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The sunset outside is pink and orange. Suddenly, I need fresh air or I’ll scream.
Hopping down from my stool, I rummage in my backpack for my wallet.
“I’ve got it,” Dalton says, waving me off. “I’m fabulously rich, remember? You could’ve spent it all if you played your cards right today.”
He’s joking, but I’m not in the mood. I force out a laugh anyway, but it sounds strangled and fake. Then I’m barging my way out of the diner, the hum of conversation suddenly deafening, pressing on my ear drums, until I spill out into the fresh, salty air.
Beach. Ocean. I point myself that way, and stagger blindly on. Stone cobbles turn to sand beneath my feet, with the occasional crunch of dried seaweed. The air is cooler near the water.
IfeelDalton before I hear him join me. Just like old times. My heart gives a little lurch, beating extra hard for him, and when I glance over he’s there, keeping stride.
His handsome face is tight with concern. “Now who’s having a breakdown?” he says.
It’s not funny, and I shouldn’t laugh. But suddenly I’m gripping my own waist, wheezing with laughter, and he’s chuckling too. Our steps slow, and we turn parallel to the ocean and stroll.
This beach stretches on for what seems like miles of pale sand. I can see why Dalton likes it here. He always hated feeling hemmed in. Is that why he didn’t want me?
“You look good.” He’s frowning at the ocean, voice taut. The white, feathery blobs of seabirds float out there, chattering on the gentle swell. “As beautiful as I remember.”
Heat flares up my neck. “Dalton…”
He never used to say things like that. He was a teenage guy, after all. My old bestie used to say things like ‘Cool shirt’ and ‘Bet I can dangle off that basketball hoop’ and ‘When we’re older I’m gonna drive a motorbike and put you in the sidecar’.
Dalton was a goofball, but I loved him. And now he’s a world famous rock star, and I…
Imissthat goofball. The man beside me is quiet and serious, his jaw tensed like he’s holding in a world of hurt.
Did I do that? Was… was the wedding thing for real?
No. It can’t have been.
Whatever this was—a misjudged prank, a cry for help—now that we’re here together, I’m glad for it. I didn’t realize how badly I missed him, how thirsty my soul was for Dalton Meadow’s presence, but the longer we walk together, the more I bloom on the inside, imaginary pink petals brushing against my ribs. My pulse is calmer than ever.
“Maybe we could start writing to each other again.” The words are out before I can think them through, but they feel right. I feel good about this. I’ve licked my wounds for long enough, and I’m tired, damn it. I want Dalton back in my life. The colors are grayer without him.
He scratches his jaw, smiling ruefully at the water. The waves are silvery in the last rays of the setting sun. “I never stopped, Alba.”
Woof. Here goes. “I know. But I, um. I stopped reading them. A few years ago.”
“Yeah, I figured.” Dalton doesn’t sound mad about it—he’s resigned. When I glance back, our footsteps trail through the sand, side by side, his feet so much bigger than mine. “No wonder you didn’t want the wedding invite.”
My pulse skitters. He’s still thinking about that? “I’ll start opening them again, though.”
A wider smile this time. “Very generous.”
“And I’ll write back, I promise.”
“Pinky swear?”
It’s another old joke, but we link pinkie fingers and bob hands in the air—and when our arms drop back to our sides, we don’t let go. That tiny patch of contact burns my skin. It’s like he’s touching meeverywhere.
God, I still need a shower, and these clothes are gross from the plane. What underwear did I put on this morning? When did I last shave my legs?
No!Bad Alba!
“It hurt too much,” I blurt, and my face is hot enough to cook an egg, but I hold Dalton’s gaze when he frowns at me. He didn’t ask but I need to tell him. “That’s why I stopped reading your letters. It’s not that I didn’t care; I cared too much, okay? You were off being famous and touring the world and dating starlets—”
“What starlets?” Dalton says, nonplussed.
