Recalling Thatcher’s history with Pressly, I wondered what he was thinking. I’d been so self-centered that I hadn’t considered what it meant for Thatcher to see Pressly. The Jeep was filled with his nervous energy. Daisy felt it too. She nudged her head between the front seats and gazed up at Thatcher. He reached down to give Daisy’s ears a scratch.
He looked over the dog’s head at me. “You ready to do this?”
He tried to flash a smile, but it fell short, looking more like a grimace. I was dying to comfort my friend, but I could hardly tell him I knew about his teenage romance with Pressly.
I inhaled a deep breath as if courage was in the air. “Thanks for making me do this,” I said.
Thatcher nodded briskly. “Life is short.”
“Can you walk up with me?”
He turned and pointed at Daisy. “Stay here, girl. We have a relationship to fix.”
Thatcher took my arm, and we walked to the front door together. Through the glass door, we could see straight through the foyer to the view of the mountains behind the house. A spiral chandelier threw sparks of golden light from the two-story ceiling, illuminating the stark white interior.
It felt strange to use the doorbell when I was used to letting myself in without permission. I pressed the button and listened to the low tone of bells ringing on the other side of the glass.
Aslan appeared, barking as he skidded to a halt at the door. A moment later, Summer came into the foyer. Her face lit with a smile, and she hurried to open the door.
“Hi, Winter,” Thatcher said.
Summer smiled up at him like he was the hero in one of her fantasy novels.
“Summer!” Pressly’s voice came from around the corner. “You know better than to open the door.”
“But it’s Miss Lacey and Thatcher,” Summer protested.
Pressly came into view wearing a pair of pink leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. Her shoulder-length hair was half tied up in a messy ponytail, half falling around her neck in limp strands. Her cheeks were gaunt, and bags puffed under her eyes. It was a shock to see Pressly looking so undone. I’d never seen her look anything less than perfect. Her makeup was always impeccable, her nails manicured, and her hair sprayed into a sleek flipped-up-at-the-ends bob.
Pressly froze when she saw us standing at the door. Her eyes lit on Thatcher, and the color drained from her face. Her mouth hung open, and her hand fluttered to her hair then dropped to tug at her sweatshirt.
I glanced at Thatcher and saw a glimmer of apprehension in his eyes before he straightened his posture.
“It’s Mr. Hayes, Summer,” Pressly corrected, her tone frosty.
“Sorry, Mr. Hayes,” Summer said, her lip poking out.
“It’s okay,” Thatcher said.
An awkward silence descended on the four of us and then Aslan broke the ice with a bark. I bent and patted his head.
My heart lodged in my throat. “Is Beckett here?” I asked.
Pressly tore her eyes from Thatcher to look at me. “No.”
“Do you know where he went?” Thatcher asked.
“I assume he’s flying.” She touched her hair again, then crossed her arms over her chest.
“Where?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I honestly don’t know.” Pressly gave me a sympathetic glance. “He wasn’t here when I got home, and he has his phone turned off.”
A wave of despair washed over me. I hadn’t thought I wanted to confront Beckett, but now I wanted desperately to see him. Even if he hated me, I needed to see him.
“Do you want to see my room?” Summer asked, looking up at Thatcher.
“Mr. Hayes is a grown man. He doesn’t want to see your room.”
