I lock the screen fast. “Yeah. Just—schedule stuff.”
He knows I’m lying, but he also knows I won’t give him more.
I grip the wheel and force a steady breath. “I’ll drop you at Gideon’s,” I say. “I have tutoring after.”
He frowns. “Tutoring? With who?”
“My bad, not tutoring,” I correct quickly. “Study group.”
He doesn’t buy it, not even a little, but he lets it go. “Okay. Can we hang out when you get home?”
Home.
Such a ridiculous word for a place with three men carrying the emotional weight of a small war.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “We can.”
The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable. He keeps glancing at me like he wants to ask more, but for once he respects the boundary. When I pull into Gideon’s, he unbuckles slowly, like he’s trying to read everything I’m not saying.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” I lie.
He hesitates, then nods and gets out. Halfway up the walk, he turns back, checking if I’m still watching.
I lift my hand in a small wave, and he disappears inside.
I look at the dark screen of my phone, the voicemail still burning in my mind.
Tonight, I’ll be alone with Abi. And I’m going to use it as a way to try to get her to slip up on what’s going on with Minxy and what she saw or even what Abi did.
Silas and Gideon are going to be pissed when they find out.
I put the car in drive.
“I’m screwed,” I whisper.
Then, I start toward the fitting.
Alone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
PENELOPE
Gilbert’sfront windows glow soft and golden against the evening light, displaying a lineup of dresses that look like they belong on magazine covers or in the closets of rich women. A bell above the door chimes when I walk in, and the sound hits my nerves like an ice pick.
Racks of gowns float along the walls like clouds. Mannequins in lace and satin watch me from every corner. It’s pretty in that suffocating way, like being trapped inside a Pinterest board that smells like peonies and steam.
“Penelope,” Abi sings from across the room.
She’s standing by a circular platform in front of a wall of mirrors. Her hair is twisted into a smooth chignon at the nape of her neck, makeup perfect, a flute of champagne in one hand.
“My darling girl,” she coos as she sweeps over. “You made it.”
I force my mouth into a smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
She leans in and kisses my cheek. Her fingers press a little too tight at my shoulders, holding me in place for a second longer than necessary.
