“She’s not there yet, but she’s getting there,” I continue, voice low.
My chest tightens. A deep breath doesn’t loosen it.
“I wish you were here,” I whisper. “You always knew how to pull her out of her head. Out of the dark.” My jaw clenches. “You’d probably hate the way I’m handling this. Or maybe you’d understand. Fuck, I don’t know.”
I run a hand through my hair and drop my head back against the seat, eyes burning.
“I’m doing my best, Hermano,” I murmur. “I swear it.”
I fire the engine to life. It roars like it always does, loud and unrelenting—nothing like the quiet peace of the graveyard.
I steer the Charger down the narrow gravel path that snakes through Mountain View, a slow crawl past rows of weathered headstones and memories I can’t outrun. The bottle of tequila rolls against the passenger footwell with a dull thunk as I take the bend toward the exit.
Just as I reach the gates, a flash of silver catches my eye.
A sleek Mercedes coupe pulls in, its engine purring low beneath the hum of the groundskeeper’s excavator. It sticks out like a sore thumb—like a pearl dropped in the mud.
My grip tightens on the wheel as it passes me by. Behind the windshield, a familiar face tilts slightly in my direction—sunglasses, red lips, long black hair pulled tight into a ponytail. Lola. Again.
She gives a small, two-fingered wave from the steering wheel. Casual. Breezy. Like she hadn’t been apoplectic with rage earlier? Maybe she had some coffee, so was feeling more human?
I nod once in acknowledgement—tight, impersonal—and keep driving.
But my gut clenches.
I check my mirrors as I leave the gates behind.
She’s probably here for Braden too.
Whatever. She’s not my concern.
A few hours pass in a slow, dragging haze. I try to keep myself busy—grab a bite from a food truck, walk the seawall, pretend the weight in my chest isn’t growing with every minute she’s gone. But it’s there. Heavy. Gnawing. I keep checking my phone like a damn teenager.
Then it pings.
Mac: You still good to come get me? I’m ready x
My thumb hovers like I might text back, but I don’t.
I’m already moving.
By the time I pull up outside the salon, the sky’s washed in late afternoon gold, the kind of light that softens edges and makes the world feel less cruel. I idle at the curb, heart thudding, eyes locked on the door like it might conjure her sooner. People come and go, laughter spilling out into the street, but not her.
And then she appears.
And I forget how to breathe.
Mac steps out like a dream I thought I’d forgotten. Long, sun-kissed blonde hair falling in waves, a denim jacket hugging her shoulders, the hem of a floral maxi dress dancing around her calves. There’s something wild in the way the wind catches her—careless, free, as if it remembers her, too.
I’m frozen. Just watching.
Because in this moment, I swear, I see her.
My angel.
The girl who used to spin barefoot in the meadow behind her house, daisies in her braids and dirt on her knees. The one whodared me to jump the creek and kissed me after I fell in. The one who looked at the sky like it told her secrets and loved like there was no tomorrow.
She walks toward the Charger, and I’m still stuck somewhere between then and now.
