“You’re biased.”
“But I’m right.”
She shifts her weight. Despite the dark, I catch the sheen of her thighs where her dress has ridden up. I imagine running my palm along her leg and sinking my fingers into her skin with a gentle squeeze.
“My accountant would disagree.” She lets out a breathy laugh.
“How The Mirage does financially isn’t a measure of its worth, or yours. It’s perfect.” I swallow and lighten up on my steering-wheel death grip. Daisy doesn’t give herself enough credit. “I’m not doubting his restaurateur genius. He’s successful, and you were right to suggest him. It just…I honestly don’t get how a guy like him would ever break up with you. I don’t care how many restaurants he has or how much money he makes,” I grumble, worked up over the evening. “He didn’t even bother to sit down and have a proper chat with us.”
“Well, so, you and I never—I didn’t talk about relationship stuff on our calls, but Alex didn’t break up with me. I broke up with him.”
I assumed he had called things off because she’d been on edge all day, but my view of everything shifts. She wasn’t begging some douchebag who’d dumped her because she was harboring feelings—she was swallowing her pride for the sake of my crazy idea.
“That…shit, that’s awkward.”
“We were both busy. Half the time we saw each other, one or the other of us was squeezing in work, just like tonight. And the distance…the drive’s not that bad, but whenever we were together, I felt far away from him. I told him I didn’t feel like it was worth continuing to drive forty minutes to see each other during the week.”
“Brutal.” I catch her eyes in one of the streetlights we pass.
“Yeah,” she says, a laugh slipping out of her. “But better than you having to ask your parents, right?” She smiles as if she’s happy with her choice, and guilt weighs heavily on my chest. She didn’t go to Alex tonight for the pop-up—she went for me.
“I’ll call them tomorrow. I don’t think they’ll care, but I could—”
“What?” Confusion flashes on her face. “No. Your mom and dad…your relationship with them is fucked up. I need you to at least stick around a few months and see this through, but they’d probably drive you crazy enough to want to leave.”
“You’re saying you want me to stay?” I grin, but my heart pounds against my ribcage—because where did that question come from?
And more than that: what if she saysyes?
“I don’t want you to hate it here,” she replies, not exactly answering me. “You should enjoy your time back in Harlow.”
We’re doing this until the end of summer, and then that job at Tate might open up in the fall. Daisy is just being gracious and making the next couple of months more pleasant.
“Well, thank you,” I say as I turn into the rutted driveway to the casita. “I’ll make sure to thank Alex, too. He was cool.”
She hums in agreement. “We met in a grief support group. I wasn’t exactly the most fun person for a while, and even though he’d lost his best friend, he was there for me. He’s a good guy.”
My throat tightens.Iwanted to be there for her. Daisy had mentioned her counseling and talked about her grief with me, but she said she couldn’t handle me flying out for the funeral—probably with all the people and chaos. As much as that crushed me, at least we started talking again, even if it was only through recorded messages. They made me feel closer to her, but I’m stupid for thinking they were enough. She needed someone, and I should have come back sooner.
I park and stare at her over the center console, memorizing her in the moonlight. Daisy’s pupils trace an invisible line from my cheeks to my nose and my lips—until a pair of headlights trails across the windshield, snapping us out of the moment. She exits the car, tossing a “Good night, Max,” over her shoulder without looking back. I whisper my own good night to her, or maybe just to myself.
Chapter Thirteen
Daisy, Now
Current Coffee’s patio has cream-colored metal tables and chairs, which look absolutely darling but lack comfort. Perfect. I’d like to keep this meeting with Dawn about the proposal as short as possible.
She waves me over to a table, holding her phone in her other hand. Dawn’s filming her coffee-filled kraft paper cup with the café’s logo on the side.
I lift my fingers in a wave.
“Oh, you can talk,” Dawn says. “I’m not recording audio, just B-roll.”
“Cool.” I have no idea what that is. “Sorry I’m late,” I say over the moody dream pop playing on the speakers.
“It’s all good. Wasn’t sure how you like your coffee.”
She tilts her head toward a cup resting on the railing and out of the shot. Dawn won’t win me over that easily, but I can’t waste a perfectly good coffee.
