A muscle in her jaw tightens as she purses her lips. She sets the spoon down. I watch her blink, slow, lashes fanning—her eyes are so dark, at a distance they seem almost black, but up close, the irises are a deep chestnut brown. I first noticed at the gala last year. I spent the first half of the night actively avoiding looking at her, but it was impossible. It was the dress she was wearing, tight across her curves. I was drawn to her, moth to flame. And eventually I gave in, drifted close enough to look into her eyes, to smell her perfume. I said something shitty, and she responded in kind. We ended up spending the rest of the night trading barbs while the party went on around us. The space between us was flammable. It always seems to be.
Her eyes lift to meet mine now, and my pulse kicks up. I can feel it in my throat. Not a word, and she makes my blood pressure rise.
“I made six calls,” I say, reaching for the annoyance that’s already started to fade on me. “Argued with customer service for two hours to get a car delivered out here.” I can’t remember the last time I had to do something like that myself. I have people who do shit like that for me.
She wraps her hands around the mug. “Thank you,” she says sincerely, with none of her usual sharp edges.
“What’s up with you?”
She blinks, and I catch the sheen over her eyes—not like she’s been crying, but like she’s running on fumes. Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest.
I’ve had a shitty day. So has she. I know that. I’m not an idiot. I’m not known for being soft, but I’m not blind either. There’s something about Rose I’ve never wanted to look at too closely—and I can feel it now, sitting across from her, and it rankles. Maybe she’s not as vapid a bitch as I’ve always thought. She’s still an entitled brat. But… maybe notonlythat.
“Are you alright?” I prod again.
She glances up, and I catch something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe, or suspicion, like she’s trying to figure out my angle. There must be something in my tone, because after a second, she seems to soften.
“I’m fine. I will be.” She turns the mug in her hands. “It’s just been a day. A year, actually.”
I’ve heard enough from Pearl to know her summer was rough. And yeah, most of it was her own doing. But that’s not really the point.
Rose has never actually done anything to me. We argue, sure, but she gives as good as she gets. Whatever she’s done to Pearl, whatever she’s done to her family—that’s not my business. We’re stuck here together, and I really don’t need to make this shit day any worse.
“We’ll drive to the airport tomorrow,” I say. “You’ll be okay getting to Georgia from there?”
Even as I ask, I feel like an ass. She might have a concussion. I’m sending her on a ten-hour drive alone. I almost walk it back—but I want to get to the island, get through this stupid vacation, then get home. A full day in a car with Rose is the last thing either of us needs.
“I’ll be fine.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ll get you back for the car and the room when we’re in Georgia. I just need to move a few things around first. Thank you for arranging everything.” Her cheeks have gone a little pink.
“Yeah, whatever, that’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“I just need a phone, that’s all, so I can access my bank app. I need to call Easton, too, he’s going to freak out. Can I use your phone?”
Irritation scratches at me. Fucking Easton. Is he her boyfriend again? Are they fucking? She says his name casually, like her relationship with him is no big deal.
When he went pro and signed his contract with New York, number two draft pick, Pearl was inconsolable for weeks. She called me, barely holding it together. She’d been at every single game since they were preteens, sat in the cold bleachers, supported his dream. They researched D1 schools together, mapped out their whole future. Then he dumped her for her younger sister, and Pearl just… broke. Watching him go pro brought back all those painful memories.
Rose is still waiting, eyebrows raised. She must know what being with Easton costs Pearl. I wonder if she cares.
“Yeah,” I say, and slide my phone over, opening the call screen first.
She calls instead of texts. He doesn’t pick up. She turns slightly toward the window and says into the phone, “Hey, it’s me, I’m using Logan’s phone. There were some… plane troubles—if you hear anything, don’t worry about it. I’ll explain as soon as I can, but I lost my phone, so.” A pause. “I’m safe.” Another pause, softer. “Okay. Bye.”
She sets the phone down and stares at it for a second, eyes going wide, before sliding it back. “Pearl’s texting you.”
I keep my face neutral while I scan Pearl’s text—something about a picnic on the beach before the wedding, that she needs to be there in time, she has something important to tell me.
I close it without responding. The Easton thing is still on my mind. I’m irritated it’s bothering me, and more irritated that I can’t seem to let it go, so I’m relieved when she changes the subject.
“Are you close with my dad?”
I look up, tucking my phone into my pocket. “Not exactly. I mean, we’re friendly. When I was in med school, I’d visit with Pearl, and he and I would end up talking about my classes. He’s a good man.”
She nods slowly. “Yeah.”
Her flat tone bothers me. “He always seemed like a good father,” I say, not sure why I’m pushing it.
Another slow nod, no real weight behind it. “Why are you going to the wedding if you aren’t close?” she asks.
