An older couple walks past with a golden retriever on a leash, and the dog strains toward me like I might have treats in my pocket. The woman smiles with the easy friendliness I’ve always found a struggle. I nod back stiffly and they move on, probably writing me off as another uptight urban asshole who doesn’t understand how things work in a small town.
It’s a fairly accurate assessment.
My sister’s apartment is accessed by either a set of interior stairs at the back of the bookstore or an outside staircase in the alley next to the building. I happen to know Sloane’s at a doctor’s appointment, so don’t bother going through the bookstore. Instead, I bound up the alley stairs two at a time before knocking on the door. There’s no answer, but I can hear movement inside and knock again, harder this time.
Still nothing except the sound of a crash followed by a creative string of muffled profanity. My heart thumps wildly against my ribcage, and I try the knob, letting myself in when I find it unlocked.
The scent of sugar and cinnamon hits me first, so opposite of everything I associate with Avah that my brain takes a second to recalibrate.
Sloane’s one-bedroom apartment is tiny, with exposed brick walls and high windows that flood the interior with afternoon light. The furniture is an eclectic and adorable mix of thrift-store finds and hand-me-downs. Bright pillows, art posters, and woven blankets draped over a chintz chair, along with a macramé plantholder hanging in the corner, give the space a bohemian fantasy aesthetic.
It’s a vibe Mom and Dad would hate. It’s also perfectly Sloane, who’s spent her whole life proving she doesn’t need their approval or money. Our parents—and for a long time, myself as well—saw her as flighty and irresponsible for refusing to follow the academic path they’d wanted. And when I offered to buy her any house she chose when she moved to Skylark, she’d told me to shove my checkbook somewhere anatomically challenging.
The living area is one continuous space: a sofa and sitting area on one side, a small oval dining table in the middle, and a kitchen with a narrow island on the far end. Avah is standing at that island, headphones clamped over her ears, mixing something in a large bowl. Her arm moves in vigorous circles as she attacks the batter, but I don’t see the cause of the crash.
There’s already a pan of cinnamon rolls on the counter, the creamy frosting glistening. A wire rack of cookies cools beside them, golden-brown and stuffed with chips based on what I can see from the doorway.
She’s wearing a tank top and leggings, partially covered by an apron with frilly ruffles tied around her waist. The apron is pale pink and covered in tiny strawberries, about as far from Avah’s personality as anything I can imagine.
My chest just about cracks wide fucking open.
I can’t hear the song through her headphones, but her lips are moving, hips swaying to the beat. She picks up a wooden spatula and uses it as a microphone, belting out off-key lyrics to an empty room.
Was I expecting to find the polished version of Avah I knew before Bora Bora, all sharp edges and designer everything? Or maybe the unshielded woman who’d slept with her face pressed against my chest, while I counted her breaths like they were worth more than every dollar in my account.
Avah with an unguarded smile on her face, completelyunaware she’s being watched, is a baking core revelation, and I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.
So I stand there like an infatuated stalker, noticing the curve of her shoulder and the way her tank top rides up to show a sliver of skin at her hip.
Then she looks up, and the spatula slips from her fingers.
It hits the counter, clipping the edge of a measuring cup. Flour explodes in a white cloud, coating the front of that ridiculous apron. She rips off her headphones, blue eyes blazing.
“Jesus, Jeremy. Are you trying to scare the crap out of me?”
“Could be payback.” The words come out rougher—and, yeah, a little more butthurt—than I intend. “For how fucking terrified I was when I woke up to find you’d vanished.”
A flash of guilt crosses her face. Quick, but I catch it.
“I asked Damon to let you know I left.”
“I thought we were leaving together.”
Her body goes stiff. “We weren’ttogether.”
Those three words hit like a right hook. I know they’re true, but that hasn’t stopped me from waking up at 3 a.m. most nights since returning home to California, reaching for a warm body that isn’t there.
“No doubt.” I dial my tone back to pretentious asshole because hell, no, I’m not going to let her see my soft underbelly.
She makes no move to brush off the flour, just stands there with her arms crossed, chin lifted like she’s preparing for battle.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?”
“Visiting Sloane. What else would I be doing here?”
“She’s at a doctor’s appointment.”
“I know.”
