And while most mornings start like this, today feels different. It’s urgent, like he’s been starved for this connection. Or maybe it’s me, trying to vanquish the ghosts of our past. Either way, the feverish need sets a desperate pace. As we move together, I can’t ignore the way he’s looking at me with lust and adoration, yes—but something else, too.
Something I can’t place.
I consider asking him about it, but then we’re moving faster, chasing a climax. My heart flutters as everything else dissolves.
After, Beau pulls me against him, and I tug a pillow over my face to block out the sun, his fingers tracing light, lazy patterns on my back. I fall asleep to the rhythm of his steady breaths.
The bio-hack-health community can take a seat.
The next time I wake up it’s 9:47a.m. and I’m late for breakfast with Nora.
I look around. Beau’s already off golfing, and there’s a text from Nora on my phone.
9:42 A.M.
On my way!
Shit.
The plan was simple. She’d run from her house to mine—because she’s a masochist—and then, I’d drive us to brunch. Instead, I’m still in bed, tangled in sheets, barely conscious. And she’ll be here any minute.
I launch from the mattress and tear through my closet, yanking on leggings and a sports bra, splashing water on my face, all in a blur of too-little-time. But my body’s not totally awake yet. My hair is a disaster and my skin warm from sleep.
As I trip out of my front door, though, blinking against the sun, there’s no Nora. I see Polly washing a golf cart in her driveway.
“Hey, Este.” She throws up a peace sign.
I cross the distance between our two houses. “What’s on tap for today? Want to go release a bunch of snails into Carol Parker’s greenhouse?”
“Can’t. I’ve got a tennis lesson.”
When Ford signed Polly up for classes at the club, I gave him credit for not trying to mold her life to match his own, like my parents had tried to do with me before they died.
“Did you hear your dad’s out golfing with Beau today?”
Polly gives a know-it-all nod. “He got home yesterday morning, so Ms. Dowling had to make a roast chicken.”
“A win.” I smile.
Ms. Dowling is vegan, which means, on the days her dad’s out, Polly is a vegan by proxy. Dowling is always packing her school lunches with mung bean this and chickpea that. Dinner might as well be a pile of leaves with a side of farro. Polly’s pretty miserable without the usual picky eater kid fare, and more than once, I’ve caught her researching bone density studies on kids who grow up without enough protein.
“What’s he doing home?” I ask.
“He says he hurt his knee.”
Ms. Dowling peeks her head out from around the shrubs that trace our property line and informs us it’s time for Polly to get to her tennis lesson.
We’re mid-goodbye when Nora appears at the Isle of Sicily bridge. I hop in my car and meet her halfway. As she’s slipping into the passenger seat, her eyes catch on her old house. Her own personal albatross. When she moved out, she swore she’d never set foot in the house again.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” I say, hoping to distract her from her thoughts. “You can tell me all about your house hunt.”
“Not much to report yet.” She gives the house one more uneasy glance over her shoulder, like it might spontaneously sprout legs and start chasing after us.
As I shift into drive, I’m about to say something light, something to lift her mood, but as I pull onto Via Tuscany, a police car streaks past us, sirens blaring, down the quiet street. We both startle, watching as it disappears.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, hoping to brush off the déjà vu.
But Nora looks shaken up. She exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Yeah,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.
