Page 39

Astrid

California is, as always, bright and sunny.

When the warm sunshine hits my face, I feel an instant and whole sense of ease. I’m back home, returning to the place where I was born and raised. At the airport, Grayson has to leave straight away, going right to the arena, but I have some time on my hands.

I take an Uber over to Santa Monica, and as I look out the window, the sense of ease starts to dissipate.

Something I hadn’t realized, while being in Milwaukee, is the lack of constant reminders. My mother’s favorite restaurant, favorite beach spot, the little cart on the corner that sells the best hot dogs.

Even worse are the pieces of them missing now.

The hardware store my dad used to go to—even though it wasn’t the closest to us by a long shot—now gutted, with a sign out front advertising a chain cookie place. The crooked stoplight that’s finally been fixed. He’d joke about it each time we stopped there, and I can only wonder what he’d say now.

“Joke’s up,” he might have sighed, throwing his hands in the air. “Why does this city have to repair things?”

But Dad’s not here, no matter how much I expect him to come walking around the corner. No matter how often I expect my mother to call me, chew me out for taking so long to call and update her.

When we get to the beach, I thank the driver and step out of the car, wishing I’d had time to prepare for being back. It’s warm, and all I have are sweaters and pants.

I head to a little hole in the wall and order Mom’s favorite strawberry pomegranate smoothie, then I take it, and a muffin, out onto the beach. It would be nice to have a suit, but I make do, rolling my jeans up to my knees, dangling my shoes in my fingers, and wading out into the water.

Grayson hadn’t asked me to go to the game tonight. In fact, he’d specifically not mentioned it. If I didn’t PDA while we were out, I definitely don’t want to show up to the game tonight. It would be like waving a banner telling everyone that we’re more than friends.

Sloane didn’t invite me this time. She thinks I’m back in Wisconsin now. If I show up, it might mean something to the people there. That I’m Milwaukee Frost obsessed.

Or, more accurately, that I’m obsessed with one particular member of the team.

I get back to the beach and start to pace, looking for shells, my vision blurring with the running of the sand, mind searching for excuses.

And I find them—I’m there to work on my case study. I’m from here, and lived here up until very recently, so I could very easily be back in town for work, or to see an old friend. None of the excuses really add up.

And still, I turn and call an Uber to the L.A. Kings arena.

***

I’d managed to convince myself I’d be able to sneak in to see Grayson play without Sloane finding out about it at all. I’d even taken special care to text her about my phone “acting up” so I could turn the location off while still in Minneapolis.

“ Astrid ?”

I freeze three feet inside the arena security checkpoint, turning to see Sloane standing in the middle of the busy concourse, her mouth hanging open as she stares at me, like she can’t quite believe it’s really me.

“Hey,” I say, biting my lip and turning to her, trying to figure out how I can save face. All the excuses from earlier rise to the surface, but it’s too late—the look on Sloane’s face says everything.

“I won’t say a thing,” Sloane says, throwing her hands in the air, grin splitting from ear to ear. “Except that I was right .”

I bite my tongue and realize I’m holding back a smile. I’d thought that when Sloane found out, I’d feel…vulnerable. Or like I’d lost control. But it doesn’t. Instead, it’s like a tiny bit of weight has lifted from my chest.

Sloane takes my hand and tugs me through the arena, down secret hallways and tunnels, and into a little space just above the bench. When I’m seated, I can see Grayson out on the ice, closer than I’ve ever been. The game is already in swing, and I can’t take my eyes off him as he stands in front of the net, stick in hand, eyes tracking the play.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Sloane asks, bumping her shoulder against mine and glancing sideways at me. True to her word, she hasn’t asked about Grayson—actually, she hasn’t spoken at all. At least, not that I’ve noticed.

Sighing, I lean over and rest my head on her shoulder.

“Yeah,” I admit. “It’s pretty darn cool.”

***

“Astrid,” Grayson says, actually dropping his bag when he sees me, his eyes lighting up. He stalks toward me, a grin working over his lips. “You came to the game?”

There’s nobody around, so when he wraps his arms around me and lifts up, I let him, burying my face in his neck and breathing deeply—he’s freshly showered, his skin warm, hair smelling spicy.

“Yeah.” When he sets me down, I shrug. Sloane had acted surprisingly nonchalant about the whole thing, not asking me a million questions, not squealing or clapping once. Instead, we’d sat companionably through the game, and when it was over, she led me to a hallway, slipped me inside, and told me to wait.

Now, Grayson grabs his bag from the floor and straightens up.

“I think we can go out this way,” he says, his hands trailing from my shoulder to my elbow, then dropping as we step out onto the street. “And I think you owe me some sightseeing.”

We walk together, and my heart is behaving strangely, beating too hard and too fast, giddy.

We drop his bag off at the hotel, and as we’re walking out, I nearly run right into a woman pulling her suitcase along behind her.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out in the way you do when you nearly run someone over. But when her eyes land on me, I recognize her, see that she recognizes me, and wish I could be anywhere else.

“Astrid Foster,” she says, her voice taking on that telltale tone of pity. “Well, I haven’t seen you since the funeral. How are you doing, dear?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I rush to say goodbye to her before she can say more about the funeral, my parents. She must have worked with one of them, but I don’t want to stick around and talk about it.

I can feel Grayson’s curious gaze on me, but I act like nothing has happened, instead changing the topic to my plan for our sightseeing. I convince him that with the things I want to see, we’ll have to take an Uber. Los Angeles is a city of cars—public transport isn’t that robust, and walking isn’t even an option. We sit quietly in the back seat, hands overlapped, until the Uber driver slows and pulls up outside the place, glancing back at us with a confused look on his face.

“This…right?” he asks, but I’m already unbuckling my seatbelt.

“Yep,” I reach forward, hand him a bill that might be a little too high as a tip, but I’m too excited to check. Grayson slides out after me, raising his eyebrow.

From his point of view, it probably looks like we’re in the middle of nowhere. That’s what I thought too the first time my dad brought me out here, unable to keep the grin off his face as he punched in the code for the door and led me through the dark warehouse.

“I’m just wondering, do you know what sightseeing means?”

“Ha.” I glance over my shoulder at Grayson as I stride forward toward the warehouse. “You are about to eat your words, Grayson O’Connor.”

“You’d better stop saying my full name like that,” he teases, his voice close behind me, sending a shiver down my spine. “Or I’m going to think you’re obsessed with me.”

I swallow back my reply and jab in the code, which is ingrained into my mind. For a second, I think that it might have been changed, but the door just beeps, flashing a green light. As we dive into the dark, I reach back and take Grayson’s hand. It’s large and warm in mine, his skin a bit rough, and when he sweeps a thumb over my palm, I hide the breath I suck in, lucky it’s under the echoing of our footprints.

“I’ve never shown this to anyone before,” I warn, as I tug him along, weaving us between various objects in the dark warehouse. “So I hope you can keep a secret.”

“Would it be cliché to make a joke about you murdering me here and hiding my body?”

“Yes. I think it’s cliché to even ask that question.”

“… Are you going to, though?”

“Grayson, you’re easily four times bigger than me.”

“Astrid, you could hand me a poisoned apple, and I’d toss back the thing whole.”

That draws a laugh from me—it’s true. He’ll eat anything I hand him without question.

“You’re too trusting,” I admit.

“See, that makes it sound like you’re going to murder me. Teach me a lesson.”

I don’t have to respond to that, because we’ve finally reached the other side of the warehouse, and I’m able to punch in the second code, the one that lets us out to the backside of the property. It’s only accessible through the building—either through bad, or purposeful design—and the moment I see it again, it takes my breath away.

“Holy shit ,” Grayson breathes, dropping my hand out of pure wonder as he steps up to the railing. Out ahead of us is the entirety of Los Angeles, spilling out like an oil slick, lights flashing, orange and purple sunset melting into the buildings below.

“My dad was friends with this guy in the movie business,” I say, stepping forward and folding my arms onto the railing. When I turn to look at Grayson, his eyes are still wide as he stares out at the view. “Told him about this place—they keep a bunch of old film props out here, and the view is weirdly incredible. There’s nothing like it.”

Grayson turns to look at me. “I believe it. Your dad’s a lucky guy.”

I bite my tongue, and when Grayson steps forward to wrap his arms around me, I let him. He tucks his chin onto the top of my head, and we stand together like that, looking out at the view together until the sun sets over the Valley.