Totally manageable. No problem at all.
The peony on the display shelf drops another petal. It lands on the counter with a softtap, pink and fragile and already starting to curl at the edges.
“Same,” I tell it.
Then I pick up the phone, text Jo back a single heart emoji so she knows I’m alive, and go back to work. Because that’s what Smart women do. We keep going. Even when the past walks back through the door wearing a baseball cap and smelling like expensive cologne and regret.
TWO
LEVI
The rental house is beautiful. Warm hardwood floors, shiplap walls painted soft gray, a kitchen with marble counters and copper fixtures. The wrap-around porch has rocking chairs that face the ocean.
I hate every square inch of it.
Not because there’s anything wrong with it. Because it’s perfect, and I’m hollow, and perfect empty spaces just echo louder.
I drop my keys on the kitchen island and stand there like an idiot, replaying the last hour on a loop.
Delilah. In her mother’s flower shop. Looking at me like I was a stranger.
Because to her, I was.
When I was in town for Dean’s engagementparty last summer, I stood on that beach singing to the ocean like some tragic poet, and she walked toward me out of the darkness. My heart nearly stopped. After all these years, after everything, she was there. In Twin Waves. Finally.
And then she’d looked right at me and didn’t know who I was.
I’d told myself she was ignoring me. That she’d seen my face and chosen silence. I’d spent months nursing that wound, turning it over in my mind, writing songs about a woman who could look through me like glass.
But she didn’t ignore me.
She just...didn’t recognize me.
Somehow that’s worse.
I scrub a hand over my face and walk to the living room. My guitar case sits against the wall—the Martin I’ve had since I was nineteen, scratched and worn and worth more in memories than money. I pull it out, settle onto the couch, and let my fingers find the strings.
Nothing comes. I chase a few chords, but they’re hollow. The melody from that night on the beach drifts through my mind—the one I was singing when she appeared—but I never wrote it down. Just let it disappear into the salt air like everything else.
I set the guitar aside and stare at the ceiling.
She said my name today.Levi.Just like that. Steady and sure, like it didn’t cost her anything.
It cost me everything just to breathe.
The doorbell ringstwenty minutes later, which is eighteen minutes longer than I expected.
I know who it is before I open the door. Penelope Waters has been “stopping by” every day since I arrived, armed with various baked goods and excuses and an iPhone perpetually ready for selfies. The Mayor set me up in this rental as a favor to Dean, and I’m starting to think the real price is unlimited access to his wife’s social media content.
“Levi!” Penelope’s smile is wide and bright and probably visible from space. She’s holding a casserole dish like it’s an offering to the gods. “I saw your car pull in and thought, ‘That poor man has had a long day. He needs a home-cooked meal.’”
I paste on my public smile—the one I’ve perfected over years of meet-and-greets and red carpets. “Mrs. Waters. That’s so thoughtful.”
“Oh, please. Penelope.” She breezes past me into the kitchen without waiting for aninvitation. “I just whipped up a little chicken divan. My grandmother’s recipe. The Mayor says it’s the best in three counties, but he’s biased.”
She’s already opening cabinets, finding plates, making herself at home. I’ve learned that resistance is futile. Penelope Waters is a force of nature in designer clothes, and the path of least resistance is just letting her do whatever she’s going to do.
“How’s the house treating you?” she asks, spooning casserole onto a plate I didn’t ask for. “Brett Walker built this place, you know. He’s married to Amber—she owns The Salty Pearl, that darling little restaurant on the boardwalk. He’s just the most talented builder in the county. I told the Mayor we should hire him for the addition we’re planning. Nothing but the best for the Waters residence.”
