“You’re a doctor, Jacob is a vet, Mason’s in the FBI, and Rory is a nurse, right?” Chloe asks, untying the laces of her boots.
“Right.”
“How are your parents?”
“Good. Mom still does alterations here and there, mostly for wedding dresses, and my dad is still working, saying he’s going to retire every year but can’t take the plunge. But they’re good. How’s your dad?”
“Same. Working but happy. He has a girlfriend.”
“Is that, uh, good?” Chloe would want her father to be happy, but it could be hard seeing him with someone after her mom died, though it’s been many years.
“Yeah. I really like Wendy. She lost her husband, so they connected over being widows, which sounds so morbid, but I guess it’s nice to have someone who understands, ya know? They’re both really happy.”
“I do, and it makes sense. It’s good he’s happy.” Another few seconds of silence pass between us and the wind starts to die down. It’s disappointing, knowing the intense storm will be over as quickly as it came. Chloe will have no reason to stand here talking to me. “What about you? How are you doing?” Of course I know what she’s doing, but I don’t know how she’s doing, and I mean it, I really do. I can’t imagine the turn her life took, and I hate that I wasn’t there to experience it with her.
“I’m…good,” she says, hesitating slightly.
“That doesn’t sound too convincing.” She’s never been a good liar, mostly because she doesn’t like to lie.
“I’ve been really busy, that’s all.”
“Is that why you came back here?” I ask, hoping I sound casual. She hasn’t come back to Silver Ridge in years, according to my sister, that is. “To take a break from everything?”
“Pretty much. My publicist is pushing for me to finish my next book a whole month sooner than planned so she can line up some promo for the book and the show. I’m officially behind now that I have a new timeline, so I thought it would be inspiring to come back to the place that started it all.”
“You based your Nightfall series off of Silver Ridge?” What else—or who else—made it into the book? I was never able to bring myself to read them, though Rory and at least half the people I know love the series.
“I did,” she answers with a smile. “You haven’t read them then, I’m guessing?”
“I’ve, uh, intended to but haven’t found the time.”
She laughs. “They’re not really your cup of tea, and I’m fine with that. Not everyone likes paranormal romance, though the books have a ton of action in them—sorry. If you get me started talking about Kellie and Marcus, I won’t shut up.”
“You’re passionate, and that’s not a bad thing.”
“It’s the one time my obsessive personality comes in handy.” She casts her eyes down, and I hear echoes of the taunting in my mind…of Chloe being teased for being “weird” though I never saw a damn thing weird or wrong about her. Shame creeps over me like an itchy wool sweater, choking me and making me desperately want to claw my own skin off.
We were young.
I was lost.
And Chloe always knew exactly who she was.
Taking a seat on a bench of a picnic table, I’m just a few feet from Chloe right now. She picks a stick from the little pile of firewood and pokes at the flames, trying to get the second log to ignite. It takes a few minutes—and a lot of smoke wafting in both our faces—but she gets it.
“That feels better,” she says quietly, twisting and pulling the hem of her top away from her body, doing her best to get it to dry. She inhales deeply, and I can’t help but watch her breasts rise and fall as she breathes. Chloe has always been beautiful with her dark red hair and striking green eyes. She’s thin but fit, and I remember a video Rory shared on social media—that I watched against my better judgment—of Chloe and Charles demonstrating their workout routine, which they did together.
I watch her for a moment, and all the words I should have said way back then bubble up in my throat, wanting to spill out at a dizzying rate. I swallow them down, eyes wandering over Chloe’s body.
“The storm’s dying down,” she notes, voice soft, after a few more minutes pass. She gives the fire a final poke and gets up, reaching for her backpack.
“It’s still raining.”
“My clothes didn’t dry at all.” She motions to her body and, dammit, I’m staring at her breasts again. “It doesn’t really matter. And I like walking in the rain, though it is a little cold and I have a long walk back to the lake house.”
“I’m parked in that lot.” I point to the parking lot right behind the shelter. It’ll take only a minute or two for us to walk to the car. “I can drive you to your dad’s house.”