Page 35

Lyla

T he driver pulled up to Vizcaya ten minutes ago, but I’ve been too busy hyperventilating in the back seat to get out of the car.

All of the confidence I felt when I was getting ready with Hazel has melted away.

Drake sent me a photo of where I should meet him—a teal and white gazebo on the edge of the property, overlooking the water.

It’s beautiful. Secluded. Perfect for a first kiss.

So why am I so terrified?

I’ve lifted up my phone to text or call Drake—or Hazel—multiple times, but my fingers falter every time.

There’s something about getting out and facing Drake—on an actual date—that feels so vulnerable right now. Like once I step out in this dress, with this lipstick on, with my heart all but pinned to my sleeve, there’s no hiding anymore. Not behind sarcasm. Not behind work.

Because when Drake sees me like this, he’ll know.

He’ll know I care.

He’ll know I like him.

He’ll know I want to kiss him.

I thought I was ready for that—but now I’m not so sure. I put my head in my hands and groan.

“Uh, miss?” the driver says from the front seat. “Is there anything I can help with?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked me this, ever since I told him I needed a minute before getting out of the car. To his credit, he’s been very patient, though I’ve caught him glancing back at me in the rearview mirror several times, a worried expression on his face.

“Got any courage stored away somewhere in here?” I ask with a weak laugh.

He smiles kindly. “Only of the liquid variety.” He gestures toward a bottle of champagne in the backseat. My eyes fall to the bottle—and just like that, I’m back in the craft closet with Drake as he confesses what’s probably his deepest, darkest thoughts. About alcohol and rehab and his arrest.

He was vulnerable with me—real and raw in a way few people ever really are.

And it’s that vulnerability that makes me realize I can do that too with him right now—I can show up, with all my cards on the table, and be real with him.

I take a deep breath, readying myself to get out of the car and face whatever the future holds between Drake and me.

But there’s one thing I need to do before that. “Are you driving us after the event?” I ask the driver.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can you do me a favor? Can you put away any liquid courage you might have laying around by the time we get back?”

For a moment he looks confused, but then he nods. “Sure thing, ma’am.”

I smile and thank him, then open the door. The warm night air hits my face—and I’m no longer hiding.

I’m choosing not to fear. I’m choosing to show up. Fully.

For him.

And for me.