I turn the ignition.
The car coughs a couple of times, then the engine splutters to life. “Good girl,” I say, easing back out of the drive. She’s been making a weird grinding noise since Albuquerque, but I knew she wouldn’t let me down.
My dad built this Mustang with his own hands, piece by piece in our garage back home. He worked on it for years, scouting vintage car shows and the classified ads to get hold of parts. He promised he would teach me to drive in this car, but he never got the chance. He and my mom were killed in an accident the summer I turned thirteen. It was my older brother Blake who taught me, driving in circles around a deserted parking lot until I figured out how to use the clutch just right.
The day I got my license, I knew dad was there with me somehow, cheering me on through every three-point turn.
Now, the car is my prized possession, old reliable. I call her Dolly, for another lady who’s only gotten better with age. Sure, the leather seats are splitting, and the radio only plays AM stations, but I wouldn’t trade her up for the world. My brothers like to drive newer, sporty cars, sleek flash models that turn heads on the sidewalk—and not just because the exhaust backfires. They understand why I keep her, but still, that doesn’t stop them teasing me about my mileage every chance they get.
But on evenings like this, it’s all worthwhile. I keep the windows down, and cruise the coastal road, relishing the feel of the wind in my tangled brunette hair, and the picture perfect summer evening all around.
I’ve visited Dex here in Beachwood Bay before, but it’s always been a flying stop on my way to someplace else. Now I look around curiously as I head back into town. There are quaint old-fashioned cottages lined up by the shore, and a few newer condo buildings near the harbor, where sailboats are docked, bobbing on the gentle tide. Main Street is marked with a church at the far end, with local essentials like a hardware store and a diner sitting side-by-side with more touristy stores, already with their shutters pulled down for the end of the season. People are out: families strolling slowly, running errands, and there’s a group of old men settled on the bench outside the diner trading war stories and cackles of laughter.
It feels safe. Sleepy and forgotten. I’m beginning to understand why Dex chose to come here, out of anywhere in the world.
I park outside the small general store, just as the guy inside reaches to flip the sign to “closed." He pauses, seeing me. “Make it quick,” he holds the door open for me.
“Thanks!”
I’m tired out after my long drive, but I don’t want to keep him waiting. I speed down the aisles, grabbing what I can. There’s not much choice, so I just get the essentials: cereal, milk, pasta, jarred sauce. I’ve been so used to living off takeout and hotel room service that I’ve never really had to fend for myself before; now, I deliberate over laundry detergent before grabbing a random bottle, and I wonder if Dex keeps dish soap at the house. He must.
I heave my basket onto the counter with a pant.
“You made it.” The older clerk begins to ring up my things. “Just arriving in town?”
“How can you tell?” I pull a crumpled handful of bills from my pocket.
“It’s a small town,” he explains with a smile. “Not many tourists come through after Labor Day. Are you staying long?”
“Maybe…”The truth is, I don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead. Dex is on tour for another couple of months, but I’m not sure if I’ll want to stay that long. Maybe my brothers are right, and being out here alone will make it worse.
Or maybe I’ll want to stay forever.
I hoist up my grocery bag, ready to head back to the beach house and get settled in. Then my fatigue hits me like an anvil. I’m all out of gas. “Can you recommend a place to grab some food around here?” I ask as the store clerk walks me out.
“Hmm,” he pauses. “Everything’s already shut, so your options are the diner or Jimmy’s. Either way, you can’t go wrong.”
“Thanks.”
I pause on the sidewalk, weighing my options. The diner looks empty now, but down near the harbor, Jimmy’s bar is lit up with the sound of music drifting out. The parking lot is full, and I know that inside, it’ll be packed and friendly. Just the kind of place to grab a beer and a burger and relax on a Friday night.
I turn away from the music and head for Mrs. Olsen’s instead. But as I’m heading across the street, I see a car speed down the street, moving too fast. A Chevy Camaro, blue chrome paint job. My dad would have flipped to see a model like that in such great condition.
I catch a glimpse of the guy behind the wheel. Dark hair, Ray-Ban shades. It’s only a flash before the car speeds past, but I feel a spark of recognition.
The guy from Vegas.
No. I shake off the thought, embarrassed. This is what happens when you go three days eating nothing but Big Macs, I scold myself. You go dreaming things up out of thin air.
Sexy, hot things.
I turn away and push open the door to the diner. The smell of sweet apple pie hits me, innocent and comforting and just like that, the chills on my arms melt away. Vegas boy is a thousand miles away—where he belongs. A momentary fling. My last brief mistake.
I made a promise to myself, and there’s no way I’m ever taking it back.
No more bad boys. I’m done.
3.
The first thing I learned about rehab is that nobody calls it rehab.
The brochure for Pinecrest called it a “wellness center.” It looked like a luxury spa retreat, all crystal blue pools and massage treatments, with smiling, emotionally stable people strolling under the trees. They promised a “holistic" approach to health, sessions with exclusive practitioners, and gourmet meals from top chefs all served in the rolling tranquility of the Sonoma hills. My brothers wanted the best for me, and they found it: top dollar, totally discreet. Three months in-patient treatment. There would be no bars on the windows, but it was clear: there would be no escape.