Page 101 of The Tryst

The honesty too.

It’s enough to make everything clear.

Once we reach my mom’s home on the beach, I’m feeling less guilty and more resolved. We make cocktails and mocktails, then gather by the pool, lounging on the outdoor couch as the sun sets. Harlow and I paint our toenails in between drinks. Ethan hunches over a notebook, scratching out lyrics—I think—to a new tune.

A bird squawks as it circles the house next door, perhaps hunting for bread from dinner. The waves crash in their steady rhythm. This place is so familiar, and the peace I feel here with my friends clears my head the rest of the way.

It’s time. “I told Nick about this,” I say, touching my tattoo.

Ethan stops writing.

Harlow stops painting.

“You did?” she asks.

“And I wrote him a note earlier. I haven’t sent it. But I need to,” I say, resolute as I pick up my phone. I have to be resolute. There is no other option.

Ethan and Harlow scurry next to me on the couch, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

Layla: I care about your son too much to keep sneaking around. We need to talk when the fundraiser is over.

Ethan lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You don’t fuck around.”

Harlow leans in closer. “I’m proud of you. When are you going to send it?”

“Now? Can I send it now?” I might sound overeager, but I’m just ready. I can’t keep doing this.

Ethan and Harlow meet each other’s gazes, then nod. “Shoot your shot,” Harlow instructs.

I hit send, then I make a show of turning the phone to do not disturb. “Now, my pets. Tell me all about your weeks. Your day. Anything. Spare no detail,” I say. I’ve taken up enough of the spotlight.

We chat and catch up on work and life as Harlow tells me about a new exhibit she’s curating, then about the success Bridger is having with his TV production company. “He’s getting ready to launch Ellie Snow’s new show,” Harlow says, clearly proud of her guy. “The love letter theme is so…chef’s kiss.”

“Of course. Because you and your man inspired it,” I say, with a knowing grin.

She just shrugs happily. “Maybe a little.”

“I can’t wait to see it,” Ethan says.

Then I pat his thigh. “Your turn. Tell me stories.”

Ethan shares the latest on Outrageous Record, finishing with how he’s trying but failing to write a new song.

“What kind of song are you hearing in your head?” Harlow asks.

“Something you can make out to,” he says, decisive.

“Duh,” Harlow teases.

“Those are the best kinds of songs,” I say, forcing my mind to stay right here with them rather than on the man I want to make out with.

“I want something sultry. The kind of song that hits you right in the heart, and in the panties,” he says with a salacious grin. “But I could use a little inspiration.”

“Like a burst of creativity?” I ask.

“I was thinking more like a hot hookup,” he deadpans. “I mean, I do find blow jobs super inspiring.”

Harlow slugs his shoulder. “You are obsessed with blow jobs.”

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