“Maybe she hasn’t noticed,” I kid, not believing it.
Beau’s brows knit together as if to saySeriously?Then he adds, “Unlikely.”
I brush a kiss on his jaw and head back to my closet. “I’ll tell you what I told Polly. If—or maybewhen—she gets huffy at the party tonight, I’ll apologize and pay her lawn bill. It will still have been worth it to see Polly laugh like that.”
“Someday, you might not have an answer for everything.” Beau follows me, and I pause midstep, tilting my head.
“If I had an answer for everything, I’d know how to get Marcus and Nora to finally admit they like each other.”
Beau leans against the closet island. “Este, they aren’t the dolls you had as a kid. You can’t just put their faces together and make them kiss.”
“That’s offensive. I didn’t have dolls as a kid. You know that.”
My parents had been professors. Godless, data-driven types who considered Barbie to be “a gateway to the commodification of the female form.”
“Have you explored the idea that maybe that’s what this is about? Imagine if youhadowned dolls? Maybe then our friends could flirt in peace.”
But he knows that’s not possible.
I’m allergic to leaving well enough alone. Always have been.
I wave him away, hooking a pair of vintage lapis Van Cleef earrings through my ears—armor disguised as elegance. Parties in Winter Park can be something of a blood sport—part pageant, partMean Girlsrevival. I don’t care much for the game, but I know the rules well enough.
From his side of the closet, Beau grabs his bespoke blazer and pulls it on over a baby-blue dress shirt. “Pick a pocket square,” he says, holding up two patterned options. “Paisley or flamingos.”
“I like the white and blue floral. Matches the shirt.”
He winks and reaches for my choice, tucking the other options back into a drawer. Under the cuff of his shirt, the bracelet he always wears—a Buffalo Nickel on a chain—catches the lightfor a moment. He gives me one more kiss and says he’ll wait for me in the living room.
I take him in as he goes, thinking he’s the one—the guy you save your best outfits and jokes for. The one who can still make my pulse race with his crooked smile. I see the way other women notice him. But he’s mine. And here we are, having it all.
He disappears in the direction of the living room as my phone vibrates again, reminding me I have a missed call. Sighing, I dig through the clothes on the island. When I finally find my phone beneath a pile of dresses, I see I have a missed call and a text.
Both from a number with a 310 area code.
California.
The text came after the call, and it simply reads:
4:47 P.M.
Este. We need to talk.
My stomach flips.
The message cracks me open—unearthing a feeling I thought I’d buried. Guilt. Regret. Maybe even fear. It hums insidiously beneath my skin.
Gemma isn’t just the only person from California I speak to. She’s the only relic from my past life that I allow in my orbit. After my old life imploded, I didn’t exactly disappear, but I didn’t leave a calling card either.
It turns out leaving isn’t the same as being forgotten.
My thoughts swim as my heart rate kicks up. As I lock the phone, the screen goes dark, briefly reflecting the panic on my face.
The memories of Slack pings and phones buzzing at all hours flood my ears, colliding until they sharpen into a single high-pitched whine.
What if I’ve only been delaying the fallout?
“You ready?” Beau comes back around the corner.
