Page 24 of Without a Trace
The music played low from Lena’s phone—some indie-folk song about youth slipping through your fingers—and I let myself pretend, just for a minute, that things were okay. That tonight was just a dinner. That Trace wasn’t watching me like I might shatter. That Alden wasn’t carrying pieces of me I don’t remember giving him.
“Wear the black one,” Sloane said, not even looking at me. “The sheer sleeves make you look like you don’t give a fuck. In a good way.”
I rolled my eyes but stood. The black one it was.
When I came out of the bathroom, the girls looked up.
“Okay, damn,” Lena said, grinning. “We love a revenge dress moment.”
I let out a little chuckle, barely, then we headed down, because what else was I going to do. Candlelight flickered in the windows like the house was holding its breath.
Lena and Sloane had gone all out—strung lights draped across the porch, wildflowers scattered down the middle of the long table, candles tucked in between mismatched plates like some Pinterest board dream. They’d whispered about it for weeks and kept brushing it off when I asked. I should’ve known.
And the boys… they showed up in the way that mattered. Rhett poured the drinks, Kane tested the cake “for poison,” and Trace stood quiet at the end of the table like he might catch fire if he looked directly at me. Alden, a few seats closer, one arm stretched along the back of his chair, casual in the way that always felt practiced. But his eyes—god, his hazel eyes—kept sliding back to me.
It was beautiful.
Painfully so.
I kept my smile on as we walked down, Lena on one side, Sloane on the other, flanking me like bodyguards. Like sisters. Like pieces of a girl, I used to be.
The boys clapped as I came down, Kane whistling dramatically as I took the wine glass Rhett offered me and drank before I could second-guess it.
Dinner was perfect. Laughter rolled easy, drinks kept coming, sweet and cold, and too strong.
And beneath it all, I could feel it. The way Trace watched me from the opposite end of the table. The way Alden’s arm brushed mine when he passed the wine bottle. The way Sloane gave a little birthday toast that made me tear up without warning.
I was glowing on the outside.
And cracking underneath it.
So I drank more.
Sloane stood first, raising her glass. “Okay, I know she hates attention, but too bad.” Her voice was light, eyes glassy. “Scarlett Monroe, you’ve been my best friend since sixth grade. Who once made me fake cry to get out of gym class and still holds the record for most detentions in the group. You’ve always been loyal, wild, and ten seconds from disaster— and we wouldn’t change a damn thing about you. So happy birthday. You’re the glue. You’re the chaos. You’re the reason this group is still this group.”
She smiled. “Also, I’d die for you, but you already knew that.”
I blinked hard, trying not to cry. “Shut up.”
Everyone laughed—and then Lena stood. She didn’t raise her glass right away, just looked at me for a beat too long. “I didn’t plan anything poetic,” she said with a smile. “But I’ve watched you walk through hell and come out of it with your head high. I think that deserves something.” Then she lifted her glass. “To Scarlett, the most stubborn, stunning, reckless force of nature I know. May you never learn to play it safe.” We clinked glasses, and I smiled, even as something in Lenas voice lingered too long in my head.
Alden nudged my wine glass closer. “You’re glowing, Love,” he said low enough that only I could hear. “You always do that when you’re with your people.” I smiled, cheeks flushed.
And then—somewhere in the middle of a joke about Kane nearly burning down the kitchen, I caught Trace’s eyes acrossthe table. He held my gaze for a second too long, then winked. It was casual, but I was already burning inside.
Sloane
I’ve known Scarlett Monroe since we were eleven and she kicked an eighth grader in the shins for calling Lena fat. She did it without hesitation, without blinking, and then walked away like she hadn’t just ruined a guy’s reputation and made herself a legend all in the same breath.
That’s the kind of girl Scarlett is.
Fierce. Fragile. Beautiful in the way that makes people stare and dangerous in the way that makes them stay.
And I’ve been protecting her ever since.
The three of us grew up tangled together like ivy. Backyard bonfires, thrift store runs, prom nights we swore we’d forget but didn’t. We’re stitched into each other, the kind of bond you can’t untangle no matter how far apart life tries to pull you.
And tonight? I saw it in Scarlett’s eyes the moment we came down the stairs. Scarlett sat down across the table, glowing in the black dress I made her wear. The one with the sheer sleeves and sharp lines that made her look like she didn’t give a fuck.
