Page 3 of American Beauty

I laugh as I climb in. “Let’s go, you fucking spectacle.”

Violet pulls out of the airport parking lot, weaving through traffic with the confidence of someone who thinks speed limits are merely suggestions.

“So, tell me. How did things go with the others?

I glance out the window, watching Charleston blur past in a familiar haze of warm streetlights and Spanish moss. “Well, you’re not gonna believe this one—Sophie and Elijah are a thing.”

She gives me that what-kind-of-fresh-hell-is-this stare. “Could you repeat that with less clown and more logic?”

I brace for impact because Violet lives for drama.

“Elijah and Sophie––together.”

Her jaw drops. “Like…togethertogether?”

I nod. “Yup.”

She gasps so hard I’m mildly concerned she might pass out. “And you casually drop this bombshell now? Like it’s some fun fact and not a damn breaking news alert?”

“Forgive me but Elijah and Sophie’s relationship hasn’t been at the top of my concern list.”

“Last I heard, Elijah was still sniffing around you.”

“Stop it… that puts a disgusting image in my mind. But the answer is yes, he still does when Sophie isn’t looking.”

“So, let me get this straight. He’s hooking up with Sophie but still trying to get with you?”

“Yup.”

She lets out a low, disgusted noise. “God. Elijah gives me the ick.”

“So much ick.” A shiver rolls through me as I think about him.

She beats the steering wheel with her palm, accidentally honking the horn. “Men are so fucking exhausting. Except Mr. Bazillionaire, of course.”

Alex is exhausting as well but in the best possible way.

“Speaking of Mr. Bazillionaire… when do I get the soul-baring, blush-worthy details, hmm?”

I release a slow breath, shifting in my seat. “Yeah… it’s a long story.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a big fan of long stories. And caffeine. Which is why” —she flips on the blinker and whips the car into a sharp right, sending me crashing against the door— “we’re taking a little detour.”

“Where are we going?”

She grins. “To your favorite bakery. We’re getting coffee and macarons… and you’re telling me everything about Sydney and Mr. Bazillionaire.”

I’m bone tired, struggling to hold myself together. But I need this. The talking. The catching up. The feeling of being understood.

The moment we step into the bakery, the warm scent of vanilla and espresso wraps around me like a hug. It’s the kind of place that belongs in a Hallmark movie—pastel walls, twinkling fairy lights, display cases filled with delicate French pastries that look almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

Violet beelines for the counter, ordering our favorite cappuccinos and an assortment of macarons like she’s feeding an army. “We’re celebrating your return. And” —she shoots me a pointed look— “distracting you from your heartache.”

I force a smile, but my chest tightens.

We settle into a quiet corner with our steaming cups, a tower of pastel macarons stacked between us. I should feel better. This is my happy place. I’m with my best friend. I have sugar and caffeine. But instead, my throat tightens, and my vision blurs.

Of course, Violet notices. “Oh, Mags.”

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