“Tell me.” Alex drew her feet up under her legs and took a drink of her cocktail. “It’s not a trap. I’m curious, but before you answer, you should know Connor thinks she’s pretty.”

  “Well, he’s not wrong there,” Lindsey said, leaning in closer, hoping her eyes shone with sincerity. “She’s beautiful, and I can see what you see in her. I just have to wonder about the timing of it all.”

  “I get that.” Alex’s eyes darkened momentarily, but she recovered quickly. “The timing isn’t great. It probably doesn’t look awesome on paper. I’ll be the first to admit that. But it’s working, or at least it was. It’s all a little screwed up now, but…”

  “Why?” Lindsey cut her off. “Is it because of me?” She threw her hands in the air. “I knew I should have stayed out of it, and now I’ve showed up on Thanksgiving and ruined your newfound happiness. I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” Alex’s laugh caught her off guard. “It’s not always about you.” Her tone was playful, but her gaze level. “It’s my fault,” she added. “I messed it up. Not you.”

  “What happened?” Lindsey asked, clutching her drink to her chest.

  “I told her I loved her.” Alex’s voice was unapologetic and honest. “And then I doubled down and told her I meant it.”

  “And?”

  “And here we are talking about how I might have fucked it up.” Alex downed what was in her glass and handed the glass of ice back to Lindsey. “I’ll have another if you don’t mind.”

  “Damn,” Lindsey said. “Connor is down for the night, and you and I have nothing to do but drink about this.” She downed her drink to follow suit. Rising, she nodded at her sister. “We’ll figure it out over some drinks.”

  Lindsey took both glasses and headed for the kitchen.

  “Just bring the bottle,” Alex said, smiling sheepishly. “No sense in making it fancy.”

  Lindsey reached for the bottle, but stopped short. It was her job as an older sister, wasn’t it, to be the voice of reason? Her hand hovered over the table as she deliberated, but she grabbed the tequila anyway.

  “Bring my cards too,” Alex said. “Let’s drink and read each other’s fortunes.”

  “We can read your fortune,” Lindsey said, slipping the cards under her arm. “I’m pretty sure mine is going to be all about Paw Patrol and mac ’n’ cheese for quite some time. With yours, there’s at least the possibility of passion.”

  “Passion has never been the problem.” Alex’s voice was quiet and thick with emotion as she reached for the bottle in Lindsey’s hands. She unscrewed the cap and pressed the bottle to her lips. After taking a long swig, she passed it over to Lindsey. “You’re up.”

  “Jesus,” Lindsey said, leaning back in disbelief. “Not even a wince! Who are you, and what have you done with the girl I knew back in California?”

  For a second, Alex jutted out her chin defensively and then offered a sad laugh. “I guess it comes along with the territory when your main point of human contact owns a bar.”

  “You have made other friends, haven’t you?” She worked to keep her tone even but knew her concern had seeped into her voice.

  “In passing.” Alex reached again for the tequila bottle. “There’s a gallery owner who I’d consider a friend, and my neighbors are nice people.”

  “This,” Lindsey said, resting her head in her palm, “was what I was afraid of. You ran out of town as quickly as you could, and I don’t blame you. An ended engagement is fucking tragic.” She paused and placed her palms on her knees, leaning in for added effect. “But how can you say you love her when your heart wasn’t even patched up enough yet to give away?”

  Alex swallowed hard. Staring down at the bottle, she toyed with the edges of the label and opened her mouth to speak but shut it when she didn’t have an answer.

  “I’m not…” Lindsey’s words were cut short when Alex cleared her throat.

  “Do the cards,” she said, nodding to where Lindsey had set them on the coffee table. Without another word, she tipped the tequila bottle up in the air and downed what would have easily been a shot. Lindsey grabbed the cards and shuffled them.

  “I’m not sure I remember how to do them correctly,” she said, though throughout their teens they’d done Tarot readings at least once a week.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Alex looked up at her. “A half-assed reading is as good as a real one. After all, it’s just meant to make you feel better, or to feel worse, or to screw up your day entirely.” She placed her head in her hands, before looking back into Lindsey’s eyes. “It’s kind of like love that way. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing, or even if you’re broken, you can lie to yourself the same way those schmucks do who pretend to have it all together.”

  Lindsey had so much she wanted to say, but she bit her tongue and opted instead to shuffle the cards. “Here,” she said, holding the deck out to her sister. She watched as Alex’s eyes darted back and forth across the cards Lindsey had fanned out in front of her. Tapping her finger against the edges, she selected one to the far left.

  Nodding, Lindsey laid the card out on the table. The upside down magician. She knew what it meant, but the words hung in her throat.

  Alex laughed. “Uncertainty,” she said, beating Lindsey to the punch. “I’d say that’s pretty spot on for a bunch of hocus-pocus.”

  * * *

  AC/DC blared through his speakers, and Grant rolled down the windows for the drive home. Bobbing his head to the music, he smiled. It had been one hell of a day, and he was full and happy. As he pulled into the driveway, he put the car in park and glanced toward the porch. Lennon was standing outside, leaning up against one of the columns.

  The porch light illuminated her silhouette, and Grant paused for a moment to study her. Cigarette pressed to her lips, bottle of whiskey in one hand, and clad in her favorite black leather jacket, she looked like the poster child for what the Kids After-School Specials warned about. He laughed at the thought. She’d been that for him ever since their teen years and he for her. Together they’d been a shiny pair of rebels, just clean enough to never get caught in their shenanigans, but always too wild to keep tabs on. He laughed, thinking back to their high school years and every phase of life that had come since. It was always the same old song and dance of squeezing every ounce of thrill they could find out of life, all while making sure they toed the line enough to not stray too far into their rebellion. She’d been as much as any the reason he never left this place.

  He rolled up the windows and shut off the car, noting that she hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction. He tapped the wheel, torn between wanting to be supportive to his best friend and wanting to bask in the afterglow of a turkey feast for just a little while longer. Pressing his lips together, he let out a sigh and hopped out of the vehicle.

  “Looks like the bitch is back,” he sang, hoping to keep spirits high. “Is this Breakup Barbie I see?” He gestured to her exaggeratedly. “Or are you just off parole for the night?”

  “Very funny,” she said, looking him up and down. “And what are you? An overgrown Jack McFarland?”

  “Claws are out,” he said, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “For the record, I’m more of a Grace, but you already know that. Regardless, what’s going on with you? Why are you out here looking like an outlaw instead of at your girlfriend’s house making a turkey or turkey basting or something.” He laughed boisterously at his own joke.

  “You still have no idea what lesbians do in our spare time, do you?” she asked dryly.

  He shook his head and leaned up against the column opposite her. “No and I have no desire to learn. There are far too many vaginas involved for my liking.” He reached for the bottle of whiskey and took a swig. As he swallowed, he looked down at the label. “I see you’ve brought the good stuff,” he said, gesturing to the Pappy Van Winkle label. “And you’re just out here downing two-hundred-dollar whiskey like it’s a fucking bottle of Jack?”

  When she offered nothing but a grunt, he walked past her into the house and returned with two whiskey glasses. “Let’s at least give this the respect it deserves,” he said, pouring two generous portions. “And then you can stop dodging the question and tell me what’s going on.”

  “God you’re persistent.” She flicked her cigarette to the ground. Stomping it out, she turned to face him.

  “And you’re smoking again?” He worked to keep judgment out of his tone but failed miserably.

  She attempted to form a smile as she sat on the porch swing. “I’m smoking, I’m drinking whiskey I paid for, and I’m having my own Thanksgiving party. I’m thirty-three fucking years old and can make my own decisions. You’re welcome to join, but I’m going to need you to settle the hell down with the judgment.”

  “Okay,” he said, taking a step backward. “Sorry.” This was the part where normal friends would probably hug, he figured, but instead, he plopped down beside her and grabbed her pack of cigarettes from the porch swing. Lighting one up, he inhaled sharply. “Damn.” He savored the heavy feeling of the menthol smoke at the back of his throat. “I’ve missed these.”

  “Same.” Lennon grabbed another one and lit it. “That’s why I’m smoking them. They bring me joy, and they’re something that’s always been constant. No matter how much time goes by, you can pretty much count on an instant shot of happiness when the stream of nicotine hits.”

  “You’re not wrong,” he admitted, taking another drag. “I shouldn’t have done this, but I’m just here to be supportive.”

  To his delight, Lennon laughed. “You and Gretchen Wieners are just such good friends,” she joked, referencing Mean Girls, a film that they’d watched nothing short of a hundred times together.

  “That we are.” He let the silence between them grow, knowing her well enough to know she wouldn’t be able to hold out long.

  “She loves me,” she said after a moment. She took another long drag, exhaled a thick stream of smoke, and sipped the whiskey in her glass.

  “And you don’t love her?” He waited. She slumped into her seat. “Oh God,” he said, standing to look her in the eye. “You do?”

  Lennon stood up, moving past him, and started to pace. “It can’t be love, can it?”

  “I’m many things, but I’ve never been a relationship therapist.”

  She handed him her glass in response and continued to pace. “Love isn’t supposed to be this confusing.” She was mumbling, and he was grateful he could only hear bits and pieces of it. Knowing she wouldn’t actually wait for his response or advice, he busied himself pouring another drink, topping off hers, and enjoying his cigarette.

  He handed hers over the next time she passed by, still mumbling about how she shouldn’t have to work so hard for something that wasn’t supposed to be serious. She stopped and faced him. “The timing is all wrong. But does timing matter? It does, doesn’t it?”

  “What do you want me to say?” He eyed her cautiously over the brim of his whiskey glass. “Do you want me to tell you that the two of you jumped into this headfirst, all while telling each other—and everyone in earshot—that it was nothing? Well, you did.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger, and he knew he’d hit his mark. She needed to be mad at him to figure out how she felt. Somehow she’d turn that anger into introspection. He didn’t understand it, but it worked for both of them.

  “Do you want me to tell you that watching you two together feels like I’m watching you pour vodka on a bonfire and then acting surprised when it blows up? Because that’s what it looks like. Is it passionate? Yeah. Is it beautiful? You bet. Is it dangerous? Probably.”

  He took a deep breath, knowing he was speaking truths she didn’t want to hear. Bracing himself against her furrowed brow and killer stare, he pressed on. “I can tell you I’ve worried about you at times, because it seems like you go all in all the time. But also I see the conflict in you and know you feel deeply about her. I can tell you that much, but only you can tell if you actually love her.” She stared him down, and he was grateful looks couldn’t do physical damage. “I know I risk being uninvited to this Thanksgiving soirée of yours, but I have to ask. Are you more afraid that you love her and it won’t last or that you love her and it will?”

  He expected anger. He wasn’t prepared for the tear that slid down her cheek.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted after a moment. “That’s why I’m here talking to you and indulging in an evening with my longest lasting loves.”

  “We’re all three here,” he said, holding up the whiskey and cigarette.

  “At least some things remain the same.”

  “These things always will,” he said, motioning for her to come over and join him. “Do you want to talk about it more?”

  “Let’s see where the night goes,” she said, taking a seat beside him. “In the meantime, you’re not uninvited to my party.”

  “Good.” He nodded, nudging her playfully in the arm. “Because you were going to have a hard time kicking me out.”

  “Line ’em up,” she said, sliding her glass over to him.

  Even though he knew it wouldn’t solve the problem, he poured her another drink, knowing one way or another, she’d get through it and they’d lead each other to the other side—the drunk leading the drunk.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rhythmic sound of the waves greeting the shore mixed with the flap of her umbrella in the wind. As salt and sand gently sprayed her body, Lennon felt as if the sun’s warmth was bringing her back to life. When she readjusted her position on her towel, though, her head throbbed, reminding her she wasn’t the twenty-one-year-old she’d acted like the night before.

  Like a bad movie, visions of her downward spiral replayed in her mind. Thankful she’d only spoken with Grant while in her stupor, she shook her head and pulled the bill of her ball cap down further. Between its brim and her large aviator sunglasses, she thought maybe, just maybe she could hide away for the day and let the shame and pain of the hangover subside in peace.

  Movement on the horizon pulled her eyes toward it. Propping herself up on her elbows, she saw a stand-up paddle boarder in the distance, someone with long, dark hair flowing freely in the wind—hair that looked so much like Alex’s that she might have been conjured up by the most masochistic parts of her mind. She closed her eyes, trying to rid it of the visions of the hair and the hourglass curves. Clearly, even here in her place of refuge, she was going to find no peace.

  Rolling over to her stomach, she fished her phone out of her beach bag. She scrolled through her contacts. She pulled up Aunt Bernadette’s number, hovering her finger over the screen. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want Bernadette to know she was about to cry, so talking was off-limits. She wiped the tears away and opened her text-messaging app instead of calling.

  Have a minute?

  She typed the question and hit Send before she could talk herself out of it.

  Three dots appeared almost immediately at the bottom of the screen. Then…

  Always for you.

  She set the phone down on her towel and shook her hands in frustration. Typing shakily, she wrote

  I can’t talk on the phone, but I need advice.

  She paused and thought through how to succinctly say what she needed to. Her shoulders fell as she typed the words.

  How do you know if something is worth it?

  Person? Dream? What are we working with?

  Bernadette was nothing if not thorough, always one to ensure she gave sound advice, based on what was best for the individual situation.

  I should have known you’d want more info. Haha. Let’s say it’s a person. What then?

  As she waited for a response, she wished they’d gone to her mother’s side of the family for Thanksgiving. Maybe then she would have had a chance to talk to Bernadette while tossing around a football in the backyard or raking up leaves for the kids to jump into. Then maybe the world wouldn’t seem so murky.

  The three dots appeared and then disappeared.

  “Maybe it’s not a simple answer after all,” she said aloud, closing her eyes and plopping back down on her towel.

  She heard the ding that signaled an incoming message but didn’t bother to look at it right away. She drew herself up and clutched her knees, coming to a conclusion. She thanked her aunt for her message without even registering its contents. Her mind was made up, and something had to be done.

  Pulling up Alex’s number, she typed a quick message asking Alex to meet her at the beach. After getting a reply, she lay back down. There was nothing left to do but sort through the remainder of her thoughts and wait the twenty minutes Alex asked for.

  When Alex finally arrived, Lennon took a deep breath. She considered standing but thought better of it. Instead, she beckoned Alex over and spread out her spare towel—the one she always kept in her bag to rid her body of sand before getting in the car—beside her. Alex stood a yard away, her tie-dyed sundress blowing in the wind and her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head. Her oversized sunglasses covered her eyes, but from the look on her face, Lennon could tell they weren’t sparkling like they sometimes did.

  “Have a seat,” she offered.

  Alex took a step back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?”

  Lennon looked down at the sand, digging her feet into the warmth it offered. “I think we need to talk.”

  “I can talk from here,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, based on the non-conversation we had last night, I’m not sure I need to get comfortable. Or can.”

  “Last night I was processing things.”

  “And you’ve processed them?”

  Lennon shook her head. “Not all the way, I guess,” she admitted. She bit the inside of her check. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe the whole damn thing had been a mistake. “But I know I need to say some things. Last night, I didn’t have the words I needed. I didn’t know what to say. That’s why I hung up. It was a dick move, but I needed time so I didn’t say things I would regret.”