Beau gives me a kiss. “I’m going to have a cigar with the guys. You want to come?”
I consider it, and the flirtatious twinkle in his eyes hits me like a drug. But some part of me needs to go out front—to chase the ghost I just saw.
“Now that the Carol showdown is over, I think I’ve had enough party for one night.” I brush the lapel of his custom blazer, liking the way my fingertips skate across the smooth fabric. “Enjoy your cigar, though. I’ll see you at home.”
He hands me the car keys. “You take the car. I’ll catch a ride with someone or grab an Uber.” Then he adds, “I’ll take the suit off before I come inside.”
This is a standing agreement of ours. There’s an outdoor shower by the pool, and on the nights he’s out late, smoking cigars and getting zooted with the golf dads, Beau showers the stale cigar smoke off outside and leaves his clothes on a nearby chaise.
He gives me another kiss, and I murmur, “Wake me when you’re home,” against his lips.
Then he and Shep make their way toward Lemon & Fig’s outdoor dining area. Gemma trails behind them, and I overhear her offering them drinks. She’s talking to Beau and Shep as Ford joins them. The men all shake hands, and I catch sight of the elastic hairbands on Gemma’s wrist—there must be four or five, all in different colors.
An old habit. Back in California, she kept a stash of them around her wrist at the bar in case she needed one. Until tonight, California felt like a lifetime ago. Even after Gemma showed up last year.
Now, it feels more like a heavy breath at the back of my neck. Behind me, sure. But close. And uncomfortable.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Before I go, Beau finds me through a window and winks.
I watch him for a moment after he breaks eye contact, drinking him in. Appreciating the cool ease in his stance, the way he holds the cigar. I like finding him in crowds when he doesn’t think I see him and watching his steady confidence, knowing he’s mine.
Of all the mistakes I made in California, he’s the thing I got right.
I blow him a kiss, and then I leave, walking out the front door and scanning the dwindling crowds on the sidewalks of Park Avenue. When I see no sign of my ghost, I climb into the car. I’m home and in bed in under thirty minutes. Face scrubbed, skin snailed with whatever creams my aesthetician hawks. I’m debating taking a gummy or an Ambien when I realize I’m so tired, I don’t need chemical persuasion.
Turning to the stack of books on my nightstand, I consider thumbing through the fad anthology on somatic breathing Beau swears by, but instead, I reach for my well-worn copy ofBreakfast of Champions.And three sentences in, my vision starts to blur.
—
When I wake with a start at 2:00a.m.,the book is still on my chest, the lights are still on, but Beau’s side of the bed is empty. I open the security system and check the camera mounted to the garage—one of the many upgrades we added to this house when we bought it.
But there’s no sign of Beau coming through our front door.
I text him.
2:13 A.M.
Are you still out? I fell asleep. Love you.
I wait a beat, watching the screen. And then a new message notification pops up, but it’s not Beau. It’s the 310 number.
2:14 A.M.
Este. You can’t ignore me.
Chills scatter up and down my body as I lock my phone and flip it facedown on the nightstand. The question of what will come back if I respond lingers in the darkness above my head as I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for sleep to pull me under.
Chapter 4
Thirteen Days Before the Hurricane
“P lease, God, make it stop.” Morning sunlight beams through our gauzy bedroom curtains, sharp enough to sting my eyes. I roll over, but the harsh light follows me. Cracking one eye, I check the time on my nightstand. Then, I yank a pillow over my face with a groan. The movement jostles Beau beside me.
“What’s wrong?” His voice is thick with sleep.
“It’s seven-thirty.” The pillow muffles my response. “This insistence of yours to wake up to natural light is unholy.”
