“How diplomatic,” I laugh.
“Sure. Wewouldbe married.” He lowers his voice as he leans forward, and is it just me, or is the sunrise making it hard to see? “What about kids?”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly dying. It’s way too hot. Scorching, and not in a good way. “Yes, kids. I—really want kids. And wow, we need to finish up so we can head back down.”
Arthur hesitates, staring as I pluck up my espresso and take a large, bitter gulp. Then he mirrors me, going for his coffee. I can’t tell from his lingering gaze if he’s concerned or curious about my reaction, or maybe let down he couldn’t dissect my emotions around family and children like I ripped apart the pastry on my plate.
I do try to figure out one thing, though, as Arthur tears into his croissant: What is the magic behind the golden hour? Why do beautiful things transcend logic and affect us so deeply when we know they’re going to end? The sun is everywhere, light dripping and running over the man in front of me, and seeing Arthur suspended in this ambient bliss, far away from the world, makes one part click; the sunrise is bright and overwhelming, just like him. He’s a golden person. Even if you only get to be around them for a moment, an hour, one summer, it’s stunning.
And at least I know what I like now. When nobody else is telling me what to like—when they’re actively saying I shouldn’t—I like Arthur.
I try to hold on to that sliver of progress when I get back to my hotel room and find Sarah curled in the armchair, knees under her chin, eyes glued to her phone. Her hair is thrown back into a tight topknot, and that’s how I know something is wrong. Sarah in a bun. The world is ending.
She starts to stand as I shut the door, then she stops, sitting again with a leg folded under her. “Hi. Hey.” She runs a hand over her mouth. “There are a few articles.”
I pause where I’m at, one shoe off, the other on. “About?”
“You and Arthur.”
I brace my hand against the wall. “Me and him…?”
“Nothing big. Just photos from the club on some online forums. Like weird Reddit things nobody pays attention to, wondering who you are. Your name has been mentioned, but just once.”
It’s ironic, kind of, that I avoided throwing Sarah a truth bomb for as long as I did, and here she is, carefully setting one down on my shoulders and holding my hand as it detonates. I float to the foot of the bed and sit, nodding. “Okay.”
“Don’t worry,” she adds, teetering on the brink of controlled chaos. “I’ve got a call with the team in an hour. They hadn’t wanted us to announce the documentary yet, since rumors already leaked about the circuit plan, but it seems like the safest option to kill the story before it runs away from us. It explains why you’d be out dancing with him.”
Second bomb. I close my eyes. “The photos are of us dancing.”
“We can handle this,” she says. “I can handle this. I’m really freaking good at my job.”
I don’t doubt that at all. If given the chance, I think Sarah, when equipped with enough caffeine and day planners, could prevent the next ice age. “Can you give me a second?”
Sarah nods, and my shaky fingers find my phone. Many missed texts from Arthur, the first reading,Fuck, just saw. I’m sorry. How do we get them to not announce the film?One missed text from Max:Sarah says she can make this go away.I run an internet search for “Lilah Graywood” with quotation marks—and there it is, a single, sketchy news article with some blurry photos of what could be Arthur and me, but could be black-and-white film grain, but nevertheless lists me by full name.
Arthur Bianco, 29, Ignition driver on a hot streak, spotted with Lilah Prestel Graywood, 24-year-old documentarian known for…
I almost drop my phone.
Prestel.
They have my old name.
How? And—why? And then I’m taking that name and plugging it into the search bar.Lilah Prestel.Almost nothing new appears, only some dead links on my high school’s theater page. I try another spelling, all the spellings. Lila Prestel. Lilah Pressel.
Then, because I’m caught in the vortex of this spiral, I run a search I haven’t in years, to see if there’s a connection between us, one thread that hasn’t been cut, surfaced during this reality shift. She could’ve seen the news. Maybe she’s online, somewhere, defending my honor, waiting formeto findher.
I look up Delilah Prestel, my birth mom’s name.
My phone screen blinks white, then fills with the top hit: a webpage that wasn’t there before. I would know; she didn’t havesocial media for years, no digital footprint, forever running from what she left behind. My thumb goes cold as it clicks the link, moving completely on its own, and my vision swims with a last-ditch effort to send my consciousness far away from here. But the page loads before I can dissociate, a purple background with looping pink letters spellingScents of Peace by Delilah Prestel, and I read the block of text beneath it. I have to.
Hi and welcome to my online candle shop. Please stay a moment and make yourself at home! These natural soy wax candles are inspired by my love of nature, my hometown, and my beautiful family. After getting married to the love of my life two years ago, I was blessed to become a stepmother and adoptive mommy to his children and fill their lives with a “scents of peace” the way only a mother can.
I read the paragraph again. Just to hurt myself. One time would’ve been enough to have these words scorched into my memory.
She’s married. She’s a stepmother.
She adopted.
