CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
PALMER
We missed you around here . . .
Those five little words pack such a punch that I feel like I can barely grasp enough air for my lungs.
And sitting across from Beau, wearing his clothes, smelling like his fresh soap, and staring into his brilliantly understanding eyes, makes it that much worse. I’ve never talked about what happened out of fear of judgment and hate. But Beau isn’t looking at me like that; instead, he’s offering me comfort, the same kind of comfort he offered me that night, all those years ago.
The night he saved me.
The night we almost kissed . . .
Those sirens screaming in the dark of night, breaking the lock of our eyes, the comfort of our embrace after he saved me—they still play in my head late at night, causing me to break out in a heavy sweat.
The guilt consuming me, eating away at my resolve until my lungs don’t feel like they’re filling up with enough air.
And yet, to this day, I still can’t say anything. I can’t fathom coming forward and telling them the truth. I would be isolated, more than I am now.
When I left Marina Island, I left with my tail tucked between my legs, fleeing the scene of a crime, not looking back out of fear that no one would ever welcome me with open arms. I kept my mouth shut, I forced Beau to lie, and in the end, I only hurt the people I loved, leaving them to clean up my mess.
It was supposed to be a secret party in the back of Watchful Wanderers. My parents were out of town, it was the end of my senior year, and we all wanted one last hurrah before we went off to college. I’d just finished a long shift of unpacking new products, taking pictures for the website, and enjoying every second of my job. I remember being in the best mood—the night was young, and my life felt so full of promise. I set up the party, with candles in the back of the store as our only source of light so we wouldn’t attract any onlookers. The security cameras had recently been set up, but I knew they weren’t on just yet, which gave us the chance to have a party without getting caught. It was the perfect plan, the perfect last moment before we all went our separate ways.
And that perfect moment turned into the worst night of my entire life. I was out back, saying goodbye to my friends, and from the corner of my eye I saw a flame in the store. A soft glow of terror. My stomach dropped as I realized I never blew out the candles. I burst through the back door and attempted to put out the flames using a bucket and water from the sink, but it didn’t work: the flames grew to a powerful force, and I was caught in the middle of it, crawling on the ground, screaming for help.
That’s when Beau showed up out of nowhere. He wasn’t even in the same grade as me, but he happened to be back home from college for the weekend. He pulled me from the flames just as the firefighters arrived. He held on to me as I watched the back of the store go up in flames, crying hysterically. And when the police questioned me, he held me then too.
After the EMTs cleared me, he walked me back home, brought me up to my room, and told me everything was going to be okay. That’s when I told him it wasn’t. That’s when I told him what had happened.
He’s the only one who knows.
And he’s kept that secret ever since.
“Palmer?”
“Huh?” I ask, my eyes snapping up to his.
“Maple syrup or regular?”
“Oh, sorry.” I blink a few times. “Uh, maple, please.”
“Is everything okay?” He’s always been so perceptive, protective, and quick to lend a hand. That’s evident by what happened tonight. And the night of the fire.
“Yeah, sorry. Just letting my thoughts get to me.”
“I shouldn’t have brought up the fire and all of that,” he says, handing me a plate and placing his next to me on the island. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I know I’m probably long overdue to talk about it.”
“Probably.” He joins me at the table. “But it’s not something we need to talk about now. We can talk about other things, like . . . that time I nailed you in the head while playing kickball back in high school.”
I let out a light laugh. Even though Beau was two years older than me, we still ran into each other throughout school. Our grades collided, our extracurricular activities crisscrossed, and there were plenty of times when we were around each other. But we never spoke. Or it was rare when we did. The most I ever talked to Beau was probably when he was at the store with Larkin and their dad, searching for different goods for their next adventure. I would direct them to the aisle they needed or check the back for stock.
And oh my God was Beau the dreamy older senior when I was a sophomore. I think I was the only one in my grade who thought so, because he was shy, reserved, and spent more time with his glasses on, reading books on the bleachers, than participating, but when you got him to open up, to have a little fun, he would get into it, and that’s when his smile would come out to play. But I was never the one who opened him up—I just observed from a distance. It was Larkin who could guarantee the best smile from him.
Talk about a massive crush, though. Gosh, I thought Beau Novak was everything.
So, the fact that I’m sitting in his apartment, in his clothes, smelling his soap all over my body, and sharing a meal with him—my little teenage heart is going pitter-patter.
And my grown-up heart, well . . . that’s thumping hard as well.
“Sure, you want to talk about how you made my nose bleed in front of everyone?” I ask. “Let’s talk about that.” I cut a piece of french toast with my fork.
“It was a drip of blood, not a geyser,” he retorts.
“Still, you made me bleed.” I take a bite of the french toast and groan as I chew. “Dr. Beau Beau, this is delicious.”
“Never thought how ridiculous that name was until you just said it out loud. And something tells me you’ll continue to use it.”
“Easily.” I smirk. “Seriously, though, this is really good. So . . . you heal people, and you cook. How are you single?” And then it hits me—maybe he’s not . . . “Wait, are you single?” I glance around his apartment as he casually eats his french toast.
“Yes, I’m single. Between all the wart removals and prostate exams, haven’t had much time to meet anyone.”
“And how can you be in the mood after all of that?”
“Compartmentalizing. It’s my only savior. When I clock out, I’m done. I don’t bring work home with me—well, unless I’m on call.”
“Smart, but . . . your home is right above your work.”
He lightly chuckles. “Yeah, there’s that, but it’s pretty easy to let go of what happened that day. I do a lot of hiking, as evident on my Instagram. It helps me escape.”
“I can’t remember the last time I went on a hike. Sort of traded in my hiking boots for a pair of heels.”
“Do you miss it?” he asks before putting a large piece of french toast in his mouth. “Hiking, that is?”
“I don’t really know. I think I’ve blocked that off. Anything to do with the store, I’ve kind of cut out of my life.” Including my family . . .
“Do you miss traveling?” Beau asks. “All the fancy meals, the escapism—are you desperate to get back?”