Page 8

Eden

F ive hours, two dubious sandwiches, a playlist of dreary songs, and several innings of a baseball game on the radio later, we arrive at the beach house, still not having said more than a few words to each other.

Which doesn’t mean I wasn’t hyperconscious of his presence. Of my decision to put myself in a car with a man I hate.

Of the sharp, electric sensation of my hatred, buzzing through my body.

There are no cars here, and the house is locked up tight.

“Jesus,” Rhys says, surveying our surroundings as we unfold our stiff bodies from the seats. I put extra distance between us, grateful to be out of the car and away from him. “You said beach house. I was picturing a cabin.”

The house in front of us is definitely not a cabin. It’s a multistory wood-and-glass contemporary palace.

“Yeah,” I say. “My in-laws-not-to-be have a lot of money.”

Neither of us says anything to that.

I survey the Graves family beach castle—weathered cedar, windows facing the Pacific, carefully groomed gardens tucked around its foundation. “I really love this house. I’m going to miss it.”

Right now, I’m sadder about the house than about Paul.

I’m a stew of humiliation, wounded pride, and a burning desire to find my quilts.

When I think about not marrying Paul, I mostly think about things I won’t have: this beach house, financial security, bio-kids raised by married monogamous parents.

A question has been tickling my brain during the ride: Did I care more about what Paul could give me than Paul himself?

If Rhys has questions, he doesn’t ask them. Instead he says, “He’s not here. Where is he?”

He looks at me like this is a serious question. “I don’t know,” I tell him.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Look on Find My.”

“His phone’s off. His last reported location was Rush Creek.”

His eyebrows draw together. “Wait a second. I thought we were following him here on Find My.”

I shake my head.

“We came all the way here with no idea where he is?”

“Charlie said he was here.”

His look of disgust deepens. “Charlie is his brother . Why would he tell you the truth about where he is?”

“Because I threatened him?” I hazard.

Rhys scowls, shaking his head. “I thought you knew he was here. I assumed we were following his dot on Find My. I wouldn’t have driven five hours on Charlie’s say-so.”

I’m tired and hungry, and Rhys makes me want to dig in my heels. “Well, I don’t know where he is, but Charlie said he was coming here.”

“Maybe he went into town for dinner?” he suggests.

I duck my head and one arm into the cobwebby underside of the porch to extract the house key.

“Seriously?” he says. “They leave the key to their mansion under the porch ? There’s probably someone in there cooking meth.”

“You’re grim .”

“I live in the real world,” he says. “It’s grim.”

“You live in a grim corner of the real world. Everyone you meet is angry and hurting. It gives you a skewed view.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thank you for the free therapy.”

I climb the side steps and slide the key into the lock.

“Are you sure you should be doing that?” he asks.

“Doing what?”

“Breaking into a house that’s not yours?”

I give it about three seconds of thought and conclude that Paul’s decision to jilt me gives me all kinds of legal rights I wouldn’t have otherwise had. “They should be glad I didn’t smash a window and climb in,” I tell him.

He arches an eyebrow but mounts the steps behind me.

The house is two stories, with the entrance on the bottom floor and the bulk of the house upstairs.

It smells faintly of disinfectant when we enter; Paul’s family has it professionally cleaned every three weeks regardless of whether they’re here or not.

When I learned that, I thought about my grandmother, meticulously scrubbing every corner of the house where I mostly grew up, almost completely by hand.

Of course, even if she’d had enough money to hire someone to clean it, she might have insisted on doing it anyway, teeth gritted and shoulders squared, determined not to enjoy herself at any cost.

He follows me up the stairs, and I turn on the lights, flooding the big open great room.

It’s built out of ash-light wood, with a soaring cathedral interior and floor-to-ceiling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the Pacific.

The kitchen is all pale neutrals, Scandinavian design—the expensive kind, not the Ikea version—and granite countertops.

“Nice,” Rhys says.

The lights are off, the air in the house still in a way that suggests it’s been days since anyone set foot inside. “It definitely doesn’t look like Paul’s been here.” I cross to the couch and collapse onto it. “Where is he?”

“We should go back to Rush Creek,” Rhys says. “We can’t keep driving without knowing where we’re going. He could be anywhere.”

My shoulders slump. He’s right. Without knowing where Paul is, we could easily have driven entirely the wrong direction. He could be halfway to the Grand Canyon by now.

I pull out my phone. Tap into Find My, and?—

Paul Graves. Spokane, WA. Sixteen minutes ago.

I make a small, gleeful noise.

“What?” Rhys demands.

“Find My updated. He’s in Spokane. At…a Holiday Inn Express.”

Rhys groans. “That’s more than six hours from here.”

“But he’s not moving,” I say, watching the dot that is Paul. “He’s probably checked in for the night, right?”

Rhys considers. “Makes sense.”

“So we could catch him. Tonight.”

He’s shaking his head before all the words are out of my mouth. “Eden, it’s after seven already?—”

“I want my quilts.”

“I know you’re frustrated, and you need a win, but taking risks with our safety isn’t?—”

“You don’t have to come with me,” I say.

“You can drop me at a rental car place, and I’ll drive myself.

” I tap in a search for the nearest rental place, which looks like it’s in Aberdeen, a half hour away—and basically on the way to Spokane.

It won’t take Rhys too far out of his way back to Rush Creek, either. I hold up the phone. “Drop me here.”

“No.”

His voice is flat. Hard. Nonnegotiable. The voice that won Teller’s arguments.

“Then I’ll get an Uber to take me to the nearest rental car place.”

“Absolutely not. You are not driving all night. You probably slept like crap last night, you woke up at the crack of dawn to get ready for a wedding, you got your heart broken, we spent something like seven hours on the road if you count those disgusting sandwiches, you probably now have food poisoning?—”

“I don’t have food poisoning.”

“—it’s not safe for you to get back on the road and drive six hours in the middle of the night. And he’s not worth it.”

I cross my arms. “I need those quilts.”

He stares at me, eyes like truth X-rays, until I look away. And when I look back at him, something has changed in his expression. The stubbornness has gone out of it, replaced with something almost…soft.

I’m probably imagining it.

“Eden,” he says. His voice has softened, too.

I’ve never heard this version of him, but I imagine it’s the voice he uses when he’s trying to talk his own clients into a more reasonable position.

And I don’t want to wait for what he’s about to say, maybe because I’m the tiniest bit afraid that he’ll actually convince me.

And I don’t want to be convinced. I want to fly through the dark night in a fast car, fueled by righteous anger.

I want cheesy pop music and the promise of my quilts and a purpose that will hold all the humiliation and sadness at bay.

I tilt my phone open and tap on the Uber app.

“Eden,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering an Uber,” I say. “Getting a rental car. Making sure Mari can cover the shop as long as needed. Going to get my quilts.”

He closes his eyes. There’s a beat of silence while I pause with my finger suspended over my car options, and I can hear both of us breathing, a little hard. Then he opens his eyes.

“Don’t order the fucking Uber.” His voice is both gentle and resigned. “I’ll drive.” His eyes narrow on me. “But we’re eating dinner first, and you’re sleeping in the car.”