And Gen was a rush. Fearless and undaunted. Unapologetically herself, and to hell what anyone had to say about it. She made me crazy; more than once I broke my hand wrestling some asshole cornering her in a bar. Yeah, maybe I was possessive, but no more than she was. She’d drag a chick out by her hair for looking at me the wrong way. Most of it had something to do with the off-and-on part—getting jealous, fighting, and turning around to make the other one jealous. It was a little messed up, but it was our language. I was hers and she was mine. We were addicted to make-up sex.
The quiet moments were just as addictive. Lying on a beach blanket at our favorite spot in the Bay, her head in the crook of my neck, my arm slung around her as we looked up at the stars. Whispering our darkest secrets to each other and knowing there’d never be any judgment on the other end. Hell, aside from Cooper, she’s the only one to ever see me cry.
“There was a lot of breaking up and making up,” I admit. “But that was our thing. And then last year, she was suddenly gone. One day she just picked up and left town. Didn’t say a word to anyone.”
My heart squeezes painfully at the memory. I thought it was a joke at first. That Gen had taken off with her girlfriends and wanted me to freak out and drive to Florida or something to track her down, then fight a little and bang it out. Until the girls promised me they hadn’t heard a peep from her.
“I found out later she’d settled down in Charleston and started a new life. Just like that.” I swallow the bitterness that clogs my throat.
Mac contemplates me for a moment. We’ve grown fairly close since she started living here, so I know when she’s trying to formulate a nice way to tell me I’m a disaster. Not like it’s anything I don’t know.
“Go ahead, princess. Say what’s on your mind.”
She puts her fork down and pushes her plate away. “Sounds like a toxic situation for both of you. Maybe Gen was right to end it for good. It might be better you two stay away from each other.”
At that, Cooper slides me a glare because there is almost nothing he loves more than an I-told-you-so.
“I said the same thing to Cooper about you,” I remind her. “And now look at you guys.”
“For fuck’s sake.” Cooper throws his utensils on his plate, and his chair squeaks against the wooden floor. “You can’t compare the two. Not even close. Genevieve is a mess. The best thing she ever did for you was stop taking your calls. Let it go, dude. She’s not here for you.”
“Yeah, you must be loving this,” I say, wiping my mouth with my napkin before tossing it on the table. “Because this is payback, right?”
He sighs, rubbing his eyes like I’m some dog refusing to be house-trained. Condescending prick. “I’m trying to look out for you because you’re too dick-blinded to see where this will end. Where you two always end up.”
“You know,” I say, getting up from the table. “Maybe you should stop projecting all your hang-ups onto me. Genevieve isn’t Shelley. Stop trying to punish me because you’re mad your mommy left you.”
I regret the words even as they leave my mouth, but I don’t turn back as Daisy follows me to the kitchen door and we head for the beach. Truth is, no one knows better than me all the messed-up shit Gen and I have been through. How inescapable we are. But that’s just it. Now that she’s back, I can’t ignore her.
This thing between us, this pull—it won’t let me.
CHAPTER 4
GENEVIEVE
I regret this already. My first day in the office at Dad’s stone business is worse than I imagined. For weeks, maybe months, the guys walked in here to leave invoices in a haphazard pile on the desk in front of an empty chair. Mail was tossed in a tray without so much as looking at who it was from. There’s still a mug of sludge that used to be coffee sitting on top of the filing cabinet. Opened sugar packets the ants have long since scavenged are sitting in the trash can.
And Shane isn’t helping. While I sit at the computer trying to discern Mom’s file-naming system to track down some kind of record of paid and outstanding accounts, my second-oldest brother is down a TikTok hole on his phone.
“Hey, fuckhead,” I say, snapping my fingers. “There are like six invoices here with your name on them. Are these paid or still pending?”
He doesn’t bother raising his head from his screen. “How should I know?”
“Because they’re your jobsites.”
“That’s not my department.”
Shane doesn’t see me shake my hands in the air as I’m imagining throttling him. Asshole.
“There are three emails here from Jerry about a patio for his restaurant. You need to get on the phone with him and set up an appointment to do a walk-through and give him an estimate.”
“I’ve got shit to do,” he says, barely muttering the words as his attention stays focused on the tiny glowing box in his hands. It’s like he’s five years old.
I launch a paper clip at him with a rubber band. Nails him right in the middle of his forehead.
“Shit, Gen. What the hell?”
That got his attention.
“This.” I push the invoices across the desk and write down Jerry’s phone number. “Since you’ve already got your phone out, make the call.”
Utterly disgusted with my tone, he sneers at me. “You realize you’re basically Dad’s secretary.”
Shane is sincerely testing my love for him and desire to let him live. I have four other brothers. Not like I’ll really miss one.
“You don’t get to boss me around,” he gripes.
“Dad made me office manager until he finds someone else.” I get up from the desk to put the papers in his hand and shove him out of the office. “So as far as you’re concerned, I am your god now. Get used to it.” Then I slam the door on him.
I knew this would happen. Growing up in a house with six kids, all of us were always jockeying for position. We all have an autonomy complex, everyone trying to exert their independence while getting shit on from the upper rungs of the age ladder. It’s worse now that I’m the twenty-two-year-old middle kid telling the big brothers what’s what. Still, Dad was right—this place is a wreck. If I don’t get it all sorted in a hurry, he’ll be broke in no time.
Later, after work, I meet up with my brother Billy for a drink at Ronda’s, a local dive for the retired swingers crowd that spends their days driving up and down Avalon Bay in golf carts and trading keys in a fishbowl over a game of poker. The rising May temperatures in the Bay means the return of wall-to-wall tourists and rich pricks clogging the boardwalk, so the rest of us have to find more creative places to hang out.
As Billy smiles at the leathery-faced bartender for a beer—nobody in this town cards the locals—I order a coffee. It’s unseasonably sweltering outside, even at sunset, and my clothes are sticking to my skin like papier-mâché, but I can always drink a cup of hot, unleaded caffeine. It’s how you know you’re from the South.
“Saw you and Jay bringing in some boxes last night,” Billy says. “That the last of it?”
“Yeah, I’m leaving most of my stuff in storage back in Charleston. Doesn’t make much sense to haul my furniture down here just to move it all back up in a few months.”