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It's too hot outside.
The air is too stiff.
There's a breeze. Why is the air so stiff? Why is it so fucking hot?
I move away from the door. To the glass of the shop at the corner. The only smooth, cool thing in the entire world.
Half a year.
Longer.
How long have I missed it?
How long have I believed in a lie?
I press my eyelids together. Suck a breath through my nose.
It's too bright.
Too hot.
Too suffocating.
"Hey." Oliver's footsteps move closer. He wraps his arms around me. Pulls me into a tight embrace.
God, he feels good. Tall and safe and strong.
"It was the vegan butter, huh?" He presses his palm into the space between my shoulder blades. "Even the thought of it disgusted you."
A laugh escapes my lips.
"It's okay. You have standards. That's nothing to apologize for."
"Oh my god."
"We can go to Blue Bottle. Wash it down."
I nod into his chest.
"You should talk to her. Before you go."
I shake my head.
"You'll regret it if you don't."
"But—"
"If anyone knows, it's me." He traces the line of my shoulder blade. Down then back up. His finger against my bare skin. A million volts of electricity.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I should. But I can't. I shake my head. "Not now."
"Later?"
"Please, Ollie. I can't think about this anymore." My fingers curl into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. The firm muscle of his back beneath it. "Please. Can we go somewhere else?"
"Will coffee help?"
I nod into his chest.
"Okay." His fingers skim my wrist. My thumb. "This way." He takes my hand and moves away from the restaurant.
Toward something I can't take back.
Something I need more than anything.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Luna
For a few minutes, we walk in silence. Along the busy street. Surrounded by conversations, music, car horns.
Then around the corner. To the overpriced grocery store with incredibly expensive coffee drinks.
It's a SoCal stereotype. Seven-dollar slices of raw chocolate cake, ten-dollar smoothies, outrageously expensive wild caught salmon.
We wait in line at the smoothie/juice/coffee bar. Behind a couple toting yoga mats, wearing designer sunglasses with their hundred-dollar leggings.
Not that I'm judging. I'm here too.
Sure, I'd rather spend my money on an entire outfit than one pair of three-hundred-dollar sunglasses, but if I had the cash to spend—
Well, I'd still buy the outfit. But I'd like to have the cash to spend.
One day.
Allison makes a lot of money. A lot. My parents are well-off. I'm lucky that way.
I guess Oliver is lucky too. Gabe must be loaded.
How else would he pay for that house even closer to the beach after splitting assets fifty-fifty with his ex?
Ollie's mom is a mess. Way worse than either of mine.
A drug addict. Usually high-functioning. Usually hopped up on pain meds but still able to hold down a job and charm doctors into writing a new prescription.
I don't really know the details of his parents' divorce. It was ugly, that they fought all the time, that his father dropped a "me or the drugs" ultimatum.
But what was going on between the two of them?
Were they like my parents? Conspiring to lie even though they couldn't stand each other?
Or were they fighting to hold on?
Were they still in love?
Does he still love her?
I don't know.
As much as Oliver would hate to hear it, he and Gabe are a lot alike. They're both strong, silent types. They keep their cards close. They keep a poker face. They keep their attention on the people they love.
They should have more common ground.
They both lost his mom.
They both almost lost Daisy.
They both love Daisy more than anything.
And I…
"Luna." Oliver taps my shoulder. "We're up."
Oh. Right. We're here. Getting coffee. I have to order. It's a sunny day and we're going outside. And my jumpsuit is not that breathable. But the breeze is cool and I don't have a jacket.
"French press." He orders for us. "The biggest one you have." He names a dark roast. Offers the barista his credit card. Takes a number.
Then his arm is around my waist and he's pulling me away. Toward the shelf of chocolate. The row with its back to the theme-park style winding line.
This place is packed. Narrow aisles, tons of people, expensive treats.
"This is your brand." He bends to grab a bar of eighty-five percent. Studies the selection carefully. A dozen flavors of this brand, half a dozen of that. The less expensive options. The mid-range. The ridiculous. "What about this?" He picks up a one ounce single-origin bar that costs… well, as much as our overpriced French press.
God, maybe our parents really are rich. If this is the closest grocery store.
How can anyone afford this stuff?
"It's too expensive," I say.
"Luna Locke thinks something is too expensive?"
"It's happened before."
"The woman who demands the best, at all times?"
"What about that bottle of bourbon?"
His expression darkens, but he shakes it off. "Do you not want it?"
Single-origin chocolate from Vietnam. With notes of fig and caramel. Still eighty percent. It's hard to find single-origin chocolate over seventy percent.
