Maybe if I had spent more time planted on my own two feet and less time chasing a dream, I would have had ever-changing opinions about how I wanted my future to look. Instead, at thirty-five, I still wanted so many of the things I wanted at thirty, at twenty-three, at fourteen. I even wanted the same men. I was as afraid to die alone at thirty-five as I was at seventeen. I was as emphatic about my career today as I had been at fourteen.
Suddenly, there were waves of heat slapping my sunken chest, and I was bathed in compassion for the man who was breaking my heart. I wanted the pain to go down easier—for me to place the blame on his broad shoulders—but it wasn’t all Garrett’s fault. Garrett hadn’t betrayed me, he had simply grown out of the dreams I was still clinging to. I finally understood how Blink-182 could speak to someone’s heart
Well I guess this is growing up.
“Love is hard,” I whispered.
“It fucking blows,” Summer said, doubling down as she pulled her hand from my grip and angrily wiped tears away from her eyes.
I sat back down next to Summer, and I felt her hand grip mine. I squeezed back harder as we sat side by side, the whisky warm in our bellies, watching the fire burn the logs down to ashes. I studied my best friend—wet, puffy, red eyes atop her strong oval face. She was that beautiful Bob Seger song. Summer was always my rock. She didn’t have the patience or emotional capacity to crumple and overanalyze every little thing. She could pull back from my tornado of confusion and boil it down to one or two truths—a straight shooter. I sent my arrow on an emotional roller-coaster—twisting into dark woods, busting through a couple wrong targets, until finally finding the bull’s-eye—and even then, I questioned the bull’s-eye. Summer’s jaw was clenched with her chin pointed to the sky—a rock among her own personal rubble. I appreciated how intense I was about my feelings, but I envied what it must be like on the other side—the ability to close one’s eyes at night and not hear sirens running through your head.
I glanced down to my brightening phone, my heart jumping as Asher’s name flashed upon the lock screen. Apparently, amid all the breaking, there was still room for butterflies to come alive inside my chest—flutters for another man. If only I were a simpler person.
Summer watched the corner of my mouth turn upward. She let out a slow smirk and snatched the phone from my fingers before I could read the text.
“Sure. Take my phone,” I said flatly, with my empty palm open in the air.
“Thanks so much, I will.”
I glared at Summer as she entered in my passcode, shaking my head, thankful that at the very least, my complicated life could cheer hers up.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Jawline?” Summer asked, before reading out Asher’s text message aloud.
Hope the engagement party is a blast. So, it turns out I’m the only person left in Manhattan this weekend, and I’m getting restless over here.
“I bet you are…restless to put your dick inside my best friend.”
“Summer, gross.”
“What?” She shrugged with a smirk, then continued reading Asher’s text.
I’m going to be That Person and helicopter it over to EH tomorrow—my friend Mike is in Ibiza, so I’ll be staying at his place on Lily Pond. If you have a free afternoon, any chance you want to drink on lawn chairs and listen to nineties music?
I set a new piece of firewood into the flames, my brows crossed.
“For such a popular guy, he seems really lonely—right?” I asked. “You’d think he’d have a million friends in New York City.”
“Babe, Asher Reyes isn’t lonely, he just wants to spend all his free time with you.”
I paused, oddly delighted by the thought. My delight found my stomach as I saw Summer typing on my phone. Before I could snatch my cell out of her speedy hands, she hurled it back into my lap like a hot potato. I looked down daringly, terrified to see what kind of damage she had done.
Me: Hell yes.
I swatted at her elbow. “SUMMER,” I yelled.
“Yeah?”
“Was the ‘hell’ necessary?”
“Hell yes.”
“I don’t think heartbreak, alcohol, hot sun, and Asher Reyes are a safe combo.”
“I really do. I think you should be half-naked, tipsy, and sweaty all over his body.”
“My manager said—”
“Apologize later. Look, I know what she’s trying to do, and I get it. But it’s overkill. If you were starring in the movie, that would be one thing—but you’re not. You’re the brains behind the music. People are going to form an opinion about you no matter what, and the music is going to be incredible, so by that point, it won’t matter. Plus, I have an itty-bitty Marysia bikini that’s going to look killer on you.”
“Stop trying to persuade me with fashion.”
“Stop pretending you’re not that easy.”
“What color?” I asked, through gritted teeth.
“Indigo.”
Fuck. That was my color. It made me feel less pale—and brought out the best in my cool skin tone, light eyes, and dark brown hair.
I screeched my chair back and stood up, grabbing my guitar and holding my whisky tight to my chest.
“Goddamnit, show it to me.”
Summer grinned and snatched her drink, walking tall toward her glowing, modern ranch home yards away. I followed Summer toward the back door, glancing over my shoulder to take in the dying fire. The smoke bloomed upward, dulling the crisp stars in my eyes. One dream was a pile of ashes at my feet. But here I stood, still eager to play with fire.
34
THIRTY-FIVE
I HAD SEEN IT ALL as a cater waiter working summers in the Hamptons, but I had never made it past the gates of a Lily Pond mansion. Lily Pond Lane was one of the most exclusive streets in the Hamptons, and I gawked behind the wheel of Summer’s car, a classic diesel Mercedes, taking in the sun pouring down on Martha Stewart’s quiet street. I soared past the towering beech trees, with oceanfront estates on one side of the street and a variety of privacy hedges along the other.
Mike Emblem was a beloved action movie star who happened to be Asher’s best friend, and who also happened to own a home on Lily Pond. I squinted at the address on a mailbox in front of two thick rows of perfect green hedges sandwiching a stark-white privacy gate. A moment later, the gates opened, and I had access to a three-story, classic shingle-style cottage.
I hopped out of the car and adjusted my high-waisted jean shorts, feeling smaller than usual against the towering oceanfront home. It was one thing to work inside a home like this, it was another thing to pretend like I belonged here. I squinted to read a note taped to the doorbell, written with Asher’s horrible handwriting, which was still barely legible all these years later.
“Come straight on through to the pool,” the Post-it read.
I creaked open the front door, and fresh ocean air hit my face as I took in the coastal foyer—studying the high ceilings, which were made of thick, white beadboard. The white-on-white home was sprinkled with vibrant blue accents, and straight ahead through open French doors, a turquoise pool glittered back at me. Behind the pool, there was a stretch of dunes, where an ocean casually hung out in the backyard.