I blink. “What guy?”
“The beer delivery guy,” she says, holding my gaze. “Kinda short, dark hair, ridiculously handsome.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “Phoebe, no. I wasn’t—I don’t look at guys like that.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, something tight and sour twists in my stomach. The truth is, I’ve never let myself look at guys like that. Never even entertained it. You don’t—you can’t—in a town like Claremont Shores. Not when your entire life is planted in the soil your family’s owned for generations.
Phoebe’s eyebrows lift, unimpressed. “You were staring at him like you wanted to hop over the bar and jump his bones. You’veneverlooked at me like that.”
Heat floods my face, embarrassment and fear tangling together, tightening like a vise around my throat. “That’s not—Phoebs, come on. I wasn’t.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “I like women.”
“Ash,” she says gently, “it’s okay to experiment. Seriously. Lots of people do. I—I kissed a girl in high school once.” She shrugs, cheeks coloring. “Turned out it wasn’t for me, but there’s nothing wrong with trying things out.”
The words slice through me like a blade, spilling my guts. I feel cornered, exposed, my skin buzzing with a panic I can’t name.
“I don’t need to ‘figure myself out,’” I snap, throwing up air quotes, my voice edged with anger. “I told you—I’m straight.”
She opens her mouth to answer, but something quick and defensive lashes out of me first, like a cornered animal baring its teeth.
“Did you ever consider,” I bite out, “that maybe it’syou? Maybe you just don’t—” My voice falters, but I force it through. “—do it for me.”
Her reaction is instant. Her face crumples, all the strength draining out of it, and it knocks the breath from my lungs. Her blue eyes shine, tears gathering at the edges. I’ve never seen her cry before. She’s usually so tough and strong-willed, hard and unbreakable.
“Ash…” Her voice is small, trembling. “That was cruel.”
“Wait, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t mean it like that,” I stammer, reaching for her arm.
She recoils like my touch burns, scowling.
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Phoebs, please—”
“I’m not doing this,” she chokes out as she slips off the bed. “Not tonight. Not when you’re like this.”
She stumbles down the hallway, and I follow after her like a shadow, desperate and useless. She grabs her shoes with shaking hands, the frayed laces tangling as she fumbles to tie them.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Don’t go.”
But she’s already yanking open the door.
“I’ll talk to you when you’re ready to be honest,” she says, finally meeting my eyes. “With me. With yourself. Whatever.”
“Please—”
The door slams before I can finish.
A suffocating silence swallows the house, leaving me barefoot in the entryway with my chest hollowed out.
I collapse onto the couch, burying my face in my hands, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. My heart thunders, each beat a painful reminder of the mess I’ve made. And the worst part is, I can’t tell if I’m upset by her accusation… or terrified she might be right.
Chapter Four
Troy
BythetimeIpull the van into the parking lot, the sun is sinking low on the horizon, painting the dark water in streaks of copper. Tourists are already trickling in for the annual sailboat parade, crowding the pier and beach. Across the harbor, boats line up for the procession, each one decked out with string lights and disco balls.
In this town, the sailboat parade signals the start of summer. When the chamber of commerce reached out last week and asked if I wanted to serve as the event’s sole alcohol vendor, I was pleasantly surprised. It was an opportunity I couldn’t refuse.
