluffy, fleecy dog bed that’s longer than it is wide?
It’s wiener-shaped, and I can’t stand how cute it is. I pull it out, stroking the obscenely soft material, then gasp when I read what’s been embroidered on it.
Property of Simon Side-Eye.
“Shut up. He made Simon a personalized dog bed,” I say, my heart swelling in my chest. This man is up to something, and I’m eager to know what, or what’s coming next in this trail of gifts.
Mabel bends to inspect it. “Okay, that’s adorable. But get moving.”
I arch a brow. “You’re awfully eager to get this going.”
“You got us past twenty-eight thousand subscribers. They expect us to show all the design stuff,” she says.
“They were tuning in for the dating drama,” I say with a sigh.
“Yes, but they stayed because we’re good,” she adds.
“Also, I bet you can still be dramatic,” Trevyn throws in.
And fine, fine—I haven’t lost my touch in that area.
A few minutes later, we’re ready to go, streaming live on our YouTube channel as I say to the camera, “Who doesn’t love a before and after?”
Then we show our podcast viewers the house—from the dove gray couch to the pale-yellow kitchen table, the blanket on the back of the couch, the counter in the bathroom, the Eames chair, the rest of the office, and the plants in the living room.
“What do you think?” I ask, turning to my friends and co-hosts. “Do we like the after?”
But before either of them can answer, there’s a loud knock on the front door. I shoot Mabel a quizzical look. “Are you DoorDashing while we’re going live?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Skylar. I’m getting cookies.” She pauses. “It’s probably, oh, I don’t know, your client. I’ll go let Maggie Devon in.”
But seconds later, it’s not Maggie walking in. It’s Ford. And my heart beats faster than it does in a thrift shop.
