Page 135 of Gold Rush

No matter how closely I scan her face, no recognition sparks. I think it started with an A? Audrey? Andrea? Abigail maybe? None of those seem right.

She’s really pretty. She looks like Rory. Except her hair is shorter and curled instead of straight. Her eyes are hazel, not blue. She’s missing the tiny scar Rory has beneath her lower lip from falling out of a tree in elementary school—Rory had climbed up to help Wren, who was stuck.

The woman smiles, noticing my perusal and interpreting it the wrong way. All I can see in her gaze is interest, none of the judgment Rory aimed my way when I offered Wren champagne earlier.

She doesn’t look that much like Rory actually. And she sure doesn’t act like her.

“What’s your name?” I shout over the music.

“Lydia,” she yells back, not appearing annoyed by the question.

Maybe she never told me. Maybe she’s too drunk to care I forgot the bare minimum.

“I’ve gotta go to the bathroom.”

She nods, indicating she heard me. I turn and push through the hot, crowded room, well aware I have no intention of returning. Or taking her upstairs.

I stop in the kitchen for a water and look around for Kit while I sip. No sign of him. I’m guessing he’s off with his former assistant. I’m happy for him. But if this thing with Collins lasts … it’ll be weird. He’s never shown any interest in a serious relationship before. He’s my wingman. If he’d been out on the dance floor with me, it would have felt less empty.

No sign of Wren either. Hopefully, that means she’s feeling better and off having fun, not that she’s still upset somewhere. I’ve never seen carefree, bubbly Wren so sad. I figured, like me, she didn’t tend to get attached.

My most recent “relationship” ended in August. Cammie, who lives in the Hamptons, agreed we were nothing serious. Showing up to a party at the hotel she works at the last week of summer proved to be a mistake. When we had first hooked up, she said she was hung up on someone else and only looking for casual. That changed, apparently, but only on her side. Our split was amicable but abrupt. And she didn’t show up tonight, despite my invitation, so she might still be annoyed.

I continue down the hallway, not stopping until I reach one of the doors that leads out onto the back patio. This house is huge, my only advantage to navigating it the many times I’ve visited Kit here. My parents have a summer house in the Hamptons as well, but I spend as little time there as possible.

It’s freezing outside. So cold that it stings like a slap to the face. But it feels good. Numbing yet invigorating.

I walk across the patio and past the pool. It’s so quiet out here, especially compared to the chaos inside the house, the only sound distant surf as water meets sand. My steps echo on the pavers, then crunch as I reach frozen grass.

There’s some illumination from the house’s blazing lights, but it becomes harder to see, the louder the waves become.

I keep walking all the way until I reach the white gate that marks the start of the Kensingtons’ private beach, surprised to find it ajar. I’m sure they have plenty of property managers who maintain the grounds year-round and wouldn’t have been negligent.

I take it as an invitation, continuing onto sand. Rose hips grow wild on either side of the path, nothing but brown sticks right now.

About ten feet farther, I see her.

Well, I see an expensive blanket and blonde hair. But I know it’s Rory, long before she notices me and glances over. A can of soda is beside her, a green spot in the sand.

“Parks,” is her cool greeting.

And that’s an improvement over her typical approach of ignoring my existence. I think the only reason she says anything at all, aside from the fact that there’s no way she can pretend not to notice I’m the only other person on the otherwise empty beach, is because I tried to help Wren earlier.

“Florence.” I take a seat beside her.

My knee bumps hers. I can tell she stiffens, even through the bulky blanket that covers her entirely. It doesn’t matter that I can’t see a single inch of the dress she was wearing in the laundry room. It’s the opposite problem from earlier—I remember too much.

Normally, she corrects my using her first name like a scolding schoolteacher. Tonight, she sighs, then says, “I’m not sharing my blanket with you.”

“No problem, Florence. I’ll freeze to death, and you can show off your legal prowess, defending yourself at my murder trial.”

“You freezing to death because you were too drunk to grab a jacket before going outside in January does not qualify as the intentional, willful, and planned killing of another person. I wouldn’t be charged with your murder.”

“It’s still December for a few more minutes. If we were in Rhode Island, Minnesota, or Vermont, you’d be obligated to help me under a duty of care law.”

I keep my eyes on the water since I’m pretty sure Rory is looking this way. I’m not sure how much she knows about my dad shoving law school down my throat, but there’s an excellent chance we’ll be classmates in Cambridge next fall. I know I drink too often and take too little seriously. That people seek me out as the good-time guy and expect very little of substance to ever emerge. I know that’s what Rory thinks. She’s too polite to ever say so plainly, but she makes it obvious in subtler ways. She’s the perfect example of everything I’m not—responsible, hardworking, dependable.

And maybe that is why she’s one of the few people I ever put in any effort around. I respect that she doesn’t respect me, if that makes any sense.