We check into the hotel a few minutes later, settling into our two-queen room. When Scarlett heads to the bathroom to change for the pool, I take a second to text West.
If anyone can salvage this, it’s Superman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WEST
“Mr. Maxwell.” Stanford, the gray-eyed bartender at the Winslow Hotel, places a linen cocktail napkin before me. “Long time no see. Will we be having the usual tonight?”
I glance around the half-filled room, giving him a tight nod. It’s been months since I’ve set foot into civilization on a Friday night.
He drops a rounded ice cube into a crystal tumbler before pouring two fingers of Macallan single malt.
“Thank you.” I take a sip and settle in, trying not to think about what’s currently taking place thousands of miles from here. While I trust Elle to have Scarlett’s best interests at heart and to keep a close watch on her, there’s no guarantee Scarlett won’t see her mother and suddenly grow a wild hair.
Granted, she’s been on her best behavior all week, and I’ve been making an effort to use positive reinforcement over verbal lashings.
But anything could happen.
I’m halfway finished with my drink when my phone buzzes in my jacket. Sliding it from the interior pocket, I’m met with a text from Elle that makes my heart stop short for a second.
ELLE: You weren’t wrong about Lexi.
A longer text follows.
ELLE: She wasn’t home when we got there, but we ran into her on the way to the hotel. She ditched Scarlett for her boyfriend, but told her she’d meet up with her in the morning for breakfast. Our girl is crushed.
Our girl.
ELLE: She’s wanting to catch up with her friends, but she doesn’t have anyone’s numbers since they’re in her old phone . . . any chance you might still have that somewhere?
I drag a hard breath into my tight chest, rapping my fingers against the wood bar top. I have her old phone in a drawer in my home office somewhere. The battery is surely dead by now.
ELLE: I told her we could get pizza and watch a movie at the hotel, but I know she’s absolutely crushed. She was so looking forward to this . . .
Elle’s right.
When I sprang the surprise trip on Scarlett this morning, I’d never seen her blue eyes so lit. Every part of her came to life, and she hugged me.
She’s never hugged me.
While I’m not thrilled with the idea of Scarlett meeting up with her ragtag group of Whitebridge friends, this was part of the deal. And as long as Elle is there to supervise, I’ll allow it. Besides, she deserves a distraction from the pain of being ditched by her own mother.
ME: I’ll be home in an hour. I’ll see what I can dig up.
ELLE: Thank you so much, West. I knew you’d come through.
I finish my drink and return home to an empty, quiet apartment to follow through with my promise. There isn’t a fiber of my soul that longs to be in Whitebridge, Nebraska—but the smallest part of me can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ELLE
The hotel room is filled with the scent of delivery pizza and the sound of giggling teenage girls. Earlier tonight, West came through for Scarlett, sending me a handful of phone numbers he found in her old phone. She managed to get ahold of two friends—Katie and Mackenzie—and we invited them over for a girls’ night.
Settled in with a book on the balcony, I’m doing my best to give them space while also leaving the sliding door cracked enough to hear what’s going on.
So far they’ve discussed a pregnant classmate, a beloved gym teacher who passed in a car accident last month, and Katie’s psychotic stepmom (among other things). While Katie wears far too much makeup for a girl her age and Mackenzie’s wardrobe choices leave little to the imagination, they don’t seem nearly as awful as West made them out to be.
“Hey, I just got a text from Clay Briggs,” one of the girls says.
I glance up from my book, ears perked.
“He says we should come over after ten. His mom goes to work then, and he’ll have the whole house to himself,” she adds. “And his older brother said he’d get some . . . stuff.”
Ugh.
“Oh my God. Let’s do it. My parents think I’m staying at your place tonight. Just tell them you’re staying at mine,” the other girl says. “Scarlett, you’re so coming with us!”
I brace myself for Scarlett’s answer.
“Yes, you have to!” the first girl says.
I steal a glimpse from the corner of my eye, watching the girls bounce on the bed in premature excitement as they close in on Scarlett. One of the worst things you can do to a teenager is make them feel like they’ll miss out on something epic, and it’s been months since she’s been truly included by anyone her age.