Page 206

I’m the one he has to make room for—adapt to.

I hate that I can picture it so easily. The two of them in the town car. His hand on her back. Four years of history that never had to be explained or justified or negotiated over a legal document.

And that thought—more than the sight of them, more than the image of her stepping into his damn town car like that was always where she'd end up—hits hardest.

Why me then?

Why not Sienna in the first place?

She would have dropped everything if Everett had asked. Some damn part of him had to know that.

So why bother with me? Why move me into his bedroom? Why ask me for longer? Why the studio and the apartment and the house if he knew this was always how it ended?

My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I look down at a stop sign and see Gabriel's name and then open the message with shaking fingers.

I sent you an invitation for the next showing. I saw your recent social media posts, and I still believe there is room for one more artist. The series you're working on is unusual and creating emotion in people already. Think about it. But even if you don't show, come for the opening as my guest. I would love to have you there.

I stare at the screen.

Cannes and the gallery.

A different country. A different coast. A life where Everett is not in every room. Or at least one where I'm farther from the wreckage.

I lock the phone and park outside Serendipity's with my chest aching and my hands still shaking and absolutely no idea what to do with any of it.

Cammy and Penelope are already sitting at a table inside.

Cammy: oversized sunglasses, iced coffee, posture radiating the kind of supportive aggression that would make lesser women nervous. Penelope: herbal tea, no sunglasses, the look on her face that means she already knows more than you've told her and is waiting for you to catch up.

The second Cammy sees me, she pushes the sunglasses up on her head and says, "Oh, honey."

And that is somehow worse than if she'd made a joke.

I slide into the chair across from them and set my purse down carefully because if I move too fast I might actually fall apart in public.

"You look awful," Cammy says.

"Thank you."

"You know I mean that lovingly."

"I'm sure the love helps."

Penelope reaches across the table and squeezes my hand once. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. That's the thing about Penelope—she can say more with a hand squeeze than most people manage with a speech.

Cammy signals the barista. "Tea. Food. Possibly a priest."

I almost smile.

Almost.

The tea comes. A sandwich comes too—turkey and brie, apple slices on the side, which means Cammy ordered it because Penelope would've gotten me soup. I stare at both of them like they arrived from another planet.

Cammy waits until the server disappears before leaning in.

"Talk."

I look down at my hands.