August is sitting at the little dining area, his glass in one hand, a folder in the other.
Mom’s articles. I forgot I left the box sitting right there onthe table, and maybe I should be pissed off at him for looking through my things without asking, but I’m too tired for that right now. Besides, he’s the one writing a book about Lo. Seems only fair he should have access to this makeshift archive, come to think of it.
“Where did all this come from?” he asks, and I prop my chin on one hand as I reach for the bourbon bottle with the other.
“My mom,” I tell him, sloshing more liquor into my glass. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know why she had all of it. She never even told me she and Lo were friends.”
“Huh” is all August says, and for a little while, I drink, and he reads in silence.
And maybe it’s the bourbon, maybe it’s the shock, but the one question that has been growing louder and louder in my head for the last few hours finally slips out. “Do you think it was Lo?”
August’s dark eyes flick up from the tabloid clipping blaring outHOW “LO” CAN YOU GO?,and he takes a sip of his drink before answering.
“You mean Edie. Tonight.”
“God, that makes me feel crazy to say,” I groan, scrubbing at my face with both hands before pulling my feet up onto the banquette and wrapping my arms around my knees. “But”—I nod at the box—“I’ve read those articles. I know what happened to Landon, how his head was all caved in, like someone had hit him with something, and… the way the doctor was describing her most serious wound to me tonight, it sounded exactly the same. Besides, Edie never goes out to the side porch. There was literally no reason for her to be out there. And yes, it was raining, and yes, that painted wood can be slippery, but how could one little fall do that much damage?”
It feels simultaneously good and horrible, getting that off my chest. Like when you finally throw up after being nauseated. I feel lighter somehow, but also exhausted and shaky, and I throw back the rest of the bourbon in my glass.
I don’t know what I want August to say. No, scratch that—I want him to tell me I’m being crazy, but to do so kindly. To tell me he understands why my mind might go there, but here are all the reasons that it couldn’t possibly be true.
Instead, he nods. “Things did get pretty nasty between them today.”
That exchange in the lobby had been bothering me, too. Not just what Lo had said, but how she’d said it. The way she’d pretended everything was fine with her and Edie, that there were no grudges held, no scores to settle—only to unleash that vitriol, seemingly with a flick of an internal switch.
But it hadn’t just been anger fueling her outburst. It had been deep hurt. A sense of betrayal, nurtured over the decades.
Could they have argued again after I left? Had Edie followed Lo out to that porch in the rain, and had Lo finally seen her chance to get revenge?
“Did Lo say anything to you?” I ask him. “After they took Edie away?”
August lifts one shoulder, taps his fingers against the side of his glass. “Just that she wondered what had happened, she hoped Edie would be all right, and that falls are so tricky when you’re as old as Edie.”
I frowned. “They’re the same age.”
“Not in her mind.”
We’re quiet again, each of us lost in our own thoughts until August says, “I didn’t see her tonight. Lo, I mean. We were working in her room for a bit around four, probably until five, but then she said she was going to make a phone call, maybe takethe car and grab a quick bite to eat. I didn’t see her again until we heard the sirens.”
I take that in, my brain feeling slow, sluggish. I shouldn’t have had that second glass of bourbon, not when I’m this tired and probably still in shock. My mouth is dry, my head fuzzy, and I stand up to get a bottle of water from the mini fridge.
“Edie definitely believes Lo killed Landon,” I tell August, pressing the cold bottle to my warm face. “And she says my mom had always thought the same thing.” I briefly fill him in on my mom—her condition, Hope House, all of it. “And both times I’ve mentioned Lo around my mom, she’s had a reaction,” I continue. “Not a big one, but it’s more than I’ve gotten out of her in the last year or two. And she had all these clippings hidden away, but she never once mentioned Lo’s name to me, ever. I feel like there’s some piece of this I’m just not seeing, and if Mom were still herself…”
August rises to his feet, coming to stand in front of me, his hands landing on my bare arms. “Hey,” he says softly. “You’ve had a fucking terrible night, you’re probably dead on your feet. Whatever is going on here, we don’t have to figure it out right now.”
Thatweis a balm, sliding over me, clearing some of the panicked static buzzing in my brain. God, I’ve missed being part of awe.I’ve been doing so much hard shit alone, and it’s nice to think that this might be one hard thing I don’t have to face by myself.
August’s hands are still wrapped around my biceps, the bottle of water icy cold as it presses against my chest, leaving a damp spot on his T-shirt because we’re standing so close together.
So it feels natural—inevitable, even—when he lowers his head to kiss me.
His lips are soft and a little dry, and he tastes like bourbon when his tongue finds mine.
The bottle of water tumbles to the floor as I instinctively wrap my arms around him and kiss him back, every touch-starved cell in my body suddenly singing with life again, and his hair is soft against my fingers when I link them at the back of his neck.
It feels so good just to have another body close to mine that I’m able to ignore the distant alarm bell ringing in my head, reminding me of Lo’s face when she saw me and August on the beach that day, the way her arm snaked protectively through August’s as she stood between us.
God help anyone who gets in her way.
