“Whatever,” Colette replies. “Where’s Gary? That’s who I actually called for.”

  “Yuck,” Dahlia says as she turns the camera toward the dog, who’s sound asleep on the sofa. “You could at least pretend to miss me.” She turns the camera back toward her. “I’m not waking him up. He literally just went to sleep. I took him to the dog park for a couple of hours. He’s pooped.”

  Colette pouts. “Aw. I guess we’ll call back later.”

  I can’t tell who Dahlia is looking at, but she’s staring pretty intensely with a strange expression on her face.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” she asks, and my heart leaps into my throat.

  She’s definitely looking at me. Colette glances in my direction, then turns back to the screen as they both await my response.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply, attempting to keep the tone of my voice low and steady. “But if you go to bars, it’s possible I’ve served you a drink before.”

  Nice save.

  “Do I know you from somewhere?” Colette mocks her. “Are you trying to use a pickup line on my boyfriend?”

  “Whatever. I suck at facial recall. Besides,” she says, her eyes flitting toward me, “you guys look sickeningly cute together. I wouldn’t have the heart to break you two up.”

  Colette turns to me. “This is where I should tell you that, even though my gorgeous friend says she’s pansexual, she’s totally a lesbian.”

  Dahlia shakes her head. “You’re so fucking petty.”

  Colette grins at her. “Hey, as the ‘ugly friend’ I have to protect myself from my ‘pretty friends.’”

  Dahlia touches a perfectly manicured finger to the corner of her mouth and strikes a cute pose.

  “I can’t help it. I was born this way,” she says, then her face gets deadly serious. “But, literally, you need to quit with the ‘ugly friend’ shit. Self-compassion over self-deprecation, baby. Ugly people need love too.”

  Colette rolls her eyes. “I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  A smile spreads across my face as I feel more relaxed. I had nothing to worry about when Colette asked me to FaceTime her friend. I may never get a word in edgewise with these two bouncing insults off each other.

  As if she can read my mind, Colette turns to me. “Do you think she’s prettier than me?”

  Dahlia’s cackling laughter sounds tinny through the iPhone speaker.

  I shake my head as I try not to laugh. “I’m not falling for that one.”

  Dahlia is beautiful, but she’s not Colette. And I’ve already told Colette I’m not into blondes. But her friend certainly doesn’t need to know that.

  Colette tries to suppress a smile to pretend she’s being serious. “I knew it.”

  “Who’s prettier? I’m prettier!” Dahlia screams through her laughter, and I’m fairly certain if I glanced around the terminal I’d spot a lot of annoyed faces staring back at us.

  Colette shakes her head as she looks at me apologetically. “I’m sorry. This is a Lisa Nova bit about Keira Knightley. Sometimes, it’s hard to stop it once we’ve started.”

  I chuckle at this admission. “I’ve seen that video. I prefer her Twilight parody.”

  Colette’s mouth drops open. “Uh… Did we just become best friends?”

  “No!” Dahlia cries dramatically, and we all burst into laughter.

  After we compose ourselves, Colette promises to FaceTime Gary again after dinner. And as we head to the ride-share pickup area outside, I silently thank myself for asking Colette to come with me today. Then I thank myself for working up the courage to come back to her before transferring to Stanford.

  I still haven’t decided if I should stay, though I know I want to. I won’t know whether I’m transferring until I spend some time with Frankie tonight. I need to see her to know if she’ll be okay without me.

  As Colette and I load ourselves into the backseat of a white Toyota Camry, I recall the conversation we had on the plane. Colette said she’s worried about accidentally offending Frankie. I don’t know if she’s truly afraid of that or if she was trying to get me to tell her what happened to my mom. But it reminds me of a conversation I had with my therapist last week.

  “What is the worst thing that could happen if Colette found out your mother was killed the night you met?” Dr. Hudson had asked in that disinterested monotone I find oddly comforting.

  “Obviously, the worst thing that could happen is she’d feel like it was her fault, and she’d never want to see me again,” I said, hardly able to speak the words aloud.

  The thought of never seeing or touching Colette again is unfathomable. After everything we’ve both been through this year—everything we’ve been through together.

  No one could ever know me better than the one person who was with me that night. No one could ever understand exactly how much it meant to me. Losing Colette, if it came to that, would be like having my heart broken and losing the biggest part of my identity at the same time. I don’t want to know what that would feel like.

  Dr. Hudson nodded in agreement. “Okay, so now that we know the worst that could happen, what is the best thing that could happen if you told Colette the truth?”

  His question stopped me cold. I know this was his way of telling me I’m catastrophizing. I’m seeing the worst possible scenario without considering a single positive outcome.

  The problem with this logic is that there is no way Colette will feel happy or appreciative when she finds out what happened to my family that night.

  I know Colette better than Dr. Hudson. I know her heart.

  She quit school to be with her dying sister. She adopted a senior citizen dog no one wanted. She’s trying to save the bees in honor of Elle. She carries the burden of her sister’s last words all on her own to spare her parents’ pain.

  Colette has a heart as big as the fucking ocean, but it’s also just as dark and turbulent. Telling her the truth would sink her. No matter how hard I try to rationalize coming clean, I just can’t justify hurting her like that.

  As I watch Colette staring out the window, the smile on her face gives me hope that one day we’ll be strong enough to weather the storm of my confessions. But I don’t think we’re there yet.

  17

  Hiding Places

  After a twenty-seven-minute drive from San Francisco International Airport, our Lyft pulls up in front of the Rosewood Sand Hill hotel in Menlo Park. Two fat palm trees flank the entryway, which is covered by a white, wooden pergola supported by enormous marble pillars. It’s an ostentatious entrance that instantly makes me want to google how expensive this hotel is.

  Jake insists on carrying my backpack this time as we make our way inside.

  “It’s four minutes from Stanford,” he says, as if he can see me silently calculating how much this Thanksgiving holiday is costing him. “And I wanted you to be comfortable.”

  I try not to feel intimidated as we walk down a somewhat long, dimly lit foyer toward the concierge desk. The walls on either side of us are glass, lined with black shutters that reveal just a glimpse of the darkened conference rooms on the other side. This is definitely a place that caters to tech billionaires.

  My palms start sweating as it occurs to me: Jake may one day be one of those tech billionaires everyone fawns over. The ones who can own anything and anyone they want. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.

  On one hand, Jake is already good-looking enough to get any girl he wants. And he seems to have enough money to do pretty much anything. Yet, he still spends his time with me whenever our schedules allow.

  I think I’m having an epiphany.

  Jake loves me. Like, for real.

  “Colette?”

  I look up at him with a dreamy smile. “Yes?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m perfect.”

  He looks amused as he nods toward the man behind the concierge desk. “He asked if you want to book a spa treatment during your stay.”

  I blink a few times at the handsome gentleman behind the marble countertop before I turn back to Jake. “I thought we were checking out tomorrow. I have to be back by Saturday to go to my parents’ house.”

  I try not to sound too panicked by the idea of not making it back in time. Especially since Jake already compromised the trip by leaving on Thanksgiving day instead of the day before, because I couldn’t take yesterday off work.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be back by Saturday morning,” he assures me. “But I have a meeting tomorrow, so I thought maybe you could have a spa day while I’m gone. It’s totally cool if that’s not your thing.”

  Suddenly, the thought of having a “spa day” while Jake is busy with meetings makes me feel a little like a trophy wife. I sense I’m getting a glimpse into what my life would be like if Jake and I were to get married someday.

  I know it’s dangerous to think about stuff like this so early in a relationship, especially when my heart is still mending from losing Elle. But I can’t deny how secure I feel when I’m with Jake. Like I can just relax and enjoy being taken care of for a while.

  “Do you think Frankie will want to join me?” I ask tentatively.

  He looks surprised by my question. “I… didn’t even think of that.”

  He turns to the concierge and tells him to book appointments for two guests. Then we’re given our card keys as a porter arrives to show us to our room.

  “Frankie may not want to do the spa thing,” Jake warns me as the porter takes our bags and places them on a luggage cart. “She doesn’t really like being touched.”

  I don’t know how to respond to this. I know many people don’t like being touched. But Jake’s need to warn me about this ahead of time means it may be especially triggering for Frankie.

  Is this a PTSD trauma response from seeing her mom killed? Or is it an ADHD thing? I wish I could carry Dahlia around in my pocket so I could ask her about these things.

  The porter leads us through the expansive grounds toward our luxury suite, which is almost like a private villa. It only shares one wall with the adjacent room. A large veranda extends off the living room, looking out over a sparkling pool and lush, green golf course.

  I thought my parents were pretty well off because I didn’t qualify for financial aid when I got accepted into UW. I’ve encountered a whole other level of privilege here. I just hope I know what I’m getting myself into.

  The porter wishes us both a happy Thanksgiving and thanks Jake for what I assume is a large tip based on the somewhat shocked expression of gratitude on his face. When he’s gone, Jake immediately slips his phone out of his pocket and appears to shoot off a text. Then he tucks it away again and heaves a deep sigh of relief as he walks toward me.

  “I recognize that look on your face,” I say as he fixes me with a hungry stare. “I don’t think we have time for that.”

  “Relax. I just want to kiss you.”

  He takes my face in his hands and leans in to leave a slow kiss on my lips. Grabbing his forearms, I attempt to steady myself as he steals the breath from my lungs.

  “How do you do that?” I whisper as he pulls away, placing a soft kiss on the tip of my nose.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he says with a grin as he reaches down to adjust his crotch. “As much as I’d like to bend you over that balcony railing, we need to get going if we’re gonna make our reservation.”

  “Ooh, is that what I have to look forward to?”

  “Baby, I’ve got plans for you,” he says with a sinister grin as his hand slides between my legs, cupping my mound. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t kick us out before Saturday.”

  I swallow hard as he massages me through the soft cotton fabric of my leggings.

  “Okay… yeah… that sounds good,” I murmur as my clit becomes painfully engorged. “Oh, my God. I think I’m gonna come.”

  He chuckles as he continues caressing me.

  “Damn. You’re hot and ready today,” he says as he pulls his hand back. “I’m gonna need you to keep that energy for later.”

  I lightly smack his arm as he walks away. “I was almost there.”

  He places his hand on the small of my back and guides me toward the door.

  “You’ll get there,” he says as he leans over and kisses the top of my head. “When we come back, I promise I’ll take you there as many times as you want.”

  “Shouldn’t we—well, should I change into something nicer?”

  He looks down at my outfit and shakes his head. “The restaurant doesn’t have a dress code. Besides, it’s Thanksgiving, not some fancy gala. You want to be comfortable.”

  When Jake told me we were going to an Italian restaurant that’s open on Thanksgiving, the small-town girl in me didn’t understand. But when I saw the price of their six-course holiday dinner is $325 per person, I understood. They saw a niche—rich people who hate cooking—and capitalized on it.

  I smile as he opens the door for me to exit the room. “Thank you for taking such good care of me.”

  He stares at me for a moment as he seems taken aback by my comment, then he shakes his head.

  “I take care of you because it makes me happy.” He lets the door fall softly closed behind him as his gaze burns into me. “And because I love you. You don’t have to thank me.”

  I sigh as he takes me in his arms and holds me for a moment. Then we set off toward the hotel entrance. I don’t question it when a black Mercedes with a private driver arrives to whisk us away to the restaurant.

  This is Jake’s world. A world of luxury, power, and security. And also a world of pain, pleasure, and love. A world that feels foreign to me now, but I hope will someday feel like home.

  We arrive at Vina Enoteca, an upscale Italian eatery in the historic Stanford Barn shopping mall. It’s the only restaurant open in the building. As we approach, the aromas of fresh-baked bread and roasted garlic make my mouth pool with saliva. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now.

  When Jake and I enter the restaurant, I immediately spot a slim girl with blue-green hair in an oversized burgundy Stanford hoodie and gray joggers standing just inside the entrance. Her attention is glued to her phone, so she doesn’t notice us until we’re right in front of her.

  When she looks up, I’m taken aback by how much she looks like Jake despite their seven-year age-gap. They have the same striking green eyes and symmetrical nose. The same full lips and high cheekbones. But she has a soft dimple in her chin that I don’t think Jake has. Though it’s possible it’s hiding under his scruff.

  She’s about my height, maybe an inch or two taller, but she’s probably about ten to twenty pounds lighter than me. This is sort of telling, considering I’ve spent the past few months trying to pack on the weight I lost prior to Elle’s death.

  “Have you been waiting long?” Jake asks as he leans in to kiss her cheek.

  Her eyes flit toward me, then back to Jake as her full lips spread into a sheepish grin. “Only about forty minutes.”

  Jake shakes his head as he turns to me.

  “She has bad time management skills; always way too early or late.” He places a hand on the back of my neck. “Colette, this is my sister Frankie.” He nods toward me. “This is my girlfriend, Colette.”

  Frankie’s eyes widen when he says the word girlfriend. “Ah, the famous Colette who Jake told me absolutely nothing about until last week.”

  My mouth drops as I glare at Jake. “Seriously?”

  “Can you guys please go easy on me today?”

  Frankie smiles as she turns to address me. “I’m just giving him a hard time. You’re actually the first girl he’s mentioned to me in years.”

  Jake gives my neck a gentle squeeze. “See. You gotta be on your guard tonight, or she’ll have you believing I’m a bad guy.”

  Frankie lets out a sharp puff of laughter. “Because you were! You used to be such a fucking whore. Oh, my God. There was this time—”

  Jake shakes his head in a silent plea for her to stop whatever story she was about to launch into.

  “Ooh, I almost forgot. We’re not supposed to talk about the old Jake. He’s my very responsible legal guardian now,” she says as she turns toward the dining room. “Can we eat? I’m starving.”

  Jake’s smiling now, but I can’t tell if he’s nervous or amused. “It’s nothing like she’s making it sound. It’s just a bullshit performance we have to put on so she can maintain access to her trust.”

  “So I can maintain access to my trust through you,” Frankie clarifies, making no attempt to conceal her bitterness.

  “At least you have access. I had zero access to mine when I was an undergrad,” Jake says as the hostess waves her hand to let us know she’s ready to show us to our table.

  Jake’s hand slides down to the small of my back as we follow the woman to a reserved table in a quiet corner. There are only three other parties scattered about the dining room. But all I can think of as the hostess explains the Thanksgiving menu is how confused I am by Jake and Frankie’s bickering.

  I know from experience most siblings will find anything to argue about. But there seems to be a darker undertone to the tension between them that I can’t quite grasp. There’s so much I don’t know about Jake and his family.

  As we wait for our server to arrive, the hostess takes our drink orders, then Jake guides the conversation into the less volatile area of academics. I learn Frankie is majoring in engineering with a sub-plan in environmental systems. And she seems just as embarrassed by Jake’s pride in her desire to save the oceans as I am when he expresses pride over my saving the bees.

  “It’s the fucking corporations that are the biggest polluters,” she says, after our server delivers two lemonades for Frankie and Jake and a glass of wine for me. “Less than nine percent of plastic pollution in the ocean is from consumers.”

  I lean forward in my seat. “I saw a TikTok about that the other day, but I totally forgot to look it up. I wanted to fact-check it, because it was just so shocking.”