Page 7 of American Beauty

She smirks. “Of course. She grilled me about you—about us—the entire drive home. Even took me to my favorite cafe to continue the interrogation.”

“Already judging me from afar?”

“Absolutely. She has to make sure you’re staying in line.”

“Tell her I’m on my best behavior.”

Magnolia presses her lips together, the amusement still there. “She’s convinced you are because she assumes you’re well-trained by now.”

“Well-trained.” I shake my head, grinning. “Your best mate sounds exhausting.”

“Violet can be a lot.”

I watch her for a second, cataloging the exhaustion in her eyes. The slight tension in her jaw. “Are you sleeping okay?”

She exhales, rolling onto her back, the phone tilting with her. “No. The bed is too big without you in it.”

My throat tightens. “Tell me about it.”

She turns on her side, studying me. “How about you?”

A humorless chuckle escapes me.“The bed doesn’t feel right. I keep reaching for you in the middle of the night, only to find that you’re not there. And the sheets… I know I have to change them, but I don’t think I can. They still smell like you. Like vanilla and something else I can’t quite put my finger on.”

Her lips part, but she says nothing. She doesn’t have to.

“The house is too damn quiet, lovie. I miss your voice filling up the space. Miss your weird music blasting while you do your makeup. Miss hearing you hum off-key when you think I’m not paying attention.”

She exhales sharply, blinking fast, but not fast enough. I see it—the way her lashes dampen, the way she tilts her head as if she can somehow will the tears away.

My heart aches. “I miss the sound of your laughter bouncing off these walls.”

She swallows, her fingers toying with the necklace I gave her. “Alex––”

“I can’t help it, favorite. Nothing has been right since you left.”

“I know.”

A heavy quiet settles between us, thick with everything we’re not saying. The weight of distance. The ache of something unfinished.

My chest tightens, the sting of tears pushing up hard and fast. I have to change the subject—fast—or I’m going to break down right here on the phone with her.

I clear my throat and force a lighter tone. “Did Robin and Charlene check on you?”

She scoffs, glancing away. “I texted Robin to let her know I was back. She gave my message a thumbs-up but still hasn’t actually responded.”

Not surprising. It just cements what I already knew about her.

Her eyes flick back to mine, the frustration softening. “Violet, on the other hand, has texted me no less than twenty times today.”

Of course she has.

Violet is relentless, protective,there—all the things Magnolia’s family should be but isn’t. I’ve never met her, but I know enough to be grateful for her. Because when Magnolia walked into that empty apartment, when the stillness hit her harder than she’d admit, it wasn’t her mother checking in. It wasn’t her grandmother making sure she was okay.

It was Violet. Always Violet.

And as much as I wish I were the one there for her, I can’t be.

I grip my phone tighter, wishing I could reach through the screen. “Fuck, I wish I could hold you.”

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