“Twin Waves. Which is in?”
“North Carolina.”
“North Carolina.” She says it like I’ve announced I’m living in a cave. “Right. Well, here’s the thing. I’m not doing this over the phone anymore. We’re having this conversation face-to-face.”
A cold feeling settles in my stomach. “What does that mean?”
The clacking of a keyboard sounds in the background. “It means I’m on my way there. My flight lands at three.”
“Diane—”
“See you soon, Levi.”
She hangs up.
I stare at the screen for a long moment,then walk back into the common room where Dean and the guys are debating the best way to cook ribs.
“You look like someone just told you Christmas is canceled,” Josh observes.
“My manager is coming here.”
“Here?” Dean frowns. “To Twin Waves?”
“To Twin Waves. Today.”
“Is that…bad?”
I think about Diane, with her designer suits and her LA efficiency, descending on this tiny coastal town like a well-dressed tornado. The meeting I’ve been avoiding. The career I’ve been putting on hold. The conversation I’m not ready to have.
“It’s not great,” I say.
Tommy claps me on the shoulder. “Well, if you need to hide, my basement is available. It’s mostly storage, but there’s a futon.”
“Thanks, Tommy.”
“Also, could you sign my truck? It’s not for me. It’s for…the truck.”
Dean grabs my arm and steers me toward the door. “We’re leaving. Right now.”
Diane’srental car is already parked in my driveway when I get home.
It’s a shiny black Mercedes—the nicest car this driveway has probably ever seen—and Diane is standing beside it, studying my rental house like it might contain structural deficiencies. Her heels are sinking into the gravel and her silk blouse is slightly wilted in the coastal humidity. She looks profoundly out of place, like a peacock that accidentally wandered into a chicken coop.
“Levi.” She doesn’t smile. Diane never really does—she offers expressions that suggest she might consider it if you impress her enough. “You’re late.”
“You’re early. Your flight wasn’t supposed to land until three.”
“I took an earlier one. I was motivated.” She extracts one heel from the gravel with a grimace. “Please tell me there’s somewhere civilized we can talk.”
“There’s a porch. It has rocking chairs.”
She stares at the rocking chairs like they’ve personally offended her.
We go inside instead, to the kitchen with its marble counters and copper fixtures, where Diane perches on a bar stool and I start a potof coffee I don’t want just to have something to do with my hands.
“So,” she says. “Let’s discuss what’s happening here.”
“I’m taking some time off. That’s what’s happening.”
