“Hmmm,” Cole says. “My dad never boats in weather like this. He might’ve told her he wanted to take her on a tour of it, though.”
No, I heard exactly what she said…
I nod, accepting that my mom is now deeply entrenched in the infatuation phase of her relationship. It’s the stage where she’ll tell little lies to me about where she’s been and where she’s gone, all to make herself endlessly available to her new man.
She never apologizes for this phase; in her mind, I gain something from it, too. Whether it’s her casting a blind eye to the cups of vodka I pour while I write, or the extra desserts she slips me from her dinner dates, in her mind, the new guy is good for me, too.
Ignoring the pain in my chest, I head upstairs with Cole behind me. He waits for me to slip into my room before slipping into his.
I head straight for the balcony, and Cole is stepping onto his landing at the same time.
We stare at each other for several moments, and then he unlocks the gate that connects his balcony to mine, and I move to his side.
Without saying a word, he grabs my hand and pulls me into his room.
He leads me toward the bed, and I sleep against him for the rest of the night.
PART 3
You can have it all in life, but not at the same time…
It’s better to keep your expectations low, so if you never get what you want, you’ll never get hurt.
15
EMILY
Our kiss and the way Cole came have gone unmentioned.
Even though the memories loop through my mind every few hours, neither of us say a word about them.
We’ve slipped into a rhythm instead—quiet, delicate, and dangerous. I write on the balcony in the morning while he paints on his. He brings up breakfast and lunch without asking, a silent barrier between me and my mother’s endless questions. In the afternoon, I nap against his chest. At night, we sit beneath the moonlight, creating art like it’s the only thing holding us together.
This afternoon breaks the rhythm.
It’s too hot for the balcony, and neither of us wanted to retreat to our bedrooms. So we’re in the downstairs living room, sprawled on the couch. I’m stretched out across Cole’s lap, his sketch pad balanced on my bare back like a second skin. One of my legs dangles over the cushion, a napkin of half-finished verses crushed in my fist. He sketches slowly, dragging his pencil down my spine, then replaces it with his fingers—threading them through my hair, slow and deliberate, like he’s anchoring me to the moment.
The moment fractures when Ramen clears his throat.
“Dinner,” he announces, then freezes.
I sit up. Cole doesn’t move.
The chef brings us a tray with two bowls of soup and lingers for half a second longer than necessary. Then he glances toward the front hall.
“Your parents are heading back from the beach,” he says, like he’s trying to make sense of what he walked in on. “They should be back in about ten minutes.”
We both nod. He leaves.
I force my hands around the bowl. The warmth is a welcome distraction. If I meet Cole’s eyes right now, I’ll remember too much—his mouth on mine, the sound he made when I touched him, the moment everything tipped past the point of no return.
Then the door opens.
“Oh, great—you’re both here,” Aidan says, his voice a little too cheerful. My mother’s beside him, wind-tousled and glowing.
“We were thinking we’d have to chase you down to share today’s great news,” she beams.
“What is it?” I ask, spoon halfway to my mouth.
