“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“Too late. I’m already composing the text in my head.”
I guideThe Meet Cuteback through the channel, the water high enough now that the mud banks have disappeared. Themarsh grass glows amber in the late afternoon light. Somewhere behind us, a pelican calls.
By the time I get home, I’ll have an email to write.
Not a grand gesture or a manipulation.
Just the truth, finally. In eighty thousand words.
And whatever Jessica decides to do with it is up to her.
SEVENTEEN
JESSICA
Michelle and Grayson’s house looks like a Pinterest board exploded inside a farmhouse.
I stand in the doorway, taking in the transformation. The last time I was here—back when it was just Grayson’s place—the decor could be described as “aggressively bachelor.” Leather furniture, blank walls, a television the size of a small car, and absolutely nothing that suggested a human with feelings lived here.
Now there are throw pillows. So many of them.
“Is that pillow passive-aggressive?” I ask, pointing to one that readsDecaf is for Quitters.
“Grayson bought that one, actually,” Michelle says, pressing a glass of wine into my hand even though it’s barely eleven in the morning. “He thinks he’s funny.”
I count at least four more coffee-themed pillows as I make my way to the living room.Espresso yourself. But First, Coffee. I Like Big Cups, and I Cannot Lie.And my personal favorite:Coffee: Because Adulting is Hard.
“In my day,” Grandma Hensley announces from her spot on the sofa, “pillows didn’t come with snark.”
“Back then, you embroidered the snark yourself,” Hazel points out.
“That’s different. That was art.”
Fresh hydrangeas spill out of mason jars on every surface—the coffee table, the mantle, the side tables. Distressed white frames hold photos of Michelle and Grayson looking disgustingly happy. The whole place smells like fresh flowers and the cinnamon rolls Amber brought from The Salty Pearl.
It’s spotless. Not a speck of dust anywhere.
“Grayson insists on a cleaning service,” Michelle says, catching my look. “He says I work too hard to come home and clean.”
“That’s actually sweet.”
“Don’t tell him. He’ll get a big head.”
Jo is already on her second glass of wine. Mads is practically vibrating with energy, her engagement ring catching the light every time she moves her hands—which is constantly.
“Where’s the rooster?” I ask, suddenly aware of the silence. The last time I was here, Reggie provided constant commentary on everything from the weather to his personal grievances with modern society.
“Outside.” Michelle’s voice carries the weight of hard-won battles. “That was my first demand when I moved in. Sir Reginald Featherworth III could stay, but he was not living inside the house.”
“He has a coop now,” Hazel adds. “A posh one. Grayson built it himself.”
“It has heated floors,” Michelle mutters. “For a chicken.”
“He’s a rooster,” Grandma Hensley corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“The difference is, roosters are louder and angrier, which describes Reggie perfectly.”
