But not this version of me.
She misses the version that says all the right things. The one that texts her good morning and remembers that she prefers Pink Lady apples over Honeycrisp. The safe version. Not this one. Not the real one.
I scroll to the message I sent earlier as Ghost.
Me:You’ll survive the trip. And I’ll make up for the time I owe you.
That was me trying to be sweet and keep the illusion. But I don’t want it anymore.
I don’t want to be Ghost.
I want to be Jace.
She wants the fantasy, but I want her to want the reality—the version she can’t control and turn off by pressing the side button.
I stare at the screen a second longer, then lock it, drop the phone on the counter, and drag a hand over my jaw.
No.
I’m not going to fucking compete with myself anymore.
Time to start digging Ghost’s grave.
***
The house is alive behind me, with music bumping low from the patio speakers, people laughing, Tanner shouting at Matt not to overcook the steaks. Everyone’s scattered. Melody is nowhere in sight, which is exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Out of their sight, out of their minds—exactly where I want her.
I grab the bottle from the mini fridge. I bought it the day I came up with the plan to get Melody here. Raspberry wine—the only kind she drinks. She told me that once, months ago, and said everything else made her feel like she was sipping headache juice.
I open the cabinet and take out two wine glasses.
The back door creaks open as I slip outside. The sky’s dipped into that hot orange and gold mix, like the clouds are blushing.
I spot her sitting on the low wall near the back edge of the property, just above the dune line. Her legs are dangling off the side, her curls wild again. She’s watching the horizon like she’s thinking too much and refusing to admit it.
I walk up behind her slow, holding the bottle and glasses. We only have a couple of hours before dinner, and I don’t want to waste time. Also, it’s better to rip the bandage fast.
“You look like you could use a drink,” I say. “Wanna go somewhere better?”
“What’s better?” She doesn’t turn.
I tilt my head. “Less testosterone fogging the air.”
“That wouldn’t be true if you’re there.” Her brows arch slightly, but she still doesn’t look at me. “You trying to get me alone?” she asks, finally turning to look at me.
“I know you’re bored out of your mind out here.” I step forward. “And you need a drink.”
That earns the smallest smile—just a twitch of her lips.
“Like you know what I want.”
I hold up the bottle so the label catches the light.
“Raspberry wine?” She blinks, then frowns.
“Mmhmm.”
“You’re joking.” She eyes the bottle.
