I take a sip. It tastes watered down and weirdly warm, even though it’s cold. There's a hint of tropical promise, like maybe it should be refreshing, but instead it coats my tongue with aflat aftertaste that reminds me of sunscreen. Still, I keep sipping. It's not as syrupy or fake as Gatorade, at least. No neon colors. No chemical tang that makes my throat burn. Just...coconut water. Bland, strange, but tolerable. Sort of like making peace with something you’ll never love but can live with.
Kind of a metaphor for my life, come to think of it.
I take another sip anyway, as Darby hums under her breath as she rummages through the pantry for dried mango, her doctor-mode never truly switching off. I appreciate the distraction, even if it’s a weird one. I feel a little more solid on my feet, a little less like I’m floating through a headache.
That is, until Evangeline walks in.
The air changes when she does. It always does.
She’s tense. Too tense for someone who’s supposed to be organizing sexy cocktails and penis-shaped appetizers for Ariel’s bachelorette night.
She’s holding a phone in her hand, thumb frozen over the screen.
Special dispensation for the event planner, apparently. After all, she needs to get things delivered for us…and she’s planning two parties tonight and a wedding tomorrow.
Darby looks up. “Everything okay?”
Evangeline doesn’t respond.
Her expression is unreadable, but something about it—tight lips, the faint twitch at the corner of her eye—snaps my attention away from the vile taste in my mouth. I’ve known Evangeline for years, and our relationship hasn’t always been pleasant. In fact, I kind of blackmailed my way onto this island telling her she owed me.
She does.
I know who the father of her baby is.
I know she was fucking my father.
And I also know that if my father knew? He’d be hunting her down and taking custody of that child before it takes its first breath of air.
I feel kind of bad about the whole thing now.
I feel kind of bad about a lot of things.
“Ev?” I say quietly.
She blinks and gives one of those tight smiles. “All good.”
Liar.
Darby glances between us. “Okay,” she says. “Well. I’ve got to prep Ariel’s banana IV bags for tomorrow morning. Hangover protocol just in case.” She’s out of the kitchen with barely a backward glance.
Evangeline is still staring at the screen.
Then, shockingly, she turns it toward me.
One message.
From an unknown number.
I know your secret.
My stomach knots.
I look at her.
She’s pale. Not Evangeline gothic pale.
Butrealpale. Raw. Rattled.
