I sneak another glance at the expensive blooms. They’re so romantic. No one’s ever bought me flowers before. Okay, technically, I got a bouquet from Mum and Dad when I graduated, and Ada’s sent me sunflowers over the years. But parents and best friends don’t count. Not like this. I’ve never had amansend me flowers. Not on my birthday, or on Valentine’s Day. Never.
And now Will Sharpe, the hottest guy in our year and maybe the whole damn town of Pukekohe, sent me flowers. Just because.
I’ve had two what you could call ‘serious’ relationships. There was the guy in uni who spent four months talking me into anal, then ditched me for a girl in his Commerce class. And then there was a nurse in my mid-twenties. He accepted a job in Australia without even asking if I’d want to come with him. Neither ever bought me a bus ticket, let alone flowers. Neither was all that nice to me, either.
But these flowers from Will? They’re nice. So nice, my heart skips a beat whenever I look at them.
I’m not delusional. I don’t think he’s in love with me. At least not yet. I have eyes and functioning social media accounts, and it’s clear he’s been enjoying his freedom since he escaped Jenny’s clutches. Still, we’ve been messaging multiple times a day, and he seems curious about the bar and why I left nursing, and he comments on all my Afterglow promo pics, saying I look fantastic and other swoon-worthy things. I guess I could be delusional, I’m sure Ada thinks I am, but it feels like I’m finally tiptoeing toward a real romance.
He sees me.
My chest flutters so hard I almost drop my tongs into the fryer. I shake my head, trying to get my mind back on the order dockets fluttering above me.
“Are those flowers from the All Black?” Krissy asks, entering the kitchen with another load of dirty plates.
“No, they’re for me,” I say, trying to keep my smile hidden as I dump another load of chips intothe fryer.
“Ooooh. Who’s the lucky guy?”
I lean toward the bubbling oil, hoping the heat explains away my flush. “Just someone I went to high school with.”
“Ooooooooh. Is he gonna be at the reunion?”
By now, the whole staff is deeply invested in the High School Centenary saga. “Yeah. He is. He still lives in Pukekohe.”
Krissy makes a face. “Isn’t that a problem?”
I smile. Krissy’s from Kaikoura, a tiny coastal town in the South Island that she couldn’t wait to escape. But school aside, Ilikedliving inPukekohe. Most people write it off as one big kiwifruit farm with a racing fixation—you can choose horses or cars—but it’s still my home. I’ve always loved the idea of raising my kids there, building a beautiful house and having family dinner with my parents every Sunday.
“I don’t think I have to worry about moving back just yet,” I tell Krissy.
But maybe after the reunion…
Krissy peeks through the kitchen window and swears. “Cee? Ada’s back.”
I drop the fries and rush to the pass. I’ve been keeping my thoughts of Ada locked down tight—her devastation, what Jake did—because I know if I let myself go there I’ll spiral and take the whole bar with me. My stomach flips as I scan the bar. She’s not in her playpen.
“Where?” I shout to Krissy over Doja Cat’s ‘Boss Bitch.’
“Near the door.”
Sure enough, Ada’s draped on one of the far couches, surrounded by a pack of uni guys. Two of them are leaning in close, laughing like she’s the funniest thing alive. They’re rugby types. Jake knockoffs. One of them runs a cocktail straw along the hem of Ada’s crop top. I brace for her to smack him, and she doesn’t.
Panic engulfs my system. The only time Ada lets strangers manhandle her is when she’s completely shut down.
Fucking Jake Graves-Holland.
He’s spent all this time swaggering around my bar acting like the sun set between Ada’s legs, and nowthis? Lying to her about where hewas so he could take cuddle pics with Ada’s nemesis? Pics she posted to social media for the world to see? He can get all the way fucked.
I picture his stupid, pretty-boy face coming down my stairs to drink my water before taking Ada back to his house, and I want to smash every plate in my goddamn sink. I don’t. We can’t afford new crockery. But Iamgoing to give that prick a piece of my mind.
I pull out my phone. The last messages from Jake are his ‘aw-shucks-I’m-a-good-man-really’ declarations of love for Ada. Rage floods through me, and I type like my thumbs are on fire:
You are lowlife scum. I hope you snap your Achilles and your favourite band breaks up, and your nan never makes you banana bread again, you second-rate Richie McCaw fuckwit.
His reply comes fast:
Did Ada see the picture with Jenny???
