Lo,
Forgive the formal stationery, but it’s all I had handy, and the way I see it, my choices were either not to write to you as soon as possible (unthinkable, idiotic, not to be borne, etc. etc. etc.) or to write to you on this, and have you think I might be kind of an asshole.
And maybe Iaman asshole because you probably aren’t interested in a letter from some thirty-year-old lawyer who has maybe five years before his hairline gives up the ghost and his love of bourbon and barbecue finally catches up with his waistline, but on the offhand chance that youarehappy to get such a letter, I’m leaving this for you at The Line. The bartender there is probably used to having moony-eyed guys such as myself passing you notes because I can’t imagine who could walk into that place, see you, andnotwant to know everything there is to know about you.
And youareprobably used to men telling you you’re a knockout. Which you are, make no mistake, but I wanted you to know that that’s not why I’m writing. I’ve seen a lot of pretty girls in my life, Lo. “Pretty” isn’t what has me awake at four in the morning, writing this with hands that, if I’m honest, are shaking a little bit.
It’s going to sound stupid, but when I walked into The Line tonight and saw you there by the bar, I swear to God, it was like you just… glowed. Like there was a life force inside you that couldn’t help but shine out.
Like you swallowed starlight.
I just reread that, and I’m going to be very honest, Lo, there’s a part of me that wants to cross it out because you’ll probably think it’s A) a line and/or B) almost unbearably cheesy.
If you want to show this letter to your friends and make fun of it, I wouldn’t blame you one bit.
But I couldn’t sleep until I let you know that even if I never see you again, I’m pretty sure you’re going to haunt me for a long, long time.
(But I really hope to see you again.)
LPF
CHAPTER TWO
July 1, 2025
33 Days Left
The afternoon Lo Bailey comes back to St. Medard’s Bay, it’s raining.
The rain is not a surprise. It’s summer in Alabama, summer at thebeachin Alabama, and that comes with afternoon storms more often than not. It’s practically a ritual at the Rosalie Inn this time of year, watching the families gather on the beach under clear morning skies only to scuttle back to the safety of cars or the front porch of the inn—whether they’re guests here or not—as thick dark clouds roll out along the horizon. For about twenty minutes, it’ll rain so hard you can hardly hear yourself think, the drops hitting the ground so violently they can’t even soak into the parched plants and sandy soil.
And then, as suddenly as it comes on, it stops. The clouds smooth out into gray wisps, the sun reemerges with such force that sometimes you can see literal steam rising from the grass, and the families head back out to their chairs and their towels,telling one another that the rain “cooled things off” even as the humidity feels like a second skin.
Still, it feels ominous, the clap of thunder that shakes the inn as I watch a nondescript white rental car pull into the narrow parking lot on the back side of the Rosalie. I’m up on the second floor, standing at the big bay window that looks out on that side of the inn, matching the one across the landing that has a much prettier view of the Gulf. The rooms on the back side are obviously the cheaper ones, but as Mom always said, not every room can look out at the ocean, and some people are happy to pay lower prices just to be near the water, who cares if they can look at it.
This summer, our ocean-view rooms aren’t even fully booked, and there’s no one on what we optimistically called the “Gull Wing.” Probably for the best since two out of the ten rooms up here smell vaguely mildewed no matter how much we clean, or how much I’ve spent replacing furniture and bedding.
August Fletcher isn’t staying on this side, of course. He paid for one of the best rooms we have, a big corner room downstairs with French doors opening onto a private piece of the front porch, windows facing all that sand and sea.
The driver’s side door opens, and an arm darts out, a navy umbrella popping open and nearly hiding the driver from view. I catch a glimpse of one long, tanned, and hairy leg beneath a pair of khaki shorts, a brief flash of white T-shirt, and then he’s hurrying around the front of the car and opening the passenger door.
Nowhere in his email did he mention he might have a companion, but as soon as I see her—the swirl of floral skirt, a gleam of jeweled sandal, a cloud of blond hair—somehow, I justknowit’s Lo Bailey in that car with him.
My pulse jumps up a notch, curiosity making me want topress my face to the window like a little kid, but the umbrella blocks my view, and all I can really see clearly is my own wavering reflection in the rainy window.
I’m still not quite used to it, seeing my mother’s face reflected back at me. It happened around the same time I turned forty, earlier this year. I always knew we looked alike, but age has made the resemblance even more pronounced, and I can’t think about it too much because it reminds me that when my mother was forty—when she seemedoldto me—I was already twenty. When Mom was the age that I am now, she had a decades-long marriage, a college-aged daughter, and a thriving family business.
What do I have? A shitty ex-boyfriend who wasted twelve years of my life, a spider plant that is on death’s doorstep, and a hotel that I alternately fantasize about burning down and also somehow seeing on the cover ofCoastal Living.
I hear the door open and wait for Edie’s usual “Welcome to the Rosalie Inn!,” a cheerful cry so loud I sometimes tease her that they can hear it in Orange Beach, but there’s nothing, just the sound of the rain and their footsteps on the wooden floors.
Time to play the Charming Innkeeper, I guess.
They’re both at the front desk as I enter the lobby, the rain easing up now outside the wide glass doors that lead out onto the beach. A tanned little boy stands just next to the railing, bright blue inner tube in hand, watching the waves, no doubt waiting for the moment his mom tells him he can head back out there.
Not a guest, I’m pretty sure, probably someone staying at the condos farther down the beach and just using the Rosalie Inn’s porch for shelter.
I hate how angry that makes me. It’s not this little boy’s fault that his parents have enough moneynotto book an old hotelfor their summer vacation. I can’t pretend that it’s not probably a fuck-ton nicer, having a whole condo to yourself—a kitchen, a door you can close between you and your family members. If it were me, that’s what I’d want.
