Page 80 of What's in a Kiss?

Tears prick the back of my eyes. I’m trespassing and can’t move from this lawn. Jake puts his arms around me. I fall into him, holding on. Suddenly I can barely stand up on my own.

“How did this happen?” Emotion cracks my voice.

He sighs, like we’ve discussed this many times, yet somehow it still hasn’t sunk in. “Your mom never got over you doing what any responsible adult would have done. It was just a simple loan...”

And just like that, he confirms all my suspicions. I see the whole thing played out as disastrously as I imagined. But it doesn’t have to stay like this. I’m sure it doesn’t.

Jake holds me close, looks in my eyes with an intensity that’s almost too much.

“Your life was just beginning,” Jake says. “You wanted togo. Youneededto go. And every lucky thing since then happened because we got on that plane to New York.”

In Real Life, taking that flight was impossible when my dad died. But in this one, I took it. Because I’d kissed Jake.

And after last night, I understand how that would sway me. We’re that good together.

“Maybe we should go home,” Jake says. His voice is kind, but it’s the wrong thing to say.

“No.” I cry harder, tugging away from his embrace. Getting lost in Jake’s spell—as I’d done last night—is what cost me my relationship with my mom. I suddenly see that if I’m going to do this, it’s got to be alone.

I take a step away from him, backing against the trunk of a tangerine tree. I feel the bark against my shoulders, smell the fruit, and I know where to find her. It’s Saturday morning, and the Santa Monica Farmers Market is three blocks away. She’ll be volunteering at Food Forward.

“Jake, I have to go.”

“What?”

“Take the car, take Gram Parsons, go home. I’ll meet you there this afternoon. I’ll explain everything.”

“Olivia—” He sounds shocked and a little hurt, but he doesn’t follow me as I take off running down the street.

••••••

The Third Streetpromenade is a bustling pedestrian-only block with the biggest and most famous farmers market in Southern California. From artisan soaps to fresh dates to macrobiotic popsicles, they have everything you never knew youneeded. When I spot the Food Forward logo on a stack of boxes on a dolly, I follow it to a booth at the edge of the market.

“Rick!” I say to the founder of the organization.Please know me, please know me, please—

“Olivia,” he says, doing a double take, giving me a worried squint. “Are you here about the glitch in auto-pay? We called your assistant. I really don’t know how that happened.”

“There was no mistake. I tripled the donation.”

He blinks. “That’s—wow. Thank you.”

“Is my mom—is Lorena here?”

“She and Silver just left,” he says and points toward the parking lot. He glances back at me, a note of worry in his face. “Green Polestar. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“She’s with Silver?” I ask. I knew they worked together, but weekend volunteering seems a little much.

I take off running. When I catch a glimpse of ombre tunic and matching harem pants, the word pours out of me, echoing through the parking lot.

“Mom!” The cry is all instinct, but it dies on my lips in a strangled yelp when I see my mother turn to Silver and adjust the orchid tucked behind her ear.

Suddenly I’m so jealous I want to tear this Pushcart nominee in half. Now they’re getting into Silver’s Polestar and already pulling away.

I hear a canine yelp and look up to see Jake’s car squeal to a stop one foot in front of me. Gram Parsons sits in Jake’s lap, his head out the driver’s window.

“Get in, gorgeous,” Jake says. “Gram Parsons wants to tail them.”

We head north along PCH, Jake shadowing Silver’s car as surfers in wet suits bob on distant waves.