“She also stole the good towels for her bathroom and labeled the fridge shelves by food group,” I add. “So, don’t worry. We’re still locked in a cold war of petty domination.”
Jake grins. “Marriage is balance.”
“So, no Brandon?” I ask, doing my best to change the subject.
“He’s ineligible as a single dude,” Jake says, “although I would’ve voted for an exception. I finally saw theRoad Houseremake and he was fantastic in the fight scenes. I want to know who he trained with.”
You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Jake can put a guy on the ground in under ten seconds. His body is built like a blueprint for a fighter, with broad shoulders, lean waist, and arms that stretch every T-shirt he owns without trying. He’s got dark skin that always looks sun-warmed, even in winter, and hazel eyes that seem too light for how grounded he is, almost like they’re letting in more of the world than the rest of us can handle. His hair’s always cut close, clean and simple, like everything else about him. There’s a scar on his eyebrow from some sparring match he refuses to talk about, and a kind of stillness in him that makes people lean in when he speaks. Most folks assume he’s just the nice guy with the good suits and the calm voice. They have no idea he could drop a man twice hissize without breaking a sweat. Hell, even I forget sometimes.
We sit in silence for a few moments, watching the waves crash just beyond the deck.
Jake leans back in his chair. “So, when did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That she was the one.”
It’s a simple question, and it should have a simple answer. I should say something charming. Something neutral. Something vague enough to keep the myth intact.
Instead, I pause.
“I think it was when I realized she never flinches,” I say. “She says what she means. Stands by it. Doesn’t care if it makes people uncomfortable.”
Wyatt nods. “That’ll do it.”
“She challenges me,” I add. “Not in a competitive way. More like she sees through all the noise. Including mine.”
Wyatt raises his glass. “To women who keep us honest.”
We all drink.
Somewhere back in L.A., the women are having their own girls’ night—at least Blair, Jess, Sophia, and Stella are. Lauren didn’t go. She never does. Too busy, too uninterested, or maybe just never really clicked with them, which, depending on who you ask, is part of the problem.
Eventually, the conversation shifts to baseball, work drama, and the playlist Wyatt insists is vibe-certified, but I stay quiet for a while, because what I said was true. Jess sees through the noise. She calls me on my bullshit before I can even hear it myself, and for some reason, I keep letting her.
I wonder what Jess is doing right now.
If she’s laughing with Stella and Blair over wine, or already curled up in bed in that tiny shorts set.
And the noise around me fades. Just long enough for me to realize: I miss her.
Which is stupid. I’ve only been gone a few hours. But it already feels like it’s been weeks.
nineteen
. . .
Jess
Blair picksme up in her matte black G Wagon, sipping a green juice that smells vaguely like lawn trimmings and witchcraft.
“You’re wearing real yoga clothes,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.
“You’re not,” she replies, eyeing my ancient USC baseball tee, tied at the waist, and biker shorts that have seen better days. “Did you bring a mat?”
“I brought an attitude,” I say, tossing my bag in the back. “That should count.”
She laughs as she begins to drive. “I’m told we’re going to love Natalie. Stella swears she’s part life coach, part wellness witch, all abs.”
