Page 84 of American Beauty

Her apartment doorclicks shut behind us, and she tosses her keys into a small bowl on a table by the door. I take in my surroundings, every inch of the space marked by Magnolia’s touch. I’ve never been here before, but somehow, it’s familiar—like stepping into a place I’ve known all along.

It smells like her, that same soft, feminine scent that clung to my bedding long after she was gone. It messes with my head more than I want to admit.

Without a word, I pull my bag from my shoulder, unzip it, and take out the leather-bound journal, tossing it onto the coffee table. The soft thud echoes in the room louder than I expected.

“Figured you might want this back. It’s a great work of fiction. You should publish it.”

She stills as her eyes drop to the journal, something flickering in them.

What is that? Hurt?

No, can’t be.

She lifts her chin, lips curving into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Does that mean you finally got around to reading it?”

“I read it. Took everything I had in me to get through it, but I did.”

Her chin quivers as she folds her arms. “I’m sorry that giving you a piece of my heart turned out to be such a hassle for you.”

Nah, I won’t allow her to pin this on me like I’m the bad guy. “I have severe dyslexia.”

Placing my hands on my hips, I stare at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. Shame creeps in, the same old insecurities clawing their way to the surface. “I wanted to read the whole thing the day you gave it to me. But I couldn’t because I’m not able to.”

My chest tightens, and I force out the words I hate admitting. “Even at thirty-three-fucking-years-old, I still struggle to read a damn sentence.”

“Alex.” The softness in her voice almost undoes me. “I didn’t know.”

“Because I hid it from you.” I shrug, trying to make it seem insignificant, like a reading disorder isn’t something that has shaped my entire life every damn day.

She studies me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t tell anyone unless I have to.” A humorless chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head. “Doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?”

“I wasn’t just anyone.” Her voice splinters, and she clears her throat. “At least that’s what I thought.”

The journal sits between us, a tangible reminder of everything we were—everything we lost. And it kills me.

I turn away from Magnolia… because it just hurts so damn much to look at her.

My gaze drifts around the room, soaking it all in. Her apartment looks just like I imagined—elegant in every detail, with a warmth that makes it hers. Sophisticated, but stamped with her imprint in every corner.

It’s very Magnolia.

And there are the photos—dozens of them. Some in frames, others pinned to a wire grid near her desk. Magnolia with Violet, both of them laughing, arms wrapped around each other in a way that speaks of years of friendship. Magnolia with a group of women I don’t recognize, all in dance attire, mid-pose and beaming.

But the one that stops me cold is a picture of us. Me and Magnolia. Together.

It’s a shot of us in Sydney—her tucked under my arm, grinning up at me like I’d hung the damn moon. I remember that day, the way she laughed at something ridiculous I said, the way I kissed the top of her head without thinking twice.

What kind of man lets his girlfriend, or fuck buddy, keep a photo like this out in the open? What kind of guy is fine with a constant reminder of her ex?

My focus shifts, and that’s when I see it—a basket in the corner, filled with rolled-up Samoan mats, one half-finished and draped over the edge like she abandoned it mid-weave. Next to it, a shelf stacked with books about Samoa and its culture. A map of the islands hangs on the wall, surrounded by small artifacts that are too specific to be mere decoration.

I step closer, my brows pulling together. “What’s all this?”

She glares at me, silent.

“Tell me, Magnolia.”

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