His reappearance makes me jump a little, and I look down at the phone I’m still gripping.
“I’m just texting Nora.” It’s a lie. So I send Nora a text to make the lie true.
4:50 P.M.
Beau and I are headed up to Lemon & Fig. See you there.
As Beau strolls back out of the closet, my heart is still racing. I consider blocking the number.
Because here’s the thing: Fuck California.
But I can’t.
If the past is catching up to me, I need to be able to see it coming.
Chapter 2
“So what’s the plan?” Beau asks, glancing at me from the driver’s seat.
Outside my car window, our street is bathed in the glow of sunset. As we cross the bridge over our private drive, the lake catches the last of the light and throws molten gold across the carefully manicured lawns that knit Winter Park’s ten square miles together.
I don’t mention the 310 call or text to Beau.
I can’t. That would make it a Thing. And these days, I only deal with Things that stem from the little projects I pick up for sport. TPing Carol’s house to cheer Polly up is a controlled burn. California is a five-alarm fire.
Still, Beau’s question has me retreating into my thoughts.
Whatisthe plan? Coming to Florida and covering up past problems with money and fun was the original plan. Is it time for a new one?
“Este?” he says, his brow pulled into a concerned frown. “How are we going to get Marcus and Nora together?”
Right. That plan.
He’s giving me an opening, the same way he always does when I’m holding something back. Normally, I’d be filling the car ride to Marcus’s restaurant with ridiculous proposals, like locking him and Nora in his wine cellar or rearranging the seating chart so they’re trapped together all night. But the 310 number is still lodged in my ribs, sharp and insistent. I googled thenumber, but it’s unlisted. Whoever’s trying to reach me wants to keep their information private.
I have one guess.
“Sorry.” I shake my head and try to clear the dread creeping up my back. “I was thinking you propose a game, Suck and Blow.” It’s a weak suggestion. Barely funny. “It works on all those Netflix reality dating shows. And that one time onClueless.”
Beau gives me a half laugh, the kind that’s more about his love for me than about the joke. His hand slides over to my knee, warm and solid, and for a second I let myself believe he can steady me with touch alone.
I close my eyes for the rest of the short drive and try not to let the humidity in the air compound my anxiety. Humidity might be the most reliable thing about this place. Even at night. Especially in August. The sticky heat crowds every space.
By the time we turn onto Park Avenue, home to Lemon & Fig, I decide to lock the 310 number in a mental drawer. This brick-paved street, with its preppy shops and ancient oaks, is a different world than the one Beau and I used to scrape through, so I convince myself California is a place in a movie, and I’m someone who’s never been there.
I’m so practiced in compartmentalizing, it just might work.
Beau finds a spot near the park—a block of green space in the center of the low New England–style buildings—and I take a few deep breaths as I wait for him to come around to my door.
The very first time we walked down this street, a silent sense of judgment hummed beneath my skin as the crowd looked us up and down. If money talks and wealth whispers, the hushed murmurs of Winter Park’s residents read like a hedge fund fantasy draft. Everywhere I looked were soft-shouldered blazers and quiet luxury shoes. People spoke in code. In brands. In generations.
But I didn’t grow up going to cotillions or calling my dad “sir.”
Where affable Beau and the money from his storied tech exit were welcomed with ease, I was regarded with more caution.
It probably didn’t help that I asked if adults could order off the kids’ menu while they were going over our monthly dining minimums when we joined the Interlachen Country Club.
“You ever wonder what our lives would be like if we’d bought an island when we left California?” I ask as Beau helps me out of the car. This isn’t the first time I’ve suggested we fall off the grid. When we left California, that was my go-to escape route. But Beau had a boatload of fuck-you cash and the kind of moxie that comes with it.
