Page 74 of Beachside Kisses With My Best Friend

I want to pull her in, hold her there forever, remind her of the love we just spoke about on Saturday, yesterday, this morning when I kissed her forehead as I slid out of bed and headed for the attorney’s office.

But it’s not enough. It’s never been enough.

Because Mom is right—love requires a choice.

And Marilee is not choosing me. Again.

And I could sit here and beg and cajole and try to get her to stay, but whether it’s my pride or my battered heart or the pure exhaustion of this fight I’ve been fighting for fifteen years—trying, desperately, to make her mine, to love her like she needs me to—I just can’t.

“Okay.” I slump onto the couch, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. Then I spy something I didn’t before—her suitcase, right beside the door.

She was planning this all day. From the moment I walked in, she knew she was going to leave.

She’d already made her choice. Nothing I said was ever going to stop her.

“Are you still going to come to court tomorrow?”

Marilee grips the edge of the mantel. “Of course I am. But I think it’s best if I drive myself there.”

I exhale. “Fine.”

But I don’t feel fine. Nothing’s fine. I’m pretty sure I just lost the love of my life. Maybe my best friend too. And if I also lose my son?

Yeah. I’m the exact opposite of fine.

twenty-four

MARILEE

I am a sobby, sodden mess.

So, naturally, I find myself in the kitchen of The Blackberry Muffin on my day off, my hands flecked with pink and purple frosting as I attempt to make a unicorn cake for Scarlett’s upcoming eighth birthday.

But right now, I’m failing even at that, because it more closely resembles a scary clown blob.

Staring at the mess on the yellow granite island, I wipe my trickling nose with the back of my hand, and instantly I know I’ve smeared frosting there.

At that moment, my boss Marla swoops into the kitchen via the swinging door connected to the lobby and freezes upon seeing me. Her eyes flit between me and the cake, and her lips purse.

“Go ahead. You can laugh.” I push the cake away and slump onto one of the three black stools pushed under the edge of the island. “It’s awful.”

“It is.” Marla, while sweet, is also no nonsense. She’ll tell it to you straight, but always with a silver lining. “May I?” Her finger hovers over the cake.

“Why not?”

She dips it in and takes a lick of frosting from her finger. “At least it tastes good, honey.” Then she winks, and the woman’s rosy cheeks are almost enough to cheer me up for the moment.

But then the moment is over, and I remember that the court case is in two hours—and after that, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me and Jordan.

Marla must sense my distress because she wipes her finger off on a towel and comes around to give me a solid pat on the shoulder. “There, there, dear. It’s just a cake. And I know you’re sad about not having much time in the kitchen once you take over for me?—”

“You do?”

“Of course. I felt that way too, at first. But then I got invigorated by the prospect of growing something beyond myself, beyond my skills.” She studies me. “You don’t feel that way, though, do you?”

I blow out a breath. “I confess, I don’t. But maybe I will.” I try to infuse hope into my tone. “That’s not why I’m upset, though.”

“Hmm.” She gathers the supplies I’ve left dirty on her counter and carries them to the sink. “It’s about Mr. Carmichael and your fake marriage then?”

---