“Your best friend only gets engaged once, right?” I fasten my seat belt and lean back with a deep exhale, very exhausted.
He turns down the music, and I can feel the car pull away. “Get any sleep on the plane?”
“Way too wired.”
“Can’t imagine why,” he mutters. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the coffee or my racing mind. Maybe both.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I tell him sincerely. Pretty sure if I had to take a ride share from the city back to the house, I’d cry.
“Mom and Richard are excited to see you. And me, too, of course,” he adds, and it makes me smile. He must’ve really missed me if he’s admitting it.
“Did they clean out my room yet?”
“No, and they aren’t going to. You’re always welcome back home. You know that.” His voice is soft, and it makes me feel guilty about leaving. I don’t have it in me to tell him that I’m not sure where home is anymore.
Let’s see. So far, this trip has brought me anxiety, sadness, and guilt. Off to a great start.
Not wanting to wade in the waters of depressing topics any longer, I take another deep breath and sit up, opening my eyes and trying to sound happier than I feel. “Anything exciting going on with you?”
He snorts. “Not in the least.”
“Heart’s good?”
“Heart’s good.” He grips the wheel and focuses on the road. “Probably because I don’t drink coffee with multiple espresso shots.”
I laugh. “True.”
We drive in silence for a bit, and I stare at the scenery whizzing by. It’s familiar but not as comforting as I hoped it would be. In fact, the longer I’m away, the harder it is to come back. It’s almost like I’m looking for something I can’t quite find. A memory? A feeling? I’m not entirely sure. Whatever it is seems just out of reach.
“Man, I can’t believe Jules is engaged,” Mason says after we get out of the city. “Twenty-three and planning to get hitched. That’s crazy.”
“It’s something,” I mumble. Maybe it’s because they haven’t been together long enough. No, that can’t be it. They’ve been dating for over three years. They live together, for Christ’s sake. Maybe it’s because Idon’t get the best vibe from him. Actually, scratch that. It’s definitely the vibes.
He’s old money. He’s yacht club, boat shoes, top-shelf scotch, and cigars kind of money. He’s a pickleball at the country club, ski vacations in the French Alps, let me test drive that expensive Ferrari type of guy. And Jules is…not. She’s a lazy Sunday morning in cozy sweats, curled up in an old chair, reading a book kind of girl. Someone who’d rather slip on her cardigan, eat a pint of ice cream, and watch a cheesy movie. They just don’t mix.
Like hair gel and water.
Except now, Jules gets to wear a shiny new ring to say otherwise. Shows what I know, I guess.
“Any plans tonight?” Mason asks.
“Sleep,” I tell him. Although I’ve been having trouble doing that these days. Maybe crawling into my childhood bed will help. Or maybe that will also just be something that’s familiar but not comforting.
“Holy shit,” I mutter from inside my helmet.
My bike slowly rounds the curved driveway and around the fountain. There aren’t too many cars here yet, or perhaps they’re parked in the four-car garage, who knows? The invite didn’t say anything about parking, so I pull off to the side next to the silver Porsche and black Beamer. I unroll the sleeves to my white button-up but immediately roll them back to how they were because it’s hot, and the sleeves had way too many wrinkles. A bead of sweat rolls down my temple, and I run my fingers through my hair. I’m anxious. Not because I’ll be surrounded by people I don’t know but because it’s been eight months since I’ve seen Jules, and I’mnervous.
A man in a tuxedo steps out of the two large front doors, and I take that as my cue. Realizing that I brought nothing with me, I snag a yellow rose from one of the large bushes lining the perimeter. It takes a little work to snap it off, and I suck on my thumb when a thorn knicks me.
“Please do not pluck the flowers from Madam Prescott’s prize rose bushes,” Tuxedo says in a slow, thick accent.
I quickly hide the flower behind my back, as if he didn’t just call me out for swiping it and rub my hand along my jeans. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that.”
He slowly inspects me and sounds exasperated when he says, “Miss Alex, I presume?”
I smile and flash him a finger gun. “You would presume correctly.”
He sucks in his lips, another sign of absolute annoyance, I’m sure. I’m killing it over here.
