by Meg Collett
After grocery shopping, Kyra drove them back home, responsibly staying under the speed limit and smiling the entire way. Stevie hadn’t said anything during the trip, but grocery stores reminded her of drinking and late-night drive-bys for wine and mixers and the cool pop of a beer top in the car when she couldn’t wait. The smell of overripe fruit reminded her of that tingle she used to get in her spine when she took the first sip of a really stout drink.
She’d kept mostly quiet while shopping, sometimes making jokes, but it had sucked. There wasn’t anything she could do. If she avoided every single place that reminded her of drinking, she would have to dig herself a grave with a tombstone that read, Here lies one thirsty-ass bitch.
Kyra’s Jeep bounced over the curb into the narrow alley between their houses. The cracked pavement turned into sand a few feet in front of the car, and as Stevie helped unload the bags, the breeze blew in, bringing the damp kiss of salty air from the ocean just on the other side of their back gardens. She pushed back her hair and followed Kyra to the front door, right as a white Ford 350 pulled up in front of the house.
The Cooper brothers stepped out.
As much as she joked about it, Stevie didn’t let her eyes linger on Hale Cooper anymore, though she once had. Often. He was her type to a T. Tattoos. Piercings. He spelled trouble in his heavy boots and tight flannel shirt. Despite his appearance, he was a good guy, and Stevie had been keeping an eye on him, especially after everything Kyra had been through. If Stevie had sniffed even the tiniest hint of bullshit from Hale, she would’ve ripped him a new one. But he was there for Kyra as much as Stevie. So, for now, his firm ass was safe.
Her eyes went to Cade. And lingered.
Cade Cooper was everything Hale wasn’t. They were studies in contrast. Where Hale had a wicked tan and rugged muscles and a mean smirk, Cade possessed a smooth grace. He strode over to her, long legs eating up pavement and a cool smile playing on his dimpled face. His honey-brown eyes soaked her up in all her sweaty, frizzy glory.
“Hey, Stevie,” he said, his voice slow and careful and so familiar that the hollow ache inside her evaporated.
She could fall in love with the way he sounded. The cadence of his voice was slow and careful due to his stutter that flared up when he was nervous or excited. Most people flung their words around uselessly, like sticky pennies beneath a car seat, but Cade spoke like no one else, and she imagined his words were gifts laid into the space between two people with precise care.
She smiled at him. “Hey yourself. Take these, would you?”
He took all the bags without complaint, wrapping his long, wiry arms around them. He didn’t have Hale’s bulging biceps, but who would have thought sitting at a desk typing all day could make for such rippled forearms? She remembered the feel of them around her, vaguely. She also remembered the taste of his lips, a little less vaguely. They’d hooked up a couple months ago in her kitchen, but she’d been wasted on a few bottles’ worth of wine.
Cringing inwardly at the memory and feeling that familiar swell of shame consuming her, she quickly stepped around Cade, avoiding the look in his eyes. He always looked at her with an easy acceptance, as though she’d never done anything wrong. But she knew better. She’d hurt him by hooking up with him so casually, and she carried the weight of it in her heart.
Up ahead, Kyra walked close to Hale, her head bent toward him as she listened to whatever words he was pouring into her ear. She giggled and blushed. If Stevie had been drinking, she wouldn’t be stuck in the middle like this. She’d be all up in Kyra’s private conversation with Hale. The awkwardness between her and Cade wouldn’t bother her. The alcohol would stitch their group up tight with laughter and eye rolls and bellyaches, the way hot summers should be.
But not now.
“—you been?”
She licked her dry lips and glanced back at Cade. “What?”
His smile faltered. “How ha-have you been? We haven’t gotten together in a while.”
He was nervous enough to stutter, which punched Stevie in the gut. She was doing everything wrong. She didn’t know how to act around people sober.
“Yeah, well, with Kyra’s recovery . . .” The words trailed off, and she felt like an ass for throwing her baggage on Kyra. In truth, it was her recovery they questioned when organizing these friendly dinners. They all remembered how much Stevie liked to drink with them.
“Right. Yeah.” Cade dipped his chin toward his chest.
“Any new jobs come up?” she asked just to say something.
Kyra had mentioned Hale and Cade’s lack of work. The island was small, and while they were the best contractors in Canaan, there wasn’t much work to go around unless they ventured to the mainland.
Cade’s face darkened, his smile slipping even further. Little creases dimpled the skin between his well-groomed eyebrows. “I’m talking to a few people.”
She nodded slowly, still walking a bit sideways, her arms dangling uselessly at her sides. She didn’t know how to move them without feeling stupid. “I’m sure something will come up.”
“Me too! Just takes some time.”
His relentless enthusiasm hurt Stevie’s heart. She opened the door for him and followed him inside the house.
Hale had done a good job restoring Kyra’s old family home after she’d moved back to the island. Granted, Hale often complained it looked like Barbie’s dream house on the outside. Its minty-fresh green paint and purple shutters were bad advertising, he said. The colors were wild, but everything on the outside and inside screamed Kyra. From the zebra chair, to the massive angel-legged dining room table they’d spent countless nights eating around, to the surfboard lying across the living room floor, waiting to be waxed. It felt like Stevie’s second home, and it was perhaps the house she felt safest in. She preferred the fresh-paint smell, the sand on the floor that Kyra constantly tracked in, and the occasional instances of walking in on Hale and Kyra doing it whenever she came in without knocking first. She preferred it all to her house, where she knew all the spots she used to hide the whiskey or grape vodka.
Her house knew all her dirty secrets.
Once they had the food spread out across the dining room table and the doors propped open to the backyard, allowing the ocean breeze and evening light in, everyone sat down to eat. Kyra had put together a simple salad with cranberries and pecans and a bunch of other stuff fit for rabbits. Stevie forked the salad onto her plate and doused the pile in vinaigrette.
“What is this stuff?” Hale asked, taking the bottle from Stevie. They exchanged a mutual pained look. Kyra’s vegetarianism affected them most.
“It’s a new poppy seed recipe I tried for the channel! Doesn’t it look delicious?”
“Sure thing, babe,” Hale said, tipping the bottle just enough to allow a tiny stream onto his salad. He passed it on to Cade.
“How’s the video doing that I helped you with?” Cade asked Kyra as he fixed his food.
“Oh!” Kyra clapped her hands, her blonde ponytail bobbing. “It’s doing so well. My subscribers really love it. You have no idea. I got so many comments . . .”
Stevie forked a huge bite of green shit into her mouth and zoned out. Kyra was a pretty big-deal YouTuber who made a good income through her videos and lifestyle blog. She posted makeup tutorials, workout ideas, outfits of the day, and everything in between. Apparently, people liked that stuff. Stevie had doubted her friend’s ability to actually make money off the videos—until Kyra showed her a check she’d received from monetizing her videos by allowing advertisements to play before them. Stevie’s jaw still hurt from how hard it had fallen open. No wonder the girl had no student loans, a new Jeep, and a nice house.
“Stevie?”
“Huh?” She looked up at Kyra.
A flash of worry fluttered across her friend’s face. “I asked if we were still on for that photo shoot next week?”
“Right.” She’d completely forgotten. “If you still want to, I guess. But there�
��s probably better photographers on the island. They won’t mess up your stuff.”
“You take great pictures, Stevie,” Cade said, frowning.
“Yeah,” Kyra added. “I want you to do them, silly!”
Everyone stared at her, waiting. Even Hale, who normally didn’t handle her with kid gloves like Kyra and Cade did. The underside of Stevie’s skin began to itch. She hated this.
“Okay, I’ll do it then. Keep your panties on.”
Kyra laughed, but it was the fake version, like she needed to patch Stevie’s weak joke with a Band-Aid. Cade was the last to look away from her face, but eventually, everyone returned to normal conversation, laughing and joking well past finishing the salad. Stevie had only taken a few bites.
While Kyra talked with Hale and Cade about their latest construction jobs, Stevie pulled out her phone, needing something to do with her hands; they wanted to keep reaching for a nonexistent wine glass. She opened a random app, her finger flicking across the screen out of habit. It took her a moment to realize what she was staring at.
Current Balance for Checking Account 8761: $0.00
“What the actual fuck?” she sputtered.
Kyra’s conversation cut off mid-sentence. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Stevie stared down at her phone, feeling like her body had short-circuited. She could only see zeros—zeros where there should have been numbers.
Current Balance for Savings Account 8762: $0.00
Credit Available for Credit Card Ending in 7332: $0.00
“My bank account,” she said, slowly processing the meaning of all those zeros, all that nothing. “My parents emptied out my bank account.”
3
“What does that mean? Like, it’s actually empty?” Kyra asked.
Nothing. Empty. Gone.
“I have no money,” Stevie said, hearing her voice as if she were floating outside her body. “I have nothing.”
Kyra stood from her chair and came around the table. She put her hand on Stevie’s shoulder and looked down at the phone. “Oh,” she said.
“You should call your bank. There must be some mistake.” Cade had placed his hands flat on the table, his shoulders square. Stevie imagined she saw the easy calm in his eyes ice over; she figured this was how he looked during business hours when dealing with unruly suppliers or clients who wouldn’t pay. It was kind of . . . hot. Or it would have been if she wasn’t currently broke as hell.
“No,” she said, forcing her eyes away from him. “It was my parents.”
Kyra let out a kitten-like growl, and the fork Hale had lifted off his plate paused halfway to his mouth. They’d both had a run-in with her parents at the hospital after her accident. It hadn’t been pretty. Kyra had actually dropped an f-bomb, and Hale had smashed a camera belonging to her parents’ film crew.
“How can they do that?” Kyra asked. “Do they have access to your accounts?”
Stevie sat her phone on the table and blacked out the screen. “They have access to everything.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Cade straighten in his seat, looking surprised. He quickly masked it, but not quick enough. None of her friends had known the extent to which her parents supported her. A voice in the back of her mind whispered they probably all thought she was a loser now.
“Is this about that show you didn’t do?” Kyra guessed. She pulled out an empty chair and sat down with her arm still around Stevie’s shoulders.
“The rehab one?” Stevie glanced at Cade, the harshness in his voice surprising her. He looked pissed. Cade Cooper never, ever looked pissed. “That’s bullshit.”
“I thought you said your mom would never cut you off?” Kyra asked.
“I didn’t think . . .” Then, she knew. She knew why now, of all times, her parents had finally followed through on their threat.
Shepherd Caldwell.
He’d convinced them. Stevie doubted her parents even knew how to stop the automatic deposits into her checking account. They certainly wouldn’t have figured out how to actually withdraw money from her accounts or take her off their credit cards. If it didn’t involve the swipe of plastic, it was beyond Edith and Rory Reynolds.
But not Shepherd. He’d done this. He knew exactly where to strike Stevie. He always had. Her mom had been at a meeting with him when she called; he wanted to pitch a show to RealTV, meaning he was fishing for cast members. The Reynolds might be washed up, but Stevie still had a few good years left in her before people stopped caring. Plus, DUIs were so hot right now. Shepherd could spin her drinking habit like no one else, making it sound glamorous and dangerous. Make it appealing to the masses for one hour each week.
She couldn’t think of him without getting physically ill.
No . . . she was actually getting sick.
Kyra gasped as Stevie shoved her chair back and raced to the bathroom. She slammed the door open and it banged against the blue wall. Hopefully it hadn’t left a huge dent in the drywall. Gripping the claw-foot tub, she leaned over the toilet and blew chunks everywhere.
Green, leafy chunks. At the sight, she puked harder.
“Stevie?” Kyra knocked on the doorframe. She was too polite to actually come inside. “You okay?”
Stevie groaned. She couldn’t even have the satisfaction of throwing up a fattening, high-calorie meal, which would have made her mother proud. Edith had, after all, shown Stevie how to shove a finger down her throat when she was twelve, right before sending her to fat camp and filming it for the world. By the show’s next season, she’d had a proper eating disorder.
“Do you want me to come in?”
Stevie leaned back from the toilet and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. The bile burning her throat felt familiar, almost comforting in a way that would have worried the hell out of her therapist. “I’m fine.”
After flushing the toilet, she went to the sink and rinsed out her mouth. After giving her a moment to get cleaned up, Kyra came into the bathroom. Instantly, her hand went to the small of Stevie’s back and rubbed small circles. Kyra was a toucher, a hugger, a hand-holder.
It was weird to someone like Stevie.
Kyra leaned around her and opened the medicine cabinet above the porcelain vanity. The inside held a slew of unopened lotions, candles, and hand soaps, all perfectly arranged. She pulled out a new toothbrush and a mini tube of toothpaste.
Stevie snorted. “Really?”
Kyra grinned as she popped the plastic on the toothbrush. “Always be prepared.”
“Your house should be in some magazine.”
As Stevie brushed her teeth, she felt Kyra relax beside her. She crossed her arms and waited until Stevie had spat a couple times and rinsed out her mouth.
“Stevie,” Kyra started, watching as Stevie tidied up the bathroom, “are you sure everything is okay? You’ve seemed different lately.”
Stevie almost sighed, but she held it back. She didn’t want to seem mean, not when Kyra had asked an honest question and looked so worried. She had a fair point—Stevie was different—but they’d both been so busy with their recoveries that they hadn’t spent much time together lately. Things had changed.
Stevie hadn’t been sober long, but she’d learned one thing already: Everyone expected her to change—that was the goal of sobriety, after all—but the change itself startled them, like they were the ones having a hard time adjusting to this new version of sober Stevie.
It was seriously screwed up.
She rinsed out the sink. “I’m fine. Seriously. I’m not dying. I haven’t fallen off the turnip truck. I’m good. I promise.”
Kyra pressed her lips together, fighting a smile.
“What?” Stevie asked, her face creasing into a return grin as she stared at her friend.
“It’s the wagon. Not the turnip truck.”
“Seriously?” Stevie asked.
Kyra nodded, eyes sparkling.
“Well, shit. Either way, I’m on that sucker, so don’t worry so mu
ch. You’ll age prematurely.”
Stevie hit the lights and started around Kyra, who put a hand on her arm to stop her. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “What are you going to do about your parents?”
Stevie was thankful for the darkness that hid the nervous worry on her face. “I don’t know,” she said and meant it.
* * *
“Cade, you really don’t have to walk me home.”
Kyra’s back gate squeaked closed as Cade carefully latched it behind Stevie. Framed by the back window, Kyra and Hale stood at the kitchen sink, laughing. Hale had his arms wrapped around Kyra, his lips close to her neck as she tried to rinse off a plate. Stevie turned away and saw that Cade had been watching too.
“You know I don’t mind.” He lifted his chin toward the house. “They seem happy.”
“Yeah.” Stevie turned toward her home, her bare feet sinking into the sand. The ocean was a dark inkblot next to her, its waves whispering across the white sand. Sea oats shifted across the dunes between the houses and the beach, and the moon streaked a silver path before them. “They’re making it work.”
“I’ve never seen Hale like this before.”
Cade’s khakis softly swooshed with every step, the bottoms rolled up above his ankles. His white button-up was primly tucked in around his narrow hips and pulled taut across his shoulders.
“He’s good for Kyra,” she said. They’d had the same conversation countless times before. It was the go-to filler, easy small talk, but Cade didn’t go on. His silence stretched on until they reached Stevie’s garden gate. She reached to open it, but Cade beat her to it, swinging it inward and stepping aside to let her pass.
He trailed after her all the way to her porch stairs. For a moment, her stomach flipped with fear at the thought that he might want to come inside. The feeling surprised her. It wasn’t what she’d expected. It was almost like nervous excitement, but also crippling fear, because he was Cade.
