I skim through Ayden’s obviously drunken rambling, something about the greatest wine in the world, followed by…
“You asked Peter to help you find your plus one?”
“And you texted Tari begging for the same thing. Once you and I established what shitty daters we are, we apparently decided to enlist the help of our friends. Peter, as you can read, readily agreed. Because he’s an ass, and he wants to watch us crash and burn, I’m sure.”
I glance at Peter’s text back to Ayden.
Sure, buddy! This will be a fun fucking summer.
I grab my head. “Oh, crap.”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
My thoughts return to Ayden’s news.
He’s moving.
To the city where I left my dreams behind.
And I make a decision.
“I want to see the dares through,” I say to Ayden, ignoring the way his eyes widen in surprise.
“Bella.” He takes off his baseball cap and turns it over in his hands. “You can see yours through. But I can’t. My very philosophy on relationships ruins any chance of the dare succeeding.”
I shake my head. “See, that’s what makes this dare so much fun. If you fail, it will be the first dare from me you’ve ever not won at, and if you succeed, well…you’ve got yourself a second problem. Because then you’ll have to decide if she’s worth giving up your bachelor status—and your beliefs—for.”
Ayden narrows his blue eyes at me, and I struggle to keep the eye contact. I don’t know why, but something about the way he’s assessing me…I’m suddenly warm and tingly all over.
“I’ll accept your dare-back on one condition,” he says abruptly.
Why do I have the feeling he’s about to turn the tables on me?
“Okay.”
“We help each other. Not just using our friends for that because I doubt we could shake Tar and Peter even if we tried, but you and me”—he points from himself to me—“we agree to assist one another.”
“What do you mean?”
“We help each other choose our forever plus ones. You know…the guy you’re planning to find that you can’t live without? I’ll give you a thumbs up or down. And you’ll do the same for me.”
I stare at him, but he looks back at me with a completely blank expression.
God, this is such a shitty idea. Ayden and I get along much better when we don’t involve each other in our love lives. And Ayden’s such a goddamn player. Women love him so much—he’s going to have way more options in his lineup. I could be busy this summer just helping him pare down his list.
“I don’t know…” I say hesitantly. “That feels very…”
“Very what?” he says immediately.
Very intimate. Too intimate.
But I can’t let him know that. So I square my shoulders and look him straight in the eye. “Very fair.” I hold out my hand for him to shake. “Deal?”
The flush in his cheeks is the only sign of his distress.
Ayden takes my hand and shakes it, making sure to stroke my skin with his callused thumb.
I grit my teeth, refusing to react.
“Deal,” he says.
I bite my lip without meaning to, and Ayden’s gaze travels to my mouth. And now I’m clutching his hand, which is still holding mine.
He squeezes my hand back. “May we each get exactly what—or I guess I should say exactly who—we want.”
Right. Because if I’m honest with myself, the only man I really and truly can imagine having a future with is sitting right across from me. And I just dared him to find another woman to marry. I really am a hungover idiot.
Ayden
Fuck.
I thought for sure Bella had come over to call the whole thing off. I only threw out that dare last night because a) I was drunk off my ass, and b) when I looked at Bella’s face, she seemed so…lonely.
She needed a lifeline. So I threw her one.
Then I woke up this morning and realized the full impact of what I’d done.
To dare Bella Wesley to find a boyfriend, when I can barely stand to look at any guy she’s ever dated, was beyond stupid.
I assumed she’d wake up and decide a dare was no way to try to find a romantic relationship.
But she’s holding firm. That must mean this dare—this whole finding her forever plus one crap—means a lot to her.
And I can’t admit to her how much the idea of her finding a forever guy guts me.
The entire time we’re talking, I have a ridiculous urge to tell her I’ll be her plus one this summer. Or for always if she’ll have me. But I don’t. I can’t. We made that pact when we were thirteen years old for a reason, and we’ve held onto our promise to make sure we’d get each other through the dark times. I still remember the solemn vows Bella insisted we exchange:
“I, Mirabella Wesley…”
“I, Ayden Wild…”
“Promise to be your best friend, through thick and through thin, through good times and bad, through richer or poorer, till death do us part…”
“I promise to be there for you always, to defend you against all others, and to stand by your side…”
“I promise to never cross the line with you in any romantic way that would make things awkward or messy, alter the scope of our relationship, or potentially endanger our friendship…”
“Boyfriends and girlfriends will come and go, but we will be forever…”
And we have been. As best friends. To make sure I was never tempted, I’ve dated nearly everyone in town but her. And over the years, I’ve gotten exceptionally good at never looking at Bella like the stunningly gorgeous woman she is.
I’ve never been good enough for her, anyway.
She looks at me sometimes like maybe she thinks I am, but she’d be proven wrong. I’ve never claimed to be a saint. And Bella deserves far better than what I can give her. She deserves the best. Not a landscaper with no savings, a long list of past dalliances, and the inability to promise forever. Bella deserves her forever guy, and I can’t be that. For her or for anyone.
My paternal line has a penchant, even if unintentional, of shipping out early. Maybe we are cursed like they say in town. My father’s untimely death caused my mother to suffer every day since, and I made the decision I would never take the risk of hurting anyone like that. So I only date casually, and Bella could never be a casual anything. Like we decided over a decade ago, turning our friendship into something more is off-limits.
Which is why I need to keep dating other women this summer. Casually like always. Nothing serious and nothing long-term. That way, nobody gets hurt. I’ll go along with our double dare, but I’m not going to actually look for anything serious. No way.
CHAPTER THREE
Bella
By the time I leave Ayden’s, I’m on the edge of being late to work. I rush home, grab my psychology textbook, and walk to town by the water.
As I’m heading across the town square, my phone beeps.
I groan when I read Tari’s text.
I won’t bug you while you’re working and no doubt hungover as hell, but the four of us are going out this week! And you have to fill me in on what went down last night with Ayden!! Do you really want to dare him to find “the one?”
I start tapping on my screen. No, I don’t want to do that. I was drunk and screwed up after Trevor’s invite. And I can’t back out now.
Of course you can.
No, I can’t. Ayden and I never quit on dares.
There’s a long pause, where the dots appear and then disappear before, We’ll talk tomorrow, honey. Have a good night, appears on my screen.
I put my phone in my pocket and open the door to the nondescript clapboard building with the tilted Lucky Bay Pool Hall & Live Music wooden sign nailed across the front. I step inside and head straight for the cashier’s booth about ten feet from the bar.
I call out a hello to Preston as he pours a drink for a customer and slide inside my booth.
This place has been home for the last three years.
When I left L.A., I lived at my parents’ for the first six weeks, just long enough to realize I had to get a job, any job, in order to be able to move out of their house. I walked into town and approached the first place with a Help Wanted sign. It happened to be the Lucky Bay Pool Hall. Marguerite asked me if I could shoot pool, and I said I’d never tried. She asked if I minded the smell of alcohol, and I said no. She smiled. “Scott just quit and we need someone to work the late shift tonight. Are you free?” I was free, and that was it.
In a few months, I saved enough to move into a rental house, the one I still live in. But I missed L.A. I still miss it. I’ve tried to bury my feelings, tried to convince myself I’m happy with the way things are now, but the truth is that I’m not.
I smile at Preston as he leaves the bar and stops outside the open window of my booth. “How are you?”
“Good. I’m down for a vacation, though.” He pulls the elastic out of his short ponytail, and his dark brown hair falls messily around his neck. “Can you work tomorrow night?”
“I’d like to, but I have class.” I hold up my textbook. “Last course of my college career.”
“Nice. Then you’ll leave us for some stuffy office job.”
I make a face. “God, I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. Is it wrong to admit I don’t actually want to get a job like that?”
Preston smiles. “You could become a psychologist. It’s your major, right?”
“It is, but I’d need to get an advanced degree if I wanted to seriously pursue it as a career. And I don’t love psychology that much. I really like learning about the different disorders, though. It’s super informative, especially with…”
I cut off, not wanting to talk about my mother.
And Preston, even though he knows—the whole town knows—kindly changes the subject. “Bella, you look like shit,” he says as he takes a closer look at my face. “What’s up?”
“I’m so freaking hungover,” I admit, and he laughs.
“You? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk.”
“Yeah, well, Ayden got us a bottle of wine, and then there were shots…”
“Ah.” He nods. “I heard he’s moving.”
No secret stays a secret for long in Lucky Bay. Not harmless ones like Ayden moving and not more painful ones either.
I chat with Preston for a few more minutes, and then a group of customers comes in and he returns to the bar.
The rest of my work shift drags, and by the time I clock out, I’m exhausted. My headache is still with me, and I’m so dehydrated. I feel like I could drink a gallon of water and it wouldn’t be enough. A drunk group of college guys accidentally spilled beer on me, and my shirt still hasn’t fully dried.
But before I go home to shower and mercifully fall into bed, I have something I need to do, something I do every Tuesday night without fail. And if Ayden wasn’t by my side every single week, I may have cracked long before this.
He’s waiting on the sidewalk as soon as I step outside the pool hall. He immediately hands me a bottled water, and I’m so grateful I hug him.
“You must be exhausted,” I say. “Why don’t you just drop me off tonight? I can stay the night there and…”
“No fucking way.” Ayden takes my book and purse out of my hands, and we start walking to his car. “I’m staying with you. Like always.”
He loops my purse over his shoulder so he can open the passenger door for me, and the image of my dainty feminine bag slung across Ayden’s muscular chest makes me smile.
He waits until I’m inside before he hands me my purse and book and shuts the door behind me.
He walks around to the driver’s side, and we pull out of the diagonal parking space in the town square and turn for the wealthiest neighborhood in Lucky Bay.
It’s a drive I could do in my sleep. Seven minutes from door to door.
Ayden turns onto Gold Dust Drive and keeps going until we reach the very end. He jumps out to hit the gate code and then returns to the car, and we pull up into the large, circular driveway.
Ayden parks off to the side of the driveway and we both get out. As we walk up the front walkway lined with blooming viburnum, I glance up at my parents’ two-story brick mansion filled with windows, and my chest tightens with dread. I never know for sure that she’s okay; I just always hope she is.
I let us in quietly with the key I keep on my keychain.
Ellie greets Ayden and me the moment we step into the foyer. “Good evening, Ms. Wesley, Mr. Wild. She’s upstairs. I brought her dinner.”
I nod and smile at the white-haired maid who’s been with my family since I was a teenager.
“Thanks Ellie.”
She tips her head. “I’m on my way home. I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Have a good night,” we tell her as she slips out the door.
I don’t bother calling out a hello, because I know Dad’s still at the office and Mom’s…well, she’s in her own kind of hell.
Ayden’s already headed for his usual spot in the den. He pauses to hand me my textbook.
“Maybe you can get some work done,” he says.
“Maybe. What will you do?”
“Bella.” He kisses my head. “We’ve been doing this for three years. Don’t you think I’ve got a system?”
I chew on my lip. “But I don’t think I’ve ever really asked you what you do to pass the time.”
“I do whatever feels right. Tonight, I’ll probably just watch television. Sometimes I text. Or I listen to music on my phone.” His eyes search mine. “Why are you worried about me? What you’re about to go deal with”—he points upstairs—“is more than enough. Don’t worry about me at all. Okay?”
“Okay.” I wave goodbye to him and head for the winding staircase.
My parents’ bedroom door is opened a crack, and I knock softly before I step inside the room. I pause and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. The shades are drawn and all the lights are off except for the dim light from the adjoining bathroom suite, which casts a low glow over my mother’s still form underneath the covers.
I walk over and sit down in the rocker positioned by the head of the bed.
I don’t have to look closely to know that Mom’s wearing the same lily-white, neck-laced nightgown she always wears, and that her dark hair, always so perfectly done up in a tight bun when in public, is loosely knotted at the nape of her neck. My mother’s one of those women who, no matter how down in the dumps she is, doesn’t go a second without makeup. Sure enough, when she opens her eyes to look at me, her thick black mascara and liner are the first things I see.
My throat aches at the empty look in her gaze, and I bite back the tears.
“You didn’t have to come by.” Her voice, clipped as always, comes immediately through the silent room.
“I know.” I ease back and forth on the rocker and carefully survey her nightstand.
A pill bottle, single glass of red wine, and a half-eaten plate of food. Nothing else.
I reach for the bottle and quickly count the number of pills left. Only seven less than last Tuesday.
Thank God.
I take the glass and go to the bathroom where I dump the rest of the wine down the sink. I turn on the faucet and run the cold water until I’ve rinsed the red stain away.
By the time I sit back down in the rocker, Mom’s sufficiently pissed off.
“You don’t need to count them, Mirabella.” Her eyes, always so receded, narrow as she glares at me. “I’m not a fool.”
“Of course you’re not,” I say in a light tone. “You’re in pain.”
She harrumphs at me, and I ignore her and lean over to help prop her pillow against the massive oak headboard.
“What if I didn’t want to sit up?” she asks me curtly.
“Then I’ll fix them back again,” I say sweetly.
Dealing with my mother when she’s like this is a lot like
what I would imagine it’s like to deal with a petulant child.
Except she’s not a child; she’s a grown woman. Who used to act like my mother.
Now though, Lucy Wesley is a mere shadow of herself. Six days a week, she keeps it together in front of the town. She attends Lucky Bay legion meetings; she plays bridge with the wives of my father’s colleagues; and she works in my father’s law office several days a week. She’s always flawlessly put-together and perfectly coiffed. Inside though, she’s filled with darkness, and not a single type of anti-depressant has turned the tide yet. And every Tuesday, the same day of the week she discovered my father having an affair for the second time, she disappears into a shell of pain.
She settles back against the pillows, half-sitting up now.
“You smell like beer, Mirabella.”
I gesture to my shirt. “A drunk customer. Next week, I’ll make sure to pack a change of clothes.”
“So. What are we going to talk about tonight?” she asks me.
“Whatever we want to,” I say. “Or nothing at all. I’ll be here until you fall asleep. Okay?”
Her expression softens so subtly I think maybe I imagined it.
“Fine.” She crosses her hands over her middle and goes silent.
“Do you want to chat about the party you’re throwing for dad?” I suggest.
“Not now, Mirabella.” Her voice is so tight I think it may snap.
“Right.” I nearly slap myself for forgetting. “I’m sorry.”
Any other day of the week, the topic of the party would bring a much-needed smile to her face. But on Tuesdays, it’s the worst thing I could mention. On Tuesdays, my father is simply the man who cheated and the reason Mom believes she’s lying in bed right now.
I resist the urge I have to smooth a loose hair away from her pale cheek. My throat tightens again, and I swallow down the grief I feel every time I see her this way.
I settle further into the rocker and glance down at the psychology book in my bag, wondering if I should tell her about my upcoming exam. Except then, Mom will bring up how I dropped out of school three years ago and am just now getting around to graduating. That’s always a topic worth avoiding.
I close my eyes and try to remember my mother from another time. One of my fondest memories as a child was watching old Perry Mason movies with her. Those fun times stopped when things went bad, but…maybe we can have some fun again tonight.
Ayden Page 3
