Bea exhaled. Started straightening out the mess on the floor. “Why do you know so much?”
“Beya Slaya, I’ve waitressed through three breakups, two engagements, and one vow renewal that ended mid-dinner,” Claire said wryly. “Human drama’s my minor.”
Chapter Three
The apartment was too warm, already thrumming with bodies and the bass of someone’s playlist. Not a borrowed speaker tonight. Someone had splurged on a sound system that could rattle drywall. The lights were low, shot through with gold from fairy lights that had been strung across the ceiling. Glittering balloons hovered in every corner. A photo booth with a ring light stood propped near the sliding doors, backed by a sparkly sheet.
Everyone was dressed like they were waiting for a moment. Suits with undone buttons. Dresses with cutouts. Heels that hadn’t seen a sidewalk. It wasn’t black-tie, but it was definitely trying. And succeeding, in its own local kind of way.
Bea stepped inside with Claire, shrugging off her coat, her heels clicking against the hardwood. The smell hit her next: prosecco, department-store cologne, the faint undertone of someone’s cinnamon-scented vape.
She was offered a party hat but didn’t take it. Claire did, immediately sticking it on sideways.
It was a student party, but done with confidence. No heirloom diamonds. No curated menus or security outside.
She scanned the room, and saw him. Logan.
The music didn’t fade. The crowd didn’t hush. But Bea’s heart slowed anyway, like it needed a second to catch up.
He was standing by the kitchen, drink in hand, mid-laugh. Still tall. Still handsome in that home-grown way that made people lean in without realizing they had. His jaw was sharper now, his frame filled out. Same easy smile.
He glanced up. Brown eyes caught hers. He seemed to still, just for a breath. Like he’d been expecting her, but not like this.
Bea smiled at him in greeting, then looked away first.
She let herself get swept up in the pull of it all: names she hadn’t said out loud in a year, hugs that lingered too long, and stories that had somehow gotten softer with time. She heard her name more in the first hour than she had in the last six months.
And no one mispronounced it. Bey-ah.
Not Bee-ah. Not Bee.
Here, she didn’t have to explain herself. Here, in her past, she was known.
Claire tugged her from conversation to conversation, drink in hand, dropping snark and compliments in equal measure. Bea followed, smiling where it counted, genuinely laughing a few times. Moments that almost felt like what she’d imagined when she booked her ticket home.
She noticed the glances of the boys more than she used to, a little too interested, some looking twice. Maybe they’d always been there. But now, she saw them. Because for the first time, she had someone. And she wasn’t looking to catch anyone’s attention.
She kept moving. Kept telling herself this was exactly how she wanted to spend New Year’s. Home, with old friends, in the town that raised her.
But the truth was, it was like trying on a favorite dress she hadn’t worn in years. It still fit, but the fabric felt different. The sleeves pulled in places they hadn’t before. The color wasn’tquite how she remembered it. It was familiar. But it wasn’t quite hers anymore.
Eventually, she slipped out the narrow sliding door onto the rooftop.
Toronto in December was all bite. The wind pushed under her coat. Sirens blared in the distance.
She wrapped her arms around herself, away from the noise of the party. From familiar voices asking the same things on repeat?—
How’s St. Ives?
What’s it like being around so many rich people?
They didn’t know. About what she’d been through. About what she was going back to.
The door slid open behind her. Footsteps.
“Figured you’d come out here,” Logan said behind her.
Bea turned. He was wearing a coat now, hands tucked into his pockets. His breath was visible in the crisp night air.
