It was like everything clicked together in a way it never has. And though I have to do this—have to ask her if it’s true—the doubts slipped away somewhere between the dock and the open water.
“Alex?” I walk barefoot down the dock. She twists around on the lounger, looking at me almost upside down.
“Mm-hmm?” she responds sleepily.
“Can you come help me with something please?”
“Sure,” she says, sitting up a little more and dropping her feet into the water. If she was holding Rena’s hand, it doesn’t show.
She kicks her way over to the dock, water splashing up and over Rena, who seems oblivious to anything but the sun and a nap.
“Don’t float away,” I call out to Rena as Alex climbs up the steel ladder. I take her lounger, tossing it down on the middle of the dock.
“What do you need?” Alex says, water dripping onto the deck boards.
“Um, it’s up at the house. I thought we could . . . bring down snacks,” I say.
“Awesome. I’m starving.”
We follow an aggregate walkway up to a set of steps winding past a tennis court. We skirt the little waterfall feature, and it changes colors as I walk by, from a muted blue to a vibrant green.
Eventually, we slip inside, where the air is instantly cooler. I walk to the kitchen, Alex on my heels, and stop when I’m at the fridge. I grip the cool steel handle but don’t open the door.
I linger, staring at the blurry outline of myself reflected in the steel surface.
“Uh, Holly?”
“Do you love her?” I ask, unable to turn around.
“What?” I can’t see her face, but the slight shrieking tone to her voice tells me everything I need to know.
She’s not confused. She’s shocked.
“Rena. Do you love her?”
I remain staring at the fridge. Staring, Staring, Staring. Until a warm hand rests on my shoulder, turning me to face Alex.
There’s no fear on her face, just . . . sympathy. For me?
It hits me all at once—the realization that she’s worried she’s betrayed me. Hurt me.
“How did you figure it out?” she asks softly.
“I didn’t.”
“But—”
“Malik thought I knew.”
“Oh,” she says as her face falls.
“I don’t care,” I rush to say.
She blinks. “You don’t?”
“No. I mean . . . I care, but not about that. I care because I thought I was losing you as my best friend. I care because I thought you were replacing me.” I lean back against the fridge, resting my head. “I care because you thought you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”
“Of course I trust you,” Alex says. She turns to the countertop behind her, hopping up and letting her legs dangle down.
The surreality of the moment—of sitting in this kitchen in a mansion talking to Alex about this—washes over me. All the times we talked about me not being myself around Malik, and Alex held this secret of her own.
“But you didn’t tell me.”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“Not even your mom?” Alex is close with her mom. She spends so much time with her. More than I’ve ever spent with my own mom.
She shakes her head. “I don’t even know what it is, this thing between me and Rena. But yes, I love her. We figured we could go away to college and figure it out there. And if it becomes a real thing . . . a lasting thing . . . then we’ll tell people.”
“So she’s not my replacement.”
“She’s something else,” Alex says, smiling. “I would never replace you, Holly. You will always be my best friend.”
“Promise?” I say, suddenly feeling ridiculously, stupidly happy.
“Promise,” she says, extending her pinkie finger.
I step forward, and we pinkie-swear like we used to in the sixth grade. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not worried about losing my best friend.
“Hey,” a voice calls out, and I twist around to see Malik slipping inside the doors. “Everything cool?”
He eyeballs me, as if to make sure I’m okay. In this moment, I realize how much he cares about me. As a person.
And how much I love him.
I grin. “Yeah. Never better.”
As he crosses the kitchen, Alex steps away, sauntering back to the patio. “I’m going to go back down to the lake. You guys coming down?”
“Yeah, in a bit,” he answers, not quite taking his eyes off me.
He walks to the kitchen, and I take a tiny step back as he gets closer, placing one of his hands on each side of my hips and pinning me between him and the kitchen cabinet, a flirty smile on his lips. “I have an idea.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. We’re going out tonight.”
“Where?”
“Someplace quiet.”
Someplace quiet? It’ll be the perfect place to tell Malik the truth.
“Okay. Does it have a dress code?”
“No, but you should still dress up,” he says, grinning.
“I can handle that. What time?”
“Six. Gives Alex and Rena time to swim as long as they want, and then you guys can head out and you can get ready.”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
I’m lying on my bed, my phone still gripped in my hand, when his reply finally comes in.
I sit up and unlock the screen.
710 Broadway, Tacoma
I blink. Tacoma is farther than I expected, a good forty-five minutes south of Seattle. I type back, What’s at 710 Broadway?
The response comes just moments later: You’ll see. Meet me there at eight thirty.
Eight thirty. That gives me an hour to get ready and an hour to get to the address.
I flick open a new text and send it to Alex.
Thanks again for letting me borrow your car. I’m heading out in an hour to meet Malik.
My phone chirps moments later.
Oyy . . . You’re still telling him the truth, right?
Just seeing her words on the screen makes my stomach twist.
Yep.
I go to my closet and start digging through my clothes, searching for one of the outfits Alex gave me. I land on a silk blouse and a little black skirt.
Hopefully, this little surprise date isn’t, like, rock climbing or basketball or something. He did say to dress nice, though.
It takes me thirty minutes to curl my hair and twist it up over my head, slip into the new outfit, and find a pair of heels that look like they maybe weren’t purchased at Target.
I give myself a once-over in the mirror. I’m tempted to take it all off and switch to clothes that look more like me. Tonight’s about coming clean, after all.
But I can’t quite bring myself to slip out of the outfit. I feel good in it. Confident.
Just like Alex knew I would, when she thrust all those bags at me.
At a quarter to eight, I’m in Alex’s car flying down the road, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel as anticipation builds in my chest.
Broadway is one of the main drags in Tacoma, an eclectic mix of luxury condos, hotels, museums, and old factory buildings.
And as I slow, coming up on the 700 block of Broadway, I realize my destination is an old building, faded paint on the exterior proclaiming BEASLEY’S FURNITURE COMPANY.
Huh? What the heck are we doing at an abandoned warehouse?
I pull to a stop in the darkened shadow of the building, peering up at it. Unlike the converted lofts downtown, this one is an empty shell, with busted windows like rows of broken teeth. I’m staring up at it, wondering if Malik somehow typed the wrong address, when someone taps on my window.
I nearly jump out of my seat, but relief whooshes through me when I see his face. “I think I just had a heart attack,” I say as I push open the door.
“Sorry,” he says, giving me a sheepish grin.
&n
bsp; “This place is kind of creepy-looking.”
“It’s not so bad. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He interlaces his fingers with mine, tugging me toward the brick shell of a building. I decide not to question him and simply follow along, wondering what in the world could be inside this place. It’s an odd location for a date, but then, his choice in dates has never been conventional. For all I know he hired a band and a caterer.
It’s not as dark as I thought it would be once we step inside. Old wooden floors creak as we cross the expanse, stepping through slanted splashes of fading sunlight. He pulls me toward a doorway that has been propped open.
The stairwell is a little darker, but at each landing, another door is propped open, leaving us with enough light to navigate the steps. But the final door, at the top, is closed.
He turns me to face him, pulling something out of his back pocket. “Okay, you have to trust me here,” he says. Before I can protest, he slips a silk blindfold over my face, gently tying it behind my head. The fabric is cool against my skin and blocks out every last ray of light, plunging me into darkness.
I take in deep breath, relieved when he takes my hand again.
I allow him to pull me forward, and he must be opening the door because the hinges squeal, echoing down the stairwell. “Watch your step; there’s a little lip on the threshold.”
I sort of shuffle forward, gripping his hand tighter, and then the cool night air kisses my cheeks and exposed arms and I know we’re outside. Wait, outside? Shouldn’t we be inside when we exit the stairs?
“Okay, stop right there.” He drops my hand, then grips my upper arms and turns me.
He steps forward, so close I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, and his arms brush over my shoulders as he reaches behind me to remove the blindfold.
It slides off my eyes with a whisper of silk.
And my jaw drops.
We’re on a rooftop overlooking the Thea Foss waterway, where sailboats glide from their docks out into the Puget Sound. Christmas lights are strung from the edges of the roof to an antenna pole attached above the stairwell, creating a sort of circus-tent roof effect.
And in the center of it all sits a table for two, draped in a white tablecloth and topped with a flickering candle
“Now I know you question my elaborate dates, but I hope this one still counts as real. Because I didn’t hire anyone or spend a ton of money.” He grins. “Well, I did spend fifty dollars on a waffle iron.”
Malik doesn’t take his eyes off my face as I take in his words. Take in the beauty of the rooftop. The romance of it.
It’s like something from a movie.
“Happy National Waffle Day,” he says, waving his arms with a flourish.
I laugh. “National Waffle Day?”
He grins, leaning forward to kiss me. “You like holidays. And there aren’t that many to choose from in August.”
He leads me past the table in the center of the Christmas-light-tent, to a much more utilitarian table I hadn’t noticed until now.
Filling the surface is a waffle iron, waffle mix, eggs, milk, a carafe of orange juice, and a clearly handmade cake, with swirls of buttercream frosting and crooked lettering.
Lettering which proudly states, HAPPY NATIONAL WAFFLE DAY.
I’m so stunned and speechless that I can’t seem to get any words to form. I can’t believe he went to these lengths for me. Can’t believe he finally stopped opening up his wallet and got creative instead.
Because of my lie.
Guilt burns in my stomach, but I muster what I hope is a grateful, dazzling smile. “You are amazing,” I say. “Really, truly amazing.”
“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, reaching for the mix.
“Starving.”
The cool breeze coming off the water picks up, and I shiver.
“There’s a blanket on those chairs,” he says, jutting a thumb over his shoulder as he sets about mixing the batter.
“You really thought of everything,” I say. “How did you even find this place?”
“My mother’s company owns it. They’re going to turn this whole place into luxury lofts.”
“Ah,” I say, wrapping a warm red blanket around my shoulders. “So her company does buildings up here, too? Not just California?”
He nods. “Yeah. It started out as just a small offshoot of my grandpa’s company, but she’s grown it. She has projects up and down the West Coast. She’s done pretty well with buildings like this.”
He sounds proud of her. In the same way I’m proud of my mom for getting her job at Sunrise House. I don’t know whether this means we’re completely different or entirely the same.
He pours batter into the waffle iron and turns back to me. As he peers into my eyes, I want to blurt it all out. I want to tell him I’m Holly, not Lucy; that I don’t live at Alex’s house; and that it’s not my car parked down there at the curb.
“Here’s to celebrating many more holidays together.”
As he steps closer, taking my chin in his hand and tilting my head back, I close my eyes and kiss him back with everything I have.
Unbearable sadness wells in my throat, and when he pulls away, he begins to smile, but then his face freezes.
“What?”
I swallow, willing my vision to stop glittering with tears. “I have to tell you something.”
“Okay . . . ,” he says, his voice trailing off. He takes a tiny step back, and I don’t know if it’s involuntary on his part or what, but that tiny move sends my nerves into panic mode.
The silence settles in until I can’t handle it anymore. I blurt it out. “My name’s not Lucy.”
He freezes, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line, as if the words don’t seem to make sense.
“But—” he says, and then stops, as if he doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s Holiday,” I say, forcing the words to spill. “And yeah, I like holidays, but in a normal way.” I rake in a breath, trying to calm my hammering heart, but it does nothing. “They all call me Holiday because it’s my name. I’m Holiday Mathews, and I live at Sunrise House.”
“What?” He furrows his brow, and that gleam of mistrust sparks in his eyes. “How is that possible? It’s a retirement home.”
I blink as the tears brim, one trailing down my cheek. I hate the look on his face. I hate that he takes a step back as my betrayal registers. “My mom’s the leasing manager. The one who convinced your mom that your grandpa should move in. Until she got the job, we lived in a series of crappy apartment complexes.”
“No. That can’t be. Henrietta—”
I shake my head, my lip trembling. “Is not my grandmother. We’re not even related. She’s called me Lucy since the day I met her. I remind her of her granddaughter.”
He takes another step back, bigger this time, as if I’ve slapped him. His face grows ashen. He begins to shake his head, slowly at first, but then with increased speed over and over and over. Like he wants to deny my confession. Like he refuses to believe it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper through my tears. “I wanted to tell you, but I thought you’d stop talking to me.”
“Because you thought I was that shallow?” he asks bitingly. “That I only gave you the time of day because I thought you were rich enough? Do you really think that little of me?”
“No,” I say. “No. It wasn’t like that.”
In this moment, I know. I waited too long. I lied too much.
I’ve lost him.
I bite my lip, hard, to stop it from trembling. “I didn’t even know who you were when all this started. When Henrietta walked in and called me Lucy.”
“You’ve had a lot of time to get to know me,” he snaps back. “The time to tell me.”
“I know.”
He blinks, and I can see him turning over everything in his mind, every day we spent together, every element of my identi
ty. “So that house we went to? The Craftsman?”
“Was Alex’s.”
“So that was her mom. And her bedroom.”
I nod.
“Was anything real?”
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “I never lied about what I think about you. About how I feel about you.”
“Just about who you are!” he says, throwing his hands up in the air. “I told you everything. Things I’ve never told anyone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again, my heart breaking. Because everything he’s saying is true. With each secret he shared, I lied. Again and again and again. “I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was afraid you’d—”
“What? Judge you? Did you really think I’m the kind of guy who can only be with someone of my—” He stops.
“Class? Wealth? No. Not anymore. But I do think you’d only be with someone you can trust. By the time I figured that out, it was too late. I knew I’d betrayed you.”
The breeze kicks up again, and the circus-dome lights flutter in the breeze, bouncing in a way that would feel magical if it weren’t so tragic.
“Please,” I say, my desperation evident in the words, “you have to understand I never meant to hurt you. I’ve just been so afraid to tell you because I love you. I’ve never loved a guy before and it scares me. And I know other people—”
“People always lie,” he says, his voice cracking with emotion. “Always. I should’ve known you wouldn’t be the exception.”
And then he spins on his heel and leaves me there on the rooftop, where I stop fighting and just let my tears fall, one after another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I slip into our darkened apartment, creeping quietly through the door. I turn back to hit the deadbolt, twisting it slowly, so as not to make a big clank.
“Coming in late, aren’t you?”
I leap into the air, whirling around as my heart thunders to life. “Geez, Mom! You scared the heck out of me!”
She’s sitting in the big leather recliner, cross-legged, an iPad on her lap. I blink. She looks comfortable with the luxury. It’s the way she should always look—in purple pajamas she bought only a month ago, a glass of wine beside her, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and the lamp set on low.
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