Page 44 of Begin Again

“You think he’s trustworthy?” Bennett finally asks.

I shrug, still feeling the weight of the agent’s gaze on me. Still hearing his voice in the back of my mind, the way he looked into my soul and stared at my lips. “Trustworthy or not, he’s not going away anytime soon.”

13

Selene

Celeste and I are sprawled out on the living room floor, listening to some playlist she made filled with a ton of music we grew up listening to, sprinkled with some new music that’s so catchy it stays with us for weeks. Nail polish bottles are scattered between us like landmines waiting for Valkyrie to storm through like an overgrown toddler. She’s meticulously painting her Barbie pink nails, the shade so aggressively cheerful it almost offends me, while I attempt what was supposed to resemble a French tip but looks more like an abstract crime scene.

“You’re too tense,” Celeste says, blowing lightly on her nails. “Loosen up, Sel. It’s nail art, not brain surgery.”

I huff, glaring at my latest botched attempt. “Easy for you to say, Miss Perfect Nails. You could paint your nails on a roller coaster, and they’d come out flawless.”

She grins, tossing her long, golden hair over her shoulder with an effortless flick. It’s like she lives in a perpetual shampoo commercial, always backlit by some invisible, ethereal glow. If I didn’t love her, I’d probably hate her. Actually, that’s a lie. Celeste is one of the most kindhearted people I have ever known.

“What can I say? Perfection takes practice.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s a warmth between us that I haven’t felt in a while. Celeste has been a whirlwind of energy ever since she got here—half little sister, half mastermind, entirely exhausting. But I’ve missed her. Even if she does have the attention span of a caffeinated butterfly.

“So,” she says, glancing at me slyly, her tone dripping with mischief. “When are we going to talk abouthim?”

I freeze mid-swipe. It’s an instant kill shot. No lead-up, no warning. Just a direct hit

“Hmm?” I try, feigning confusion, pretending to get lost in the music and clumsily belt out a solo.

Ignoring my attempted distraction, her smile sharpens as her eyes gleam with victory. “I knew it! There is a him! The guy you’ve been daydreaming about every time you think I’m not looking. You get this dopey smile on your face.”

Before I can even contradict her, Valkyrie chooses violence, barreling through the nail polish battlefield like a wrecking ball. Bottles rattle, a few tip over, and Celeste shrieks, lunging to save her precious pink polish.

“VALKYRIE, NO!”

The dog stops mid-stride, tilting her head at Celeste like she’s offended by the volume. Then, as if to remind us of her true calling as an agent of chaos, she locks onto a metallic gold nail polish bottle, lunging for it like it’s a prize.

“Absolutely not,” I say, snatching it away just in time. Valkyrie huffs, plopping onto the floor in protest—right in the middle of everything.

Celeste glares at her. “Swear to God, you were a criminal in a past life.”

I stifle a laugh. “Technically, she was trained to sniff out crime.”

“Yeah, and she failed. Spectacularly.” Celeste points an accusatory finger at the dog. “How do you wash out of the TSA? What did you do, let a drug smuggler bribe you with treats?”

Valkyrie blinks, tilting her head in a way that asksdo you really think I’m that dumb?

Celeste sighs dramatically, returning her attention to me. “Whatever, don’t think I didn’t notice that very convenient distraction. We’re not done here.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Oh my God, Celeste. Please drop it.”

“Oh, I will never,” she says, setting her nail polish down and scooting closer. “Spill. What’s the deal with Mr. Dreamy?”

I sigh, knowing there’s no escaping her. She’s like a golden retriever in designer heels—relentless in her enthusiasm and utterly immune to shame.

I groan, giving up any hope of escaping this conversation. “Fine. His name’s Theo. He’s… well, he’s pretty cool.”

“Pretty cool?” She presses, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “What does ‘pretty cool’ mean?”

I hesitate, picturing him. Theo isn’t just good-looking—he’s a person who makes a room feel lighter just by being in it. He’s all easy smiles and warm eyes, the human embodiment of a golden retriever. He remembers people’s coffee orders, holds doors open without thinking, and somehow always knows exactly when someone needs a laugh.

“He’s funny,” I say, finally. “Not in a trying-too-hard way, just… naturally. He’s a guy who will slip a terrible pun into a conversation just to see if you’ll groan or laugh. And he’s always looking out for everyone. Like, if you mention once that you’re craving a certain type of candy, he’ll ‘randomly’ have some the next time he sees you. He just—he cares. A lot. And he doesn’t even try to hide it.”

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