Brig: Is that when you puked on the Ferris wheel?
Jen: Onto the mayor?
Griffin: That’s the one. I was doing pretty damn well avoiding that story until Reid.
Reid: I don’t have any regrets. I got some candles and it serves you right for opening your mouth to Ren about Eve. Let this be a reminder to all of you, I do not hold back.
Rogan: Sooo, if I told Harper, what would happen to me?
Brig: I vote kick him in the crotch. Kick him in the crotch!
Jen: ^^ I second that.
Griffin: It’s only fair.
Rogan: Shut the fuck up, Griffin, you don’t get a say.
Griffin: Eggplant story. He told my girlfriend the eggplant story.
Rogan: It could have been way worse.
Griffin: How so? Now she probably thinks of me as the guy who threw up on a Ferris wheel . . . when it wasn’t even moving.
Reid: Whining doesn’t look pretty on you, Griff.
Brig: Doesn’t go well with your complexion.
Jen: You guys should see his face right now, bright red.
Rogan: Are his nostrils flared too?
Reid: Yes, can we get a nostril check?
Brig: Dying to know about the nostrils.
Jen: Nostrils are flared, I repeat, nostrils are flared. And that vein near his temple is throbbing.
Griffin: I hope you all enjoy hell together.
Reid: Let this serve as a reminder to all of you: don’t fuck with me.
CHAPTER TEN
EVE
“I can’t believe you actually returned my call,” says Avery, one of my best friends from high school, her voice filtering through my phone. “Have you become a celebrity in Port Snow without telling me? Are you so inundated with autograph requests and appearances at Snow Roast that you couldn’t possibly call your best friend back?” I can’t help but smile. Typical Avery. I miss one phone call, and she acts like I never talk to her.
Walking down the hill where the Lighthouse Inn is situated, and toward Main Street, I secure my earbuds. Snow is piled up on the edges of the sidewalk, and the roads are slick with a fresh flurry from this morning. “Yup, I’m the queen of Port Snow. They have me living up in the mayor’s house, and I have my own assistant who brings me afternoon tea every day. It’s a grand life.”
“You bitch, and you didn’t tell me?”
We both laugh. “What I wouldn’t give for an assistant who brings me afternoon tea every day. That would be the life,” she says wistfully.
“How is the job, by the way? Loving it or hating it?”
Five years ago Avery moved from Port Snow to New York City to pursue her acting career. She was a huge theater geek growing up, was the lead in every Port Snow play, and even dabbled in some commercials here and there when she had a chance. But she didn’t become completely serious until she finally dropped out of community college and fled to the city. Her parents were furious, and there was a moment, right around when my dad died, when she tried to toss away her dream, but I stopped her from calling it quits and coming home. She’s meant to act.
But she hasn’t had her big break yet, so her new job consists of singing show tunes and waitressing at a kitschy cabaret restaurant in Manhattan, where the special every night is a house-made meatloaf with cheesy mashed potatoes.
“Hating it,” she groans. “Because I have blonde hair, my costume consists of lederhosen made from old drapes, and I spend every night singing songs from The Sound of Music. I mean, I should be honored, but every time I break into ‘Do-Re-Mi,’ I truly want to pistol-whip my own face.”
A loud laugh rumbles up and out of my throat. “Oh, please send a picture. I really want to see you in that outfit.”
“There will be no photographic evidence of this job. It’s paying the bills until I hear back about a big audition I just had.”
“Oooh, tell me about it.”
“It’s for a movie.”
“What? Seriously? What kind?”
“Romantic comedy, of course. You know this all-American girl wasn’t born for anything else.” It’s true—she’s the perfect lead for any romantic comedy. Bubbly, sweet, energetic. She reminds me a lot of Reese Witherspoon.
“That’s so exciting! How did the audition go?”
“Pretty well, I think. I mean, I’m trying not to get super excited about it, but I left feeling good. I’m hoping for a callback in the next few days.”
“I’ll have my fingers crossed.” I make it down the hill, turn left onto Main Street, and head straight for the giant white building with red and teal accents: the Lobster Landing. The building is iconic in Port Snow, sitting right at the end of Main Street, which is a tourist mecca with a picnic-table courtyard, the Jake’s Cakes food truck, and harbor-tour kiosks.
“What about you? What’s been keeping you so busy that you couldn’t call me back in over a week?”
If there’s one person I can talk to about my current romantic relationship, it’s Avery. She’s known all about my crush on Reid since middle school, and she’s quite aware of “the curse.”
“So, I might have started a little relationship.”
“A little relationship?” she shrieks. “With who? Oh my God, wait, let me guess. Hmm . . . is it Jake? I know you can’t get enough of his crab cakes, plus he’s so yummy.”
“Not Jake.”
“Okay, I mean, that would have been a good match, but I can let that one go. Hmm, oh, how about Oliver over at the general store? He’s so mysterious, always churning his ice cream but not saying much besides what flavors he’s making. Have you gotten him to open up?”
Oliver is kind of a mystery.
“No, not Oliver. He’s a little too quiet for me.”
“Fair enough. Okay, give me a second. I’m trying to think of all the single guys in Port Snow. Well, it’s definitely not Tracker because you’ve told me before that his man-whore ways aren’t for you. Right?”
“Correct.”
“Well, if it’s not Tracker and . . . oh wait.” A smile crosses my face, but she says, “Caleb, it’s got to be Caleb.”
Oh boy. Maybe she’s not as in tune with me as I thought she was.
“Didn’t he recently get divorced? Look at you, snagging him. He’s super sexy behind that camera of his.”
The local photographer, Caleb, shoots everything from scenic pictures of Port Snow to weddings to graduations to boudoir. He lives high up on a hill in a little cottage that overlooks a cliff, which he might turn into a wedding venue. I believe he told Mrs. Davenport, who then told everyone, that if he couldn’t make his marriage work, he could at least help others make some happy memories.
“It’s not Caleb.” I slow my pace, taking in the little shops on Main Street. I pass the local art gallery and peek inside the window, where I spot Beck, Port Snow’s new artist and curator. I give him a quick wave, which he returns, and keep moving.
“Well, then I give up. Who else is there? I mean, yeah, there are some other singles hanging around, but none that we’ve talked about.” She pauses and then laughs. “It could be a Knightly.” More laughter fills my earbuds. “Yeah, like that would happen. Who’s even left? Brig and Reid? Brig is way too—” She pauses, and I swear I can hear her mind working on overdrive. “Holy. Shit. Eve, are you seeing Reid Knightly?”