I can’t help it. I low-whistle. “Nice ride.”
Faye’s entire body tenses. And she dismisses me with a curt nod. “Thanks.” The car blinks unlocked as she approaches, without her even needing to press a fob. She opens the door, then glances over at me. “Goodnight.”
The message is clear as the stars overhead. Some topics are off-limits. Where she’s from. Why she moved to Blue Crescent Harbor. Where her money comes from. The car she drives, one that costs more than most people in this town make in a year.
She gets in, starts the engine, and drives off with a smooth purr. I stand there, watching the red taillights fade into the dark, until I’m the last person in the parking lot.
Beautiful mystery, indeed.
The careful distance she keeps, and how badly I want to cross it.
I’m an idiot. A fool. A man who should know better than to fall for someone who’s made it crystal clear she doesn’t want to be fallen for.
But her gravity doesn’t care what I want, and down I go.
13
FAYE
The Switch controller slips in my sweaty hands as I pivot into another hip thrust, following the on-screen dancer through a move that I would be embarrassed to make if anyone could see me. My living room has become a one-woman dance club, complete with enthusiastic flailing and selective coordination—exactly how I planned to spend my Friday night. Not at the Moonshine. Definitely not hoping to run into a certain cowboy with eyes that give nothing and promise everything.
That I’m even holding a controller again is a small miracle. For months after everything fell apart, I couldn’t even look at a console without my lungs clamping down, air skittering uselessly against my throat. But Blue Crescent Harbor has worked its quiet magic on me. Six-year-olds who hug my knees at dismissal and leave crayon drawings on my desk. New friends who keep inviting me out even when I act like an insufferable grump. The lake at dawn, mist clinging to the surface until the sun burns it away. Like this town has burned away the darkness inside me. Somehow, it healed me.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, barely audible over the thumping bass of whatever pop song the game is torturing me with. I ignore it, throwing myself into a series of arm movements that must look like I’m trying to swat invisible bees.
Sweat trickles down my spine, soaking into my sports bra. This is good. This is healthy. This is me not thinking about last night’s parents meeting or the way Ryder Evans’s eyes held mine when I gave him my number. He hasn’t texted me yet, not even to give me his contact.
That phone buzz from a second ago suddenly takes on a different possible meaning.
I pause mid-kick, the game freezing on a “PERFECT!” that feels like a mockery given how imperfect everything in my life is right now, and set the controller down. I grab my phone where a message banner from an unsaved number glows on the screen. Missouri area code, but that could be anyone. A telemarketer. A wrong number.
Even so, my heart does a little dance routine of its own. In my gut, I know it’s him.
I grab my water bottle from the floor, taking a long sip. Water dribbles down my chin. I wipe it with the back of my hand, then pull my oversized hoodie on over my sweaty body. The fabric sticks uncomfortably, but if the message is from who I think it is, it won’t be a one-text kind of night—better to face it hydrated and warm.
I drop onto the couch cushions with a soft whoosh and open the message.
Unknown
For research purposes, what are the duties of a parent chaperone?
My heart doubles down with a ridiculous skip-hop-jump combo more complicated than anything Just Dance could throw at me. I save the number before responding, typing “Ryder Evans” with unsteady fingers. Then, because I’m a coward who needs plausible deniability even in my own contacts list, I add (Rhys’s father) in parentheses. As if there’s any universe where I could forget which Ryder Evans this is. But this way is better, more clinical. A reminder that he’s a parent in my class and nothing else.
Or it is pathetic. A fig leaf over my growing obsession. Still, it makes me feel less like I’m losing my mind over a man I can’t develop feelings for.
How do I reply?
Faye
Mostly ensuring no one gets lost or injured
I keep it simple. Professional. I’d answer Bettany Harlow the same way. I send it before overthinking it. Then I ruin it with a follow-up message.
Faye
Luckily, they’re still too young to worry about accidental pregnancies
The moment I hit send, I get a full-body cringe.
