Gordon leaves the suit jacket off. Air floats into the gazebo, fresh and wonderful, and twilight rises in an inky shroud over the bay. “I guess we sold it. The story,” he says. “Kelly bought our acting.”

  He was only acting. Was I only acting, or…? I decide to test another kind of water. “Besides dancing, we did a lot of things we’ve never done.”

  A smirk. “You mean me feeling you up?” And curving his mouth into the swell of my neck. And sweeping his lips across my ear, and…

  I turn. We meet. Smile.

  “It was good fun,” he goes on. “It’s the coolest stage we’ve ever had, this place. And I bet we’ll fool anyone with those shots. As much as you fooled me with your, er, agreement.”

  Something inside me freezes. “So it was all fake? A game between mates?” Even after he knew my truth?

  Gordon snuffs out a breath, peering just over my shoulder. “It’s what we do best.”

  “That’s what you meant before about us having a brand.” A thousand more questions blur my vision.

  “Flora.” He cups a hand on my shoulder; it’s the coldest touch I’ve felt in hours. “You know that bit at Coral Castle, weeks ago? The Repentance Corner?” he starts, and waits for my nod. “I told you that I’d found a way for us to be friends again after what happened at the inn. I realized I needed to get over it. Seeing you with Baz helped that along.”

  “And now?” I ask, broadsided by the tinge of hope slotted into my words.

  He shrugs, his forehead pinched. “Now I feel it was probably for the best, even if it was really hard. And, look, earlier you said I’ve always been able to see you.”

  “You have,” I tell him. “You do.”

  “Good. But I realize I want the same. I deserve the same. I want to be seen, too. All of me.”

  “And I don’t? See you?”

  His mouth curves but only halfway. “It’s not so simple. I’ve realized I’m one specific Gordon to you. And I may be the absolute best at being that guy. But through everything, all our time here, you mostly want to be around good ol’ entertaining, funny me. Prankster me.” He tugs the cuff of his dress shirt. “Costumed me. That’s always what you notice first, and what you seem to need most. Of course, that’s partly my doing. I’m the one who’s been throwing rats in your window, and golden owls, and… God knows I have a million more examples.”

  “But?” I ask as my personal storm arises, well before the one forecasted on the news. This one is sad and silent, plucking at the seams underneath my skin in a way I can’t explain.

  “But,” he says, “sometimes even a million doesn’t add up to enough.”

  Not enough, not enough, not enough rings through my head. The limestone mermaids hear it, too, and sing a taunting rhyme as they crumble into the sea. And in front of this window, in front of my oldest friend and every Gordon he’s ever been, I rip all the way through.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Different. It’s bloody different this time. I admit this to myself the next day, well after I thought I’d be done feeling odd and squiffy. Typically, when I’m caught in some sort of rage, my episodes don’t last long. My temper usually blows through my little world, then slows to a calm where I pick myself up and carry on.

  But this time it’s different.

  I raise my chin defiantly, glaring at no one but myself. At the end of yesterday’s shoot, I didn’t yell at Gordy or cry. I didn’t pick up my skirts and strut away, bringing all that drama of the shoot to life.

  But I could have, because how dare he? I don’t see Gordon? Now that’s a load of rubbish. And I should have told him so, but I was just too… It was just too…

  A tear leaks through, and I despise it. Knuckle it away. How easy and cathartic it would be to jerk open my window, yelling to all of West Dade, “Hiya, I’m Flora Maxwell, and I’m knocked for six, and I don’t know what this is!”

  This mantra repeats inside my head as real knocking sounds through my door. I recoil and try to get myself together. “Yeah. Come in.” Even my voice is scratched.

  It’s Alan. He waves himself through, saying, “Channy from next door is going to help me board up your window because we have not had the ones from the back bedrooms replaced yet. I didn’t want you to be frightened by the noise.”

  I find a smile. “Thank you. I’ve never been through anything like this before.”

  “But we have, many times.”

  True. And the whole family’s been working like bees for Jessica’s landfall tomorrow.

  “You called your papi, claro? And Lila has been through dozens of these. She will keep your family calm.”

  I nod. “I told them I was with hurricane experts.”

  Alan backs away, shaking his head over a chuckle. “I wouldn’t tease the sky with that kind of talk, Florecita. We can prepare, but ultimately, Jessica has the power, not us.”

  Alone again, I perch on the edge of my bed, gripping on to the word power as Vizcaya comes around again, our final moments like blown-up photos in my mind. First the one in the gazebo when Baz texted to say our cars were ready at the roundabout. And a silent garden walk back that felt like a trample into a thorny thicket that time around, and Gordon on the phone leaving a message for Cate.

  No, the hurricane isn’t here yet, Mum, and I promise I’ll be safe.

  Then the awkward goodbye with too many eyes watching, with our brief hug and his “You really did look so lovely, Flora,” before he decided to head back to Key West to avoid any motorway gridlock the next morning.

  And above it all, the roaring headache I didn’t have to fake to exile myself again in my room. The one that was still there at dawn along with all the blistering feelings that hadn’t passed on.

  This time it’s different.

  * * *

  There’s knocking again, but it comes like an echo of itself, faint and chalky. I slip back down, down, and away to wherever I was—

  “Óyeme, Florecita, I know you’re in there.”

  One eye wiggles open, and I barely detect that some words were said.

  “Hey! Seriously?” Knock, knock, knock. “Even you are not so much of a flighty pajarito as to run off to wherever with Jessica coming!”

  Snap! Two things ring clear: it’s Pilar, and I must’ve dozed off. “Erhggmm yes hi wait” comes out wrapped in cotton. I rub my face, swinging around, and—it’s bloody half past five in the evening?

  Post-nap legs fumble to the door. “Whatzit?” I eke out to Pili’s annoying springy form dressed in joggers and a tank top.

  “Bueno, sleepyhead,” she says. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the calm before the storm. Pun intended.”

  Calm? Is that what this is?

  She ignores my blank face and hands over a large unmarked shopping bag. “I’m going to Ryan’s now. But Marta found this in my office at La Paloma this morning.”

  I know the sender before I even read the hangtag. Uniform block letters belong to someone trained in blueprints and precision. He must’ve stopped by the bakery for food for the drive back.

  For Flora

  “Gordon—probably a storm care package,” I muse, noting the weighty heft to the sack. Did he set me up with a dozen Pub Subs? “Hey, how relieved are we that Jessica didn’t wait a couple weeks and ruin your wedding weekend?”

  “Oh, that was not happening, amiga. I would’ve shot up to the sky and kicked her out myself,” she says, and I believe her. “We’ll lose power, but I’ll be back as soon as the roads are clear. You’ll be safe with the best parents in Miami.” She kisses my cheek and braces my shoulders. “Okay?”

  “Okay enough,” I say as she leaves. A quick flip of the wall switch fills my dim room with light, curiosity and dread twining inside my belly. I plunk myself and my mysterious gift on the bed, and I’m stuck staring at the bag.

  Seriously? It’s from your oldest friend, and you’re not a coward.

  Just open it!

  I finally go in, yanking out a large square housed in Bubble Wrap. Realization erupts, and I’m trembling by the time I reach for scissors and neatly slice through the wrapping.

  Gordon drew me a house.

  My head fills with unshed tears—not just because of the fact that, after all these years, I finally have a Gordon Wallace original, but because he remembered. Gordon remembered every word I said three years ago at a celebration dinner at Bridge Street Tavern. Lila was there, and all our friends. We were talking about Gordon’s first part-time job at an architecture firm, and I said that Winchester could do with some original homes beyond our classic styles. I told everyone my fantastical specs for such a house. It occurs to me now that it’s one thing I actually did dream about. And Gordon remembered every detail.

  Air freezes inside my lungs as I witness what Gordon never forgot. Flora’s House is scripted at the top corner. And on the large parchment square, he’s drawn the most whimsical, adorable structure I’ve ever seen. Flora’s House is a fever dream of color and perfect oddity.

  The three-story Victorian is tinted in a gradient of purple shades, straight from my imagination. Black gingerbread moldings trim the house in minute detail, flourishes curling everywhere. And he added to my design, too, with a walkway done in pink jester diamonds, leading up to a magenta door. The porch bursts with wisteria vines. And on that porch, there’s something that makes my heart beat so hard against my ribs, I can’t breathe around it. My magic cat sits on a doormat. She’s black with a perfect surprised white circle around her mouth, waiting for her owner to come home. For me to come home.

  I give a messy sob when I spy another secret. From the top gabled window peeks the little tan dog I wanted to adopt from Win-Fest. Flora’s House gets all the pets. I can’t stop looking—Easter-egg clues are everywhere. A gray mouse pokes out from rosebushes. A brown owl and black crow perch together on a blooming cherry blossom tree at the side lot, like friends.

  At once, I am more seen in this drawing than I could ever be in any photograph. I’m more remembered than any three-year-old memory that still lives. And I’m celebrated—every pink-jester, purple-shaded part of me.

  Shaking, I reach for my phone and start texting.

  Me: Gordon, I just got my house. And I love it too much

  After long minutes, there’s no ding of anything incoming, no three dots pending.

  I switch to calling, waiting for eons until the connection goes to voicemail. Where is he? Why isn’t he answering? “Gordon!” I spurt after the beep. “Read your bloody text. Oh, and thank you. Christ, thank you so very much, and ring back, okay? Please just ring me back.”

  I toss my phone, trading it for the Flora’s House drawing, where Gordon has put so many details of me. But no matter how hard I stare at this sweet and wonderful gift, the image stays flat and one-dimensional. Nothing lives behind the windows. No family or friends, no mother at her piano. The pink door leads to nowhere, and certainly not to any good future. I finally got my coveted picture from my oldest friend. But as for anything else, I’m—

  A whimper drops from my mouth. You’re too late might as well be tagged across the structure in graffiti red.

  In trying to protect Gordon’s heart from me, I pushed it away… from me. And just when a change sparks there, when it’s different and we’re dancing and I’m daring to feel, he said I was right to press stop. To keep us how we’ve always been. We’re only jokes and pranks and games. Of all the house styles depicted in his room, we’re the one carnival fun house. He thinks I don’t see all of him well enough to be more to him. To be enough for him. Just when I find trust in myself, and my truth, he loses it. I’m too bloody late for Gordon Wallace.

  His drawing is full of memory and friendship but makes a piss-poor hugger. A shoddy object to hold.

  No one is here for real. Alone is the way I tackle most everything, but I am no longer enough for myself and my good company. The fear and abyss of that send me grabbing and reaching for anyone I can find. Lila’s asleep in England. Pili’s gone.

  There’s only one person left. I reach for my phone again and click on Baz’s text stream.

  Me: Hi from almost Jessica. You good?

  The small talk is as fake and glossy as our dating scheme, but it’s something. Immediately, three dots pop up. Even the promise of connection sends a ripple of calm, head to toe.

  Baz: Hey you. Yeah, Papi and I prepped the yard and a hundred other things. Bring it, Jessica. How about you and Casa Reyes? Doing okay?

  Me: Sure. Yeah

  I type this automatically, so used to those throwaway words. Another message comes through, the bitter aftertaste of my lie still coating my tongue.

  Baz: Nice. I’m working on some editing. Anyway, be safe and we’ll talk after everything clears

  Gordon’s Vizcaya parting words flash through my head again, swirling over everything, and my fingers move ahead of my brain.

  Me: Baz, wait, please

  Baz: Still here

  I will him to stay on my screen, to simply keep me company.

  Me: What’s your favorite photo you’ve ever shot?

  Baz: Why does that sound like asking what my favorite color is? Or if I prefer chocolate or vanilla?

  God, he’s right. Before I apologize like any good Brit, the phone vibrates again.

  Baz: Fine, it’s a fair question (also, chocolate, duh)

  Baz: Would have to be the photo of you on the stool at the studio

  Me: You are a bold-faced liar

  But I laugh, and my pulse is skittering. And that’s more than something. More talking dots appear.

  Baz: Okay seriously, there’s one of my sister on the beach, her head in her hands. And everything lined up perfectly—the light, the sky, her pose, her dress. It’s on my Instagram

  Me: Sounds like it comes with a story. I could use one

  Ringing makes me flinch until I get that Baz isn’t texting back. He’s calling back.

  “Baz?”

  “Hey.” He waits a beat. “So you said you’re okay.”

  “I did.”

  “Why am I thinking that’s not true?”

  “Are you sure you’re not trying out a minor in psychology or text interpretation?” I ask pointedly.

  An exasperated sigh cuts through like static. “Flora.”

  “Baz.”

  “You’re not okay, are you?”

  My heart takes a shuddering breath, makes a shift, and where there’s usually fight and storm, there is only a weariness that’s so much deeper than any poor excuse. “Not exactly.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Not exactly.

  That’s all it took. Two honest words to Baz across the telephone line. It’s the reason I’m standing in the guest room of the Maríns’ Coral Gables home with an overnight duffel.

  From somewhere below, the garage door whirs closed, and Baz’s gray Dunks clomp onto the floor tile. “The Clueless Jeep is tucked in tight!” he calls. Then, closer, after he’s trotted up the wrought-iron staircase, I hear, “Hey, you practicing your turned-into-stone pose?”

  I pivot as Baz crosses the threshold. “More like something from my Total Disbelief series,” I tell him. The Mediterranean-style house is slightly less than massive, and I’m counting on getting lost multiple times. “You’re sure I’m no bother?”

  He sidles up. All his parts are so close—the unshaven jaw, the rain-dotted navy sweatshirt he threw on before coming to get me. “Listen. You were on the line when I asked Mami and Papi.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Flora.” He arcs his hand wide. “We have more than enough room, and Mami is always happier with someone to dote on. I’m the worst at letting her, and my sister is in sunny Florence.”

  “Right. Okay.” I’ve tried to get better at accepting nice things, but old habits love to pop through during stressful times. Like now, and a few minutes ago when the early dusk sky was angry and menacing out the Jeep window. “Thank you. I know I keep saying it, but it’s already so horrible out there, and you made the drive anyway.”

  “Nah. I should’ve checked in. I mean, it’s your first hurricane.” Peat-brown eyes draw me in. “I was trying to catch up and help around here. And the Vizcaya shoot was, you know, busy. And long.”

  And so many things he doesn’t even know about yet. Emotions. Shifts. The everywhere feel of Gordon against my skin, then the finger-snap loss of him. Through all of it, I’d sensed the heaviness of Baz’s gaze as more than Kelly’s sharp-eyed assistant. As if he were—I don’t know—trying to solve a Flora-shaped puzzle? Perhaps his keen sense of disturbance came from the same spot that made him know I was not, in fact, okay today.

  When my tongue stays put, he steps closer. “I thought the Reyeses would’ve put up more of a fight at me whisking you away, no?” His brow line jerks upward on an invisible fishhook. “At una mujercita staying in close quarters with this rakish dude she’s been hanging with.”

  “Rakish, are you?”

  “It’s been alluded to in social media comments. And yes, I read them.”

  “Interesting.” I tip my hand. “We’re calling this home close quarters?”

  He rolls his eyes. “You know what I meant.”

  I do. This bedroom is twice as large as my usual one and set with sleek pale wood furniture and a crisp white comforter. “Everything’s perfect. But don’t think I didn’t have to answer twenty questions before you got there.”

  “Only twenty? You got off easy on the scale of Cuban Mami Questioning.”

  “Oi, I know,” I say over a dry chuckle. “It was mostly about me having a separate room and you not sneaking into mine after we lose power. And then Alan brought up the fact that your home is probably equipped with better generators and those fancy impact windows and all that. He looked at Elisa and was like, ‘Bueno, querida, it’s Casa Marín. Why not?’ ”

  He laughs at my manufactured lilt. “True, all of it.”

  “But it got worse,” I add, my hands flailing. “They figured out that with both Pili and me gone, they’d truly be alone. In the dark. All night long. And thank God you showed up right then because eww!”