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I’d had enough of that my whole life.
My phone timer beeped to tell me to start my cool down routine. Forty-five minutes up already. Terrible timing; I was still thinking about Cassidy Croft.
I toweled off the equipment and myself. There had to be something I could do to change Cassidy’s mind. I’d tried to be respectful and helpful and courteous and funny—and perfect—but she hadn’t budged.
It had only been a week. There was still time.
I glanced up at the TV, permanently tuned to a twenty-four-hour entertainment news/gossip channel. At least it wasn’t politics.
This time, however, I found a whole new reason to dread tomorrow.
There was my older brother, Everett, with Harper Tyne, looking very cozy in a restaurant. Maybe this was from when they were dating. I focused on the closed captions, but the graphic added an arrow pointing to a reflection in the window—a theatre show that opened last week, according to the captions.
Everett—Neverett—hadn’t responded to my texts in a year or more, so I had no idea if he’d suffered any fallout from the Tynies after his last relationship with Harper failed. I’d suffered enough for both of us. Death threats sent to my work. Egging my car and etching into the paint. Even being followed on a date. I’d had to hire security for months before things quieted down.
I frowned at the TV, but the story changed. Right. As long as things were good between them, this wasn’t news. It wasn’t a big deal. Though some Tynies might be upset to see her back with him—and I could get blowback from that—for the most part, if she was happy, they were happy. (In theory. Like I told Cassidy,Tear Down the Towerwas her best album, and it was entirely based upon her definiteunhappiness. It went platinum. The fangirls did kind of thrive on her emotional turmoil.)
I’d hardly had a chance to start over here. The Tynies weren’t the biggest reason I’d moved cross country, but escaping their California contingent was a side benefit.
They wouldn’t track me down across the country. Not while Harper and Everett were happy.
Still felt like I was waiting for the fandom’s Damoclean sword to drop.
At least I’d forgotten about Cassidy Croft for a couple minutes.
I’d just gotten out of the shower when I saw the voicemail notification. I didn’t think my Saturday evening could get worse, but then it did: the message was from my mother. There was a reason her calls were sent straight to voicemail.
I hesitated with my thumb over the icon to play the message. I could wait until the voice transcript loaded and try to decipher the machine-generated text. I could assume she was calling because she wanted attention, as usual, and safely delete the voicemail. That had only backfired once or twice.
But with the timing of the Harper Tyne photos, maybe this was important. Maybe Neverett actually did want to tell me something, and he couldn’t get ahold of me, or maybe he felt awkward about contacting me after ignoring me for so long.
Maybe my family needed me after all.
I tapped the icon to listen to the message.
“Hi, honey!” My mother’s voice was the same smoky smooth combination of brass and purr. Who knew how many men had fallen for it, lured in by the mystery and quality like a fine whisky, only to be left with the burn? (At least four—and those were just the ones who’d married her.)
“A little birdy told me you were planning to go to the Beaufort Gala, so I made a tiny donation of my own.”
A little birdy. My banker must have blabbed.
“Hope you don’t mind—it’s for a good cause, after all. Plus, Alex said I needed another write off this year.”
That answered that question: Alex had definitely told her. Of course my mother couldn’t think about the people her money might help, just the tax benefits and the optics.
“If you’re planning to make an appearance, I have an old friend whose daughter lives in town. You remember Hugh Gooding, don’t you? And his daughter Ellie? Well, we’d really appreciate it if you could take her to the gala. Hugh said he’d kick in for their little fundraiser too.”
I did remember Ellie. She was probably five years younger than me, and I hadn’t seen her since she was about ten, but she’d been fearless that summer in the Hamptons. Even after she’d nearly drowned trying to follow me. And if it meant her dad would donate, there were worse people I could bring to the gala.
Mom rattled off the phone number, and I wrote it in the steam on the mirror until I could enter it in my phone. A friend wouldn’t be a bad thing to have. And clearly Dr. Croft wasn’t looking for more of those, at least not where I was concerned.
I didn’t want to have to wait for a response to a text, so I called the number Mom had given. The call rolled to voicemail. So much for not waiting.
“Hi,” I tried to say, but my voice was creaky from disuse.
Small wonder. Outside of work, I had no one to talk to these days. I might have gone the entire weekend without communicating with a human except texting my Delivrd drivers.
I hit the button to discard the message and start over, clearing my throat before the second attempt.
