Sierra came back on the line, her voice warm. “Good luck tonight, Ace.”
“Thanks, Sierra.” My voice softened. “For everything.”
We hung up, and for a long moment, I just sat there in the quiet Arkansas morning, the smell of pine drifting in through the open window, the sounds of birdsong in the distance.
Okay, Rivera. It’s time.
---
By late afternoon, I was a mess.
I shaved twice — the second time because I missed a spot under my jaw. I ironed my shirt three times. I sprayed cologne, panicked I’d overdone it, washed it off, and sprayed it again — half as much.
The bouquet waited on the table: white lilies and soft pink roses, delicate, elegant, just like Brittany.
I paced in front of the mirror, practicing.
“Hey, gorgeous, you ready?” Too smug.
“Britt, you look beautiful.” Too stiff.
“Hi.” God, no.
By six-thirty, I was standing at the edge of the driveway, keys jingling nervously in my hand, heart rattling against my ribs, wondering how it was possible to feel twenty-two again at thirty-three.
.
The door opened, and there she was.
Brittany Ashford — the girl who wrecked me without even trying.
Her hair tumbled in loose waves over her shoulders, the navy-blue dress hugging her just right. She wore delicate gold hoops, a little shimmer at her throat, and when her eyes landed on me, that soft, hesitant smile — the one I’d chased across a thousand nights — bloomed across her face.
“Ace,” she breathed, and I swear, the whole damn world tilted.
I handed over the flowers. “For you.”
She took them gently, eyes flicking down, then up, and something in her softened. “They’re beautiful.” A beat. “You’re beautiful.”
We both laughed at that, nerves crackling between us, hearts hammering in sync.
---
Dinner was at a tucked-away spot she loved — no cameras, no glitz, just quiet candlelight, a small table in the back.
We talked — really talked. About Luné, about the new campaign she was shooting next week, about the jewelry designs she wanted to launch for the fall collection. About Corinne and her brother back in L.A., about why she came here — to breathe,to heal, to figure out what came next and of course to get away from me.
I deserve that.
I told her about Karla. About the way she sings nonsense songs in the car. About the gap-toothed smile and how she calls Brittany “the princess.” About how I didn’t know I was walking around half-dead until Brittany pulled me back to life.
At one point, she laughed so hard she leaned into me, head tilted back, hand on my arm. And just like that, I was wrecked all over again.
---
After dinner, we walked near the water, the cool Arkansas night brushing around us. Our hands brushed, fingers tangled, and stayed that way, like they were always meant to.
I stopped her near the railing, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “Britt,” I murmured, voice rough, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything the way I want you.”
