“And the god’s honest truth is that the pain was heaven…”
- Taylor Swift (Would've, Could've, Should've)
9:46PM
POSY MYLES: hey, i know it’s kinda late but im in the neighborhood and i have your acoustic bass. can i drop it off at your place?
9:52PM
RHYS BAILEY: Hey! Great hearing from u! Np, that’s perfect. Having a bit of a get together at the house, feel free to swing by :)
9:54PM
POSY MYLES: kk, see you soon
— — —
June 02, 2015
Posy groaned as she pulled up to her cousin's waterfront property, gravel crunching under her tires. Cars lined either side of the winding driveway, and she could already hear loud music, shouts and laughter coming from out back. She didn’t want to go in.
She’d somehow resisted the urge to ask Rhys who exactly would be in attendance at this “bit of a get together,” but judging by the number of cars in the lane it was more than just a small gathering, which meant his old band buddies would likely be there. Which meant…
She cast the thought from her mind. She’d cross that bridge if she got to it, and not a moment sooner. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was staying long. She’d give Rhys his bass, and after a few minutes of polite small talk she’d make her excuses and head out. After all, it was still a two-hour drive back to the city.
She squeezed into a spot behind a lime green Dodge Charger and hoisted the bass in its clunky hard-shell case out of the back seat, approaching the house with apprehension. She really, really didn’t want to go in. Rhys was an engineer, but once upon a time he’d been in a few serious rock bands who were well-known on the local circuit. He was friends with everyone, and she dreaded who she might come across on the other side of that door.
Posy let herself in after she rang the doorbell twice and no one answered. Sure enough, the spacious foyer was empty. There were no shoes at the door so she kept hers on and wandered toward the living room. There were a few people chattering in small clusters with drinks in their hands, but she didn’t recognize anyone. Rhys' friends from work, maybe.
She headed instead to the kitchen, where a smorgasbord of liquor bottles, glasses and plastic solo cups, empty beer cases and plates of half-eaten barbecue littered the counters. But there was no one inside and no sign of her cousin. She glanced around with a frown and opted to try upstairs next; it was more than likely Rhys was outside with the rest of the party, but Posy wasn’t quite ready to subject herself to that. She turned toward the stairs when a voice behind her gave her pause:
“Posy Myles, in the flesh! I was starting to think you were dead or something.”
She whirled around to find Oliver Ayers grinning at her from the doorway to the living room. He looked exactly as she remembered him—stocky, with curly black hair cropped close to his scalp and a tanned complexion. It had been years since she’d seen him. He’d be in his late thirties now.
“Oli, hi!” She returned his smile, but she was sure it didn’t reach her eyes. Because if Oli was here, that likely meant… Shit, she thought, dread settling in the pit of her stomach.
“Whatcha got there?” he asked, his keen, dark brown eyes lighting up as he pointed at the case she carried. “Can I play with it?”
“No can do,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s Rhys’. I just came by to drop it off.”
He frowned. “Bummer.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Rhys?” Oli nodded and gestured to the door to the back patio. Just as she’d suspected. “He and the guys are entertaining the masses,” he explained. “You’ll have to wait for them to finish their set.”
She tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. She really hadn’t planned on sticking around, especially now that she was getting a better idea of who was actually here. She had half a mind to just come right out and ask Oli whether he was in attendance, but her sanity eventually won out and she bit her tongue.
“Here, give me that,” he offers with another smile. “I'll take you back.” He stepped forward and held out his hand for the case, steering her to the door with a light, casual hand on the small of her back.
“If that goes missing I will tell Rhys where I saw it last,” she warned him with a wry smirk as she handed over the instrument.
The music grew louder as Oliver held the door open for her, and sure enough her cousin was onstage—an actual stage set up in his backyard—with a bunch of his old rocker pals, playing the mandolin to a raucous cover of Steve Earle’s Copperhead Road. That’s what these parties were, really. An excuse for Rhys and his friends (most of whom had moved onto ‘big kid’ jobs long ago) to relive their glory days.
She recognized a couple of the people onstage with him. Anthony Biers, one of his best friends who was always a plus-one at family events when Posy was growing up, was singing and playing guitar. One of her ex-flings, Maverick Banks, was on the drums. This wasn’t an issue. They’d ended things on relatively good terms, and Mav was one of the only exes with whom she’d actually maintained a halfway decent rapport.
It had been almost a year since Posy had seen her cousin in person. But judging by the apparent budget for this party, his massive white brick Victorian-style home and his sprawling property complete with a private beach, his engineer’s salary must have been treating him well. The patio was packed with people, some she recognized and some she didn’t. The crowd spilled onto the immaculate green lawn, some gathered by the stage and others headed to or from the beach. In the distance she heard a shriek of laughter, then a splash as someone leaped off the long dock into the lake.
Oli slung his free arm loosely around her neck as they made their way toward a seating area at the back of the patio, tugging her in for a one-armed sideways hug. “It’s crazy seeing you here,” he said with a laugh. “What have you been up to? Do you still live in Darby?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I haven’t been up to much, y’know, work and college.”
“Nice. And what brings you back out to the sticks?”
“Visiting family.” What was this, twenty questions? “My sister's getting married and I’m in the bridal party. We were planning the bachelorette.”
He made a face. “That sounds awful.”
“It was kind of awful, actually.” She cracked a smile. She’d always liked Oliver, despite his questionable taste in friends and bandmates. “I’m terrible with this stuff. I’m just glad I’m not the maid of honor.”
Oli laughed as they approached the seating area, which was occupied by a group of people Posy recognized all too well. Posy's stomach sours. Their band, Indigo Heights, were still active and doing quite well for themselves last she’d heard. Her hazel eyes scanned each face—Dallas Jordan, the bass player, Aaron Benson, the drummer and Ronan Kelly, the lead guitarist, plus a few bikini-clad women she didn’t know. He wasn’t with them. Right, safe. This was safe. Posy’s shoulders sagged with relief as Oli steered her toward a low vinyl bench with an outdoor fireplace blazing behind it.
“Holy shit,” Aaron said, perking up when he saw her. “Posy’s back from the dead!” He leaped to his feet and folded her in a bear hug that squeezed the breath from her lungs, then returned to his seat between two of the women she didn't know. Both are younger than she is and obnoxiously busty.
Dallas, obviously still a man of very few words, shot her a wink and a silent nod as he refilled his drink. She offered a nervous smile in return. After everything that had happened, it was difficult to determine where she stood with these guys. Dallas especially—he’d never been one to give much away.
Aaron wrapped an arm lazily around the waist of one of the fembot-looking women, who was engrossed in her smartphone. “Man, how long has it been?” he asked, grinning crookedly at Posy. Aaron was also just as she remembered him—tall and lanky with a buzzcut and baby blue eyes.
“Almost three years,” she supplied, a little too quickly. Almost three years of hard-won, well-earned peace, she added silently. Almost three years of forward momentum which were now at serious risk. She should have dropped the bass in the house and left.
Ronan raised his drink in a mock toast, shuffling over to make space as she sat next to him. “What’s up, matchstick?” he asked, serious-faced, but she smiled at his use of the old nickname. He’d come up with it years ago, a tribute to her tiny stature and wicked temper. Ronan didn’t move to hug her, which was just as well. Neither of them were huggers. She’d always appreciated that about him.
“I just came to drop this off,” she replied, gesturing to the case Oli was still carrying as he flung himself onto the bench on her other side with a dramatic sigh. “I borrowed it from Rhys forever ago, he’s been looking for it.”
“What is it?” Ronan asked, still unsmiling, but he lifted an eyebrow with mild interest. “Can I—?”
“I already tried,” Oli sighed. “The boss lady said no dice.” He snatched a bottle of honeyed whisky out of Aaron’s hand and offered it to Posy, along with a clean glass from a nearby table. “Drink?”
She shook her head. “I’m driving."
“Back to Darby? It’s after ten! Why don’t you just ask Rhys to crash for the night?”
She shook her head again. There was no way in hell she’d ever let that happen, not when she still didn’t know for sure whether—
“Posy?”
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. She knew his voice before she saw him, and it was several long, excruciating seconds before she was able to gather the courage to lift her gaze.
He was the same but different. The same amber eyes, warm like melted honey. The same sandy hair falling in tousled waves around his face—shorter now, barely to his chin. The same angular features, easy smirk and effortless demeanor. He'd grown a short, scruffy beard, and it was streaked with grey. The laugh lines at the outer corners of his eyes were more pronounced, but he still wore the same thin leather bracelets around his wrists. Unlike Oli and Ronan, who were both in jeans, he was actually dressed appropriately for a beach party—plain black board shorts and a short-sleeved button up. He’d left it undone, revealing the flat plane of his stomach and the sparse hair dotting his chest. And wasn’t that just fucking great?
He’d clearly just come from the beach—his flip-flops were crusted with sand and his hair and clothes were both damp. He stood before her with an expression of frank, but not unpleasant surprise on his face as he looked her up and down. Always appraising, scrutinizing. That hadn’t changed either, then.
Against her will, Posy’s heart seemed to have escaped the confines of her ribs and taken up residence in her throat. She blinked at him a few seconds longer, trying to remember how to speak. God, how pathetic was she? Three years of therapy, three years of working on herself and fighting to undo all the damage he’d done. And here she was, back at square one, nothing but an awkward teenager again—and all he’d done was say her name.
All four of his bandmates were watching them both carefully now. Ronan was frowning, and Oli looked like he was ready to throw himself between them if it came to it.
“Fletch,” she croaked, finally finding her voice again. The cold dread in her stomach had turned to roiling, churning anxiety, along with—were those butterflies? Don’t, she cursed herself. Don’t even go there. You’re being a fucking idiot.
Dammit, she should’ve just left.
But then a grin broke across Fletch’s face and the butterflies became a swarm of angry bees. He took a step toward her and held his fist out to bump hers. There were freckles dusting the bridge of his nose—he must have been spending a lot of time in the sun.
“What’s up, kid? It’s been a while.”
Kid. He was the only person who’d ever called her that. Her stomach pitched in protest.
Woodenly, she reached out to bump his fist, forcing a smile. She could do this. She just had to remember what her therapist had said—Fletcher Ryan was just a man. Just a fucking man, and men only have as much power over you as you give them. She turned the words over repeatedly in her mind like a mantra, trying desperately to believe them.
But that was a lot easier to do when the fucker wasn’t standing three feet away from her.
“I—” Her voice seemed to have stopped working again. She swallowed hard. “I just came to give Rhys his bass back,” she explained, gesturing again to the case at Oliver’s feet. “Then I ran into Oli. We were just catching up.”
“Oh, were you?” Fletch’s tone was light, casual, but the look he gave Oliver was sharp.
Oli shrugged helplessly.
Fletch’s gaze flicked down to the bass again, but instead of asking like the others had, he knelt to unsnap the clasps, opened the case and scanned the instrument with a low, appreciative whistle. “Nice,” he said. “You play bass now?”
“I’ve been trying to learn,” she mumbled. “Trying being the operative term.”
She glanced up at the stage; Rhys had switched to an electric guitar, and the band was in the middle of a cover of ‘Crazy On You’ by Heart. He didn’t recognize the woman on vocals. It didn’t look like they’d be finished any time soon. Another wave of nausea floods her body.
“Maybe Fletcher could give you a lesson or two,” Dallas, the bass player, quipped with a smirk. “I hear he’s a pretty good teacher.”
Posy and Fletcher shot him matching glares. Ronan jabbed him hard in the ribs.
“Anyway,” Oli said pointedly, clearing his throat, “Our Posy’s a college girl now! Cool, right?”
“Very cool,” Fletch mused, lowering himself onto a cushioned deck chair opposite them without looking away from her. “What are you studying?”
“History,” she replied, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “With a focus on Ancient Classics.”
He nodded as if that made perfect sense, accepting a glass of whisky from Dallas. “Still living in the city? How’s that roommate of yours?”
Posy nodded. “Rhiannon’s fine,” she replied. And she hates your guts, she added silently.
“Does she still have that asshole guinea pig?”
“Yeah,” she replied, smiling against her will and hiding it behind her knuckles. “And he’s a chinchilla, not a guinea pig.”
Fletch grinned. “Whatever, same difference.”
“Not really, but okay.”
“You’re not drinking,” he noted. “Can I get you something, or…?”
“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I’m not staying. I’m just waiting for Rhys to finish up so I can say hi, then I’m out of here.”
“One drink won’t hurt,” he prodded. “Come on, kiddo. Humor me?”
Absolutely not, said her rational brain. “Fine,” said her traitorous mouth. Fucking hell.
With a triumphant smile, Fletcher poured them both a glass of honey whisky and handed one to her with a wink. She accepted it and took a small sip, and she couldn’t help but savor its comforting burn. The last time she drank this, coincidentally, had been with him---two years and ninety-six days ago. The night everything went to shit.
She didn’t dare let herself think too hard about that.
The guys fell into easy conversation. Posy would’ve been happy to let herself fade into the background while she waited for her cousin, but Fletcher’s eyes kept flicking conspicuously in her direction. She wondered if he felt as awkward as she did. Probably not—nothing phased Fletcher Ryan. Ever. He was infallible, untouchable.
Posy, on the other hand? She was only human. She sipped slowly at her drink, looking anywhere but at him as she listened to them talk about the run of shows they’d just played in Darby. She hadn’t even known they were back in the country—last she’d heard, they were touring overseas. An ocean away. An ocean away was safe. This was decidedly not. If they were back, if he was back…
She resolved to never leave her apartment again.
She hadn’t yet finished her drink when Oli took the liberty of refilling it for her with a broad smile. Then Aaron filled it a third time, and before she knew it she was riding a pleasant buzz. Great, she thought. Now I have to wait this out before I go.
At some point Rhys must have finished his set, because just as Posy realized the live music had been replaced by a playlist blaring over the outdoor speakers, her cousin was standing before her. Thank god, she thought, relief flooding her at the sight of his familiar smile.
“Rhysie!” She jumped up and launched herself into his waiting arms, both laughing breathlessly as he spun her in a circle. “You sounded great up there!”
“I’m so glad you dropped by,” her cousin said eagerly, setting her gently back on the ground. “It’s been forever! How’s the family? You were out this way for wedding stuff, right? For Emi?”
She nodded, beaming up at him. Though he was more than a decade her senior, once upon a time they’d been more like siblings than cousins. Like Posy and her sister, Emilia, her mother and Rhys’ mother had always had a close bond. Growing up she spent every summer at her aunt and uncle’s cottage, where Rhys taught her to play the piano, took her tubing on his parents’ speedboat and kicked her ass at Street Fighter more times than she cared to admit. It was through Rhys that she’d met everyone here, including Fletch. That, unfortunately, was also the reason she and her cousin were no longer as close—in recent years, Posy found herself wholly unable to stomach the company he kept.
That was when she noticed Maverick standing just behind Rhys, along with the woman she’d noticed on stage earlier. She was drop-dead gorgeous, with jet-black hair styled in a long, choppy shag, sultry eyes and sharp features. Posy found herself wondering if she and Maverick might be together. If so, he’d certainly done well for himself.
“Hey, Mav,” she said with a genial smile, offering her ex a casual wave. “Long time no see!”
“No kidding!” Maverick flashed his usual wide, friendly smile and opened his arms for a hug. She allowed it. He smelled the same, like clean laundry and sandalwood. Her memories of that smell were comforting, nostalgic. He pressed a quick, chaste kiss into her hair; she didn’t think much of it. That was just Mav.
Posy stepped out of his embrace, fully aware of Fletcher’s amber eyes blazing into the back of her head. He knew about Maverick—she knew that he knew, though they’d never explicitly spoken about it. And she also knew that he knew exactly why she’d sought Maverick out in the first place. She refused to turn in Fletcher’s direction, refused to acknowledge it.
“Who’s your friend?” she asked instead, gesturing to the woman at Maverick’s side.
“Girlfriend,” he corrected, wrapping an arm around the woman’s waist and tugging her against his side. “This is Rebecca. Bec, this is Posy. Rhys’ cousin.”
“Pretty name,” Rebecca said, offering her a sweet smile and her hand to shake. She only looked to be a few years older than Posy was. “Nice to meet you!”
“You too,” Posy replied with a genuine smile. “Those were some powerhouse vocals up there! Consider me impressed.”
“I like this one,” Rebecca said in Maverick’s ear. “She’s giving my ego a much-needed boost.”
“The last thing your ego needs is any kind of boost,” Ronan commented dryly.
Rebecca laughed and stuck her tongue out at him, dropping into the seat on the couch Posy had previously occupied. “Next set’s yours, Fletch and company, if you want it,” she said, gesturing back toward the now-empty stage.
“We’re supposed to be off-duty,” Aaron complained, crossing his arms. “This is our night off!”
Ronan and Fletcher both shot him exasperated looks. “I think we can manage a song or two,” Fletch said with a grin. “Gimme five to finish my drink.”
Poppy ignored the exchange and turned back to her cousin. “I just wanted to say hi,” she said briskly, wrapping him in another tight hug. Maybe it was the liquor talking, but she really had missed him. “Your bass is right there." She points. "I have to head out, though. It’s a long drive back.”
Rhys’ eyes dropped to the half-empty glass in her hand. “Not so fast,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “How many of those have you had?”
She remained tight-lipped. Fuck’s sake. She just wanted to get the hell out of here. She’d sit in her car out in the driveway all night if she had to.
“Just what I thought,” he replied sternly. “You’re not going anywhere, at least no time soon. Your mother would kill me if I let you drive, and I actually like being alive.”
Posy sighed. “I’m fine, I don’t need—”
Then Fletcher reached out and gave her a light, barely-there push on the shoulder. She swayed on her feet and tripped over her own ankle, nearly stumbling headlong into Rhys.
“You sure seem fine to me,” Fletch drawled sarcastically. “You can’t drive like that.”
“You pushed me, dickhead!” she complained, crossing her arms. “Besides, it has nothing to do with being drunk. We all know I’m just clumsy as hell.”
“Yeah, well.” Rhys shrugged. “Now you have to stay at least till midnight so I know you’re safe to drive. Just trying to be a good big cousin,” he teased, mussing her hair.
She grumbled curses under her breath and drained the rest of her glass.
“Make that 12:30,” Rhys amended, raising an eyebrow. “At the very least.”
“Fine.” The good news was that she didn’t have any exams tomorrow, so if she didn’t get home until 2 or 3AM at least she could spend the day resting at home.
Fletch and the guys got up and started meandering toward the stage, and Rhys gestured for her to follow. “C’mon,” he said. “We can watch them do a few songs and catch up properly.”
The last thing she wanted to do was watch her ex-whatever-the-hell-he-was ‘do a few songs,’ but Posy didn’t say so. She let her cousin lead her down the sloping lawn, trudging along behind him with an unconvincing smile. Mav followed behind them, crooning softly into Rebecca’s ear. Every so often Posy heard her giggle. She smirked—Maverick could be quite a charmer when he wanted to.
Rhys led them to an empty picnic table and they sat on it together with their feet on the bench. Mav and Rebecca settled in the grass nearby and they all watched as Fletch, Oli, Aaron, Ronan and Dallas ascended the steps to the stage. Oli sat behind the keyboard and began messing with the settings. Posy’s eyes, to her chagrin, were glued helplessly to Fletch as he laughed at something Dallas had said and slung an electric-acoustic guitar over his shoulder, giving it a few test strums to make sure it was in tune. Her stomach was in knots. Watching them set up like this was so fucking familiar. It was nostalgic, but not in the comforting way. This particular brand of nostalgia made Posy want to hurl.
“So how was everything with Emi?” Rhys asked conversationally. “Is she as much of a bridezilla as I imagined she’d be?”
Posy laughed and turned to him, thankful for the distraction. “Exactly as much,” she replied, grinning. “She’s already banned her mother-in-law from participating in the planning in any way.”
Rhys chuckled. “That’s our Em.”
The music over the speakers cut out, and with zero pomp or circumstance Indigo Heights launched into a cover of ‘The Joker,’ one she’d heard so many times before that she could echo every note and inflection. Her eyes locked onto Fletcher as he stood behind the mic and sang through the first verse, smirking out at the small crowd that had gathered in front of the stage. The sound of his warm, melodic tenor, the slight rasp, it was all too fucking familiar. It made her head spin, made her heart pound. It made her—she stopped that thought in its tracks before it could materialize into something dangerous.
“Some people call me Maurice…” Fletcher pointed out at the gathering crowd, and everyone raised their glasses and chimed in with a loud, sing-song wolf whistle—even the revelers still hanging out by the beach. On lead guitar, Ronan echoed them with a wailing sliding riff.
“How’s your mum?” Rhys asked, taking a swig of beer. “Everything good with the family?”
“As far as I know,” she replied. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her, but I talk to her on the phone pretty often. She’s happy, I think.” Six months ago, Posy’s mother had moved several hours away with her boyfriend for a work opportunity. She missed her like hell—they’d always been close—but it was nice to see her mother living her life for herself for once.
Distractedly, her eyes flicked back to the stage. Fletcher had stepped back and was watching with a grin as Ronan performed his usual guitar solo, the lean, toned muscles in Fletch’s arms flexing with each strum as he accompanied him on rhythm. He stepped up to the mic again and, goddamn it, his eyes found hers through the crowd. One corner of his mouth tugged up in that cocky smirk she knew so fucking well. “You’re the cutest thing that I ever did see…”
Posy felt heat pooling in her cheeks, despite her best efforts to cling to what remained of her composure. Suddenly her throat was bone dry. She swallowed hard. She should’ve known this would happen—hell, she did know this would happen, which was exactly why she’d wanted to make herself scarce as soon as possible. This was how it had always been between them, how it always would be. She was a moth. A pathetic, self-destructive, stupid moth without a speck of willpower to be found, and Fletcher Ryan was a flame. No, not a flame. A wildfire.
“Been a while since you’ve seen the guys, huh?” Rhys asked, and she felt the blush spike in her cheeks once again when she turned to find him studying her with an amused expression. “If Mav gives you a hard time, just let me know. I’ll gladly kick his ass straight into next week.”
She laughed and punched him lightly on the arm. “Mav’s fine,” she assured him. “He’s harmless. Plus, he and his girlfriend are pretty damn cute together.”
“Thanks!” Rebecca chirped from a few feet away, winking up at them from the grass. Maverick grinned and offered them both a salute. He was certainly not the issue—the issue was, per usual, absolutely owning the stage right now, and Posy was afraid to look at him again in case he was still watching her.
The song wound down, and she chanced a peek back at the stage to find Fletch murmuring in Ronan’s ear. He nodded and they launched into another familiar riff. ‘Sex On Fire’ by Kings of Leon. Her humiliating blush spread all the way to the tips of her ears.
Really? Fucking really? Was he doing it on purpose? Fletch answered her unspoken question moments later when his eyes found her again and a shit-eating, cocksure grin spread across his face. He definitely knew what he was doing. What an absolute fucker, she thought bitterly, even as the swarm of bees that had barely settled in her stomach took flight once again.
“I need some air,” she mumbled, practically vaulting herself off the picnic table.
Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “We’re outside.”
“I know, I just—I don’t feel great.” She knew the excuse was flimsy, but she didn’t care. She had to get the fuck out of here. Her composure was rapidly fraying, and if Rhys ever found out about the long, turbulent history between her and Fletch...well, it wouldn't be pretty.
“Ha! I knew you were drunk.”
“I’m not.”
“Are too.”
“Whatever,” she said, forcing a laugh. “I’m going down to the lake. See you in a bit?”
He nodded and clapped her shoulder. “Sure thing, little cousin.”
On her way by, she swiped the cold beer Maverick had just opened right out of his hand. “Cool,” Mav called sarcastically after her. “I wasn’t about to drink that or anything!”
“You’ll live,” she called back over her shoulder as Rebecca roared with laughter and passed her boyfriend another beer.
Posy made her way down to the beach without so much as a single backward glance at the stage. She bypassed the clusters of partiers on the main beach and went instead to the empty dock, sitting with her legs dangling off the edge. She took a sip of beer and grimaced. Not her favorite. Still, it would do the job. After a long moment's consideration she fished for the unopened carton of cigarettes she’d been carrying in her pocket for the last three weeks, along with her lighter, scowling at herself as she unwrapped the plastic and stuck one between her lips. I'll quit for real tomorrow, she assured herself.
The rush of nicotine was a welcome reprieve to the crippling anxiety flooding her chest. She sighed, exhaling smoke into the air, and looked out at the reflection of the moon over the lake. The cottage where she’d spent her summers was just on the other side—she could see it from here. She wondered if Rhys’ parents still owned it, but she couldn't be sure.
She took her phone out and found a new message waiting for her from her best friend and roommate:
10:37PM
RHIANNON JONES: Sup bitch? How was the wedding stuff? You still coming home tonight or should I go ahead to bed?
She smiled and typed up a response:
10:52PM
POSY MYLES: wedding stuff was good. don’t wait up, i’ll be home late. had to swing by rhys’ place for a bit and i accidentally had a couple drinks lol
Rhi's reply came moments later.
10:53PM
RHIANNON JONES: Accidentally? Suuuuure lol. You should just crash there
10:53PM
POSY MYLES: can’t. he who must not be named is here
10:54PM
RHIANNON JONES: Ew really? Be careful hun. Text me when you’re on your way?
10:54PM
POSY MYLES: will do. love you xox
10:55PM
RHIANNON JONES: Love you back babe! Tell your hot cuzzin I said hi!
She rolled her eyes and went to take another drag of her cigarette, then realized she’d smoked it down to the filter. She sighed, pocketed the butt and lit another. In the distance she could hear Indigo Heights performing Bob Seger’s ‘Night Moves’.
Before tonight, her last conversation with Fletch hadn’t exactly left her feeling warm and fuzzy. In fact, it had left her sobbing like a child with her cheek against the bathroom floor. She could still feel it—the cold tile contrasting with the hot tears streaming down her face. She remembered clearly the panic, the icy dread that had overcome her as, for the first time since she was sixteen years old, she'd considered a future that wouldn't involve Fletcher Ryan. But she also remembered the determination she’d felt, the betrayal, the steely resolve to never let him into her life again.
Where was that resolve now? For almost three years she’d been waiting for this moment, the day she’d finally see him again. Only so she could reject him, shut him down, refuse to speak to him. She’d been determined to make him feel as small as he’d made her feel countless times.
And what had she done? Exactly none of that.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat there alone, drinking Maverick’s beer and chain smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to think of anything besides Fletcher. Of course, her efforts produced the complete opposite effect. Images of the past flashed through her mind: the wicked tilt of his lips, the way he sighed and said her name when she touched him, his loud, unrestrained laughter, the fleeting touches and scorching hot glances no one ever saw.
Posy groaned and rubbed at her eyes. She lit another cigarette.
“Those’ll kill you, you know.”
She stiffened. Those were the first words he’d ever spoken to her. She wondered if that was why he was repeating them now, or if it was just a line he used often. She didn’t turn around—she couldn’t. But her efforts were wasted, because moments later Fletch was lowering himself onto the narrow dock beside her. He let his legs dangle as well, the side of his right leg pressed against her left. Her head buzzed with static at the contact, but she blinked it away.
“Since when are you smoking again?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she grumbled reluctantly in reply.
“They’re terrible for your voice,” he pointed out. “Unless your goal is to sound like Janis Joplin.”
“I don’t sing anymore.”
“Why?”
Because I can’t, she wanted to say. Because every fucking song I’ve ever known reminds me of you. Truthfully, it had only been a year or so since she’d been able to play, or even listen to most music again. That was why she’d been trying to learn bass—it was a fresh slate, something that wasn’t tainted by his memory. It was the only instrument she could play without suffering a crippling panic attack.
“Too busy,” she said instead, her tone clipped as she took another drag, turning her head to blow the smoke away from him. “I’ve been trying to cut down,” she added. “On smoking, I mean.”
“And how’s that going for you?” Even without looking at him she could hear the sarcasm in his voice.
She shrugged. “Extreme circumstances call for extreme measures,” was her simple reply.
“What about this is an extreme circumstance?” He gestured vaguely to the silent, picturesque lake spread out before them. “I’m not seeing it.”
“Of course you’re not,” she snapped. Not even two minutes alone with the man and she was already letting her frustration get the better of her. Typical. She took another long puff of her cigarette, hoping it might kill her faster.
He nudged her teasingly on the shoulder, ignoring her sour mood. “So, you didn’t feel like watching the set?” he asked, grinning ear to ear. “You disappeared.”
“Headache.”
“Sure.”
She glared at him. “Fine," she spat. "I didn’t like your song choice. Happy?”
“Really?” Both eyebrows flew up. “Because I picked that one just for you.”
I fucking knew it.
“You used to love that one,” he added when she didn’t respond.
“Things change.”
“They don’t change that much,” he countered. Was he just trying to be argumentative? Probably. Fletcher was the biggest contrarian she’d ever met. Maybe he was right—things don’t change that much. At least, people don’t. “A good song is a good song,” he added.
“And you’re telling me that was why you picked it?” she demanded, crossing her arms and finally turning to glare at him. “Because it’s a good song? No other reason?”
His eyes flashed. “Nope. No other reason.”
But she could still hear it, clear as a bell—first the night they met and then countless shows after that. 'Sex on Fire’ playing quietly on her stereo while Fletch had her pinned against the bedroom wall of her first apartment, one hand holding both her wrists above her head while his lips traced the column of her throat, his hip pinning her in place, his other hand exploring beneath her shirt.
Hot as a fever, rattling bones…
She shook off the memory and scowled at him. Then, on a whim, she splayed one hand across his back and shoved him unceremoniously into the lake. He landed with a yelp of surprise and a huge splash. Despite her bitter mood, Posy giggled to herself as she waited for him to emerge. Serves the bastard right, she thought smugly.
Fletch broke the surface, choking and sputtering, his hair plastered to his forehead as he glared up at her. “What the fuck was that for!?”
She shrugged and drained the rest of her beer. “I let the intrusive thoughts win,” she replied coolly.
“My fucking sunglasses!” he complained, pushing his hair back and out of his face as he treaded water. “How am I supposed to find them now? It’s pitch black out here!”
“Why did you even have sunglasses on you, anyway?” she demanded. “It’s the middle of the night!”
He didn’t dignify her with a response, but a moment later his cool hand closed around her ankle. His fingertips against her bare skin, rough and calloused, sent a wave of goosebumps rippling up her spine. He gave a single tug—a threat. “Get in here,” he commanded. “You’re gonna help me look for them.”
“Like hell I am!” She argued, trying to jerk her leg out of his grasp. “I’m not exactly dressed for a dip in the lake,” she pointed out, gesturing to her jeans, t-shirt and high-tops.
That familiar wicked smirk quirked at the corners of his mouth. He tugged again.
“Don’t, Fletch,” she warned, her voice rising nearly a full octave. “My phone’s in my pocket!”
“Put it on the dock.”
“Excuse me?” She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re coming in,” he said matter-of-factly. “Those were 200-dollar Ray Bans. So take your phone out of your pocket and put it on the dock, or it’s coming in with you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she snipped, raising her nose primly in the air.
As always, Fletch was happy to call her bluff. He tugged on her ankle again, harder this time. Her ass slid forward a few inches; she gasped in protest. He grinned crookedly and raised an eyebrow, as if daring her to challenge him again.
“Fletcher! How old are you, twelve!?”
“Your phone,” he repeated. “On the dock. Now.”
Something about the authoritative edge to his voice awoke something long-dormant inside her. Her stomach did an uncomfortable somersault and another shiver rocked her spine. She blinked down at him, chewing her lower lip. “No,” she tried again, though her tone lacked conviction this time.
Another tug. This time she very nearly went careening straight off the end of the dock, and had to grip the gaps between the wooden slats to stop her momentum.
“You’re such a dick,” she mumbled, removing her phone, lighter and cigarettes from her pockets and slamming them stubbornly on the dock, well away from the edge. Part of her couldn’t believe she was letting this happen. The rest of her knew it was inevitable. Fletcher Ryan always got what he wanted, especially when it came to Posy.
He shrugged, still gripping her ankle, still treading water. “You started it,” he said matter-of-factly. “This is retaliation. You made your bed…” His smirk sharpened. “Time to lie in it.”
He tugged again, hard, and Posy shrieked as she slipped off the edge of the dock and splashed into the icy lake. It was fucking freezing—early June wasn’t exactly ideal swimming weather. She kicked toward the surface, and her teeth were already chattering as the cool night air hit her face.
“I hate you,” she spat, splashing him with as much spite as she could muster.
He laughed. “No doubt.”
She splashed him again, and the movement sent her dipping back beneath the gentle waves. Fletcher’s arms shot out to steady her, her shirt riding up a little as he gripped her waist, his palms cool and achingly familiar against her bare skin. She suppressed another shiver. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” she mumbled through chattering teeth.
“I am, actually,” he said smugly. “Now get down there and get looking. I want my glasses back.”
“Are you at least going to help?”
He snorted. “Why should I? It’s your fault they’re down there in the first place!”
“Come on," she pleaded, frowning.
“Fine,” he chuckled. “I’ll help, but only because I’m such a nice guy.”
Now it was her turn to snort. “Yeah, right.”
It only took around five minutes to find the sunglasses, but she was so cold by then that she could barely feel her fingers as they finally closed around the smooth plastic and stainless steel frames, lodged between two rocks at the bottom of the lake. “Found them,” she gasped the moment she broke the surface again. “Can we get out now? I’m on the verge of freezing to death.”
He rolled his eyes as she pressed the sunglasses into his waiting palm. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
He frowned. “When did you get so mean?”
When you manipulated me, used me, gaslit me, broke my heart and then convinced me I was crazy, she thought bitterly. “I told you,” she said instead. “Things change.”
They climbed the ladder to the dock and Posy retrieved her things, stalking back up to the party without him, her waterlogged chucks squelching with every step. Unfortunately Fletcher's legs were much longer than hers, and it took no time at all for him to catch up, carrying his flip-flops in one hand.
“I’ll get you a towel,” he offered, the most pathetic olive branch she’d ever received. “Someone started a fire over there. Let’s go, you can dry off a bit before you head home.”
“Whatever.”
“So mean.”
They made their way up to a huge bonfire in the pit by the beach. Everyone had moved away from the stage and there seemed to be some kind of campfire sing-a-long happening, complete with acoustic guitars, a ukulele, Rhys’ mandolin and Maverick’s cajon, which he was currently sitting on.
On a bench behind Mav, Rebecca waved at Posy and flagged her down as they approached. Posy waved back and sat with a wet squelch as close to the fire as she could manage, sighing at the warmth of the flickering flames against her icy skin.
“Decided to go for a swim, matchstick?” Ronan asked, unsmiling as always, from a bench across the fire. “You know there are these really great clothes specifically invented for that, right?”
“No,” she snapped. “Fletcher decided I was going for a swim, actually. Take it up with him.”
Ronan raised an eyebrow. He and Dallas shared a pointed glance. Before she could tell them to keep their opinions to themselves, she was hit in the back of the head with a damp towel. Fletch flashed her a thumbs up and sat across the fire from her, between Ronan and Aaron.
“This towel is already wet,” she snapped, already moving to dry her hair.
“I just used it,” he snapped back. “Little brats who push innocent people into lakes for no reason don’t get clean, dry towels.” He looked at Oliver, who was sitting on Aaron’s other side. “Am I right?”
Oli roared with laughter and turned to Posy with a grin. “You pushed him into the lake? Good on you!”
She took a small, theatrical bow, wrapping the towel around her shoulders. It smelled like Fletcher, like cinnamon and spice, with a crisp hint of aftershave. Just like everything else about him, the aromas were achingly familiar. Something stirred in the pit of her stomach, like a great serpent uncoiling in her core. She swallowed back her threatening sigh and tried not to look as if she was holding the towel too close.
“So, how do you know each other?” Rebecca wanted to know, glancing curiously between Posy and Fletch. “I haven’t seen you around before. I’d definitely remember if I had.”
“Fletch was her guitar teacher,” Oliver supplied hastily, his eyes darting to meet Posy’s for only a moment. “She used to come with Rhys to some of our shows, back when we were doing more local stuff. She’s chill.”
“Debatable,” Fletcher and Ronan said at the same time.
Posy leveled them both with withering glares, then caught Oli’s eye across the fire. ‘Thank you,’ she mouthed silently. She had no idea how she would’ve described her relationship to Fletcher if he hadn’t stepped in. What was he to her? Her ex? No, because technically they were never together. And introducing him as ‘the motherfucker who broke me beyond recognition’ probably wouldn’t have been appropriate, either. What were they, then? Friends? Not really. It was all so fucking complicated.
Oliver simply nodded his understanding.
“Cool!” Rebecca beamed and sipped the mixed drink in her hand—it looked like a gin and tonic, a classy choice. Posy liked her more and more. “It’s nice to have another girl around, at least one with an actual personality,” she joked, eyeing the woman sitting on the grass between Aaron’s legs. The same woman from before, and somehow she was still engrossed in her phone. “How old are you, Posy?”
Posy flushed. She hated being asked that question, especially in present company. “Twenty-one.”
“Aww, she’s just a baby!” Rebecca looked positively delighted.
Posy laughed nervously and said nothing. Twenty-one now, sixteen when...well, it didn't much matter anymore, did it? The group to her left finished up with their song, and as Rhys passed his mandolin to a woman a few seats over he tutted disapprovingly at her. “You cannot drive home like that,” her cousin scolded, eyeing her wet clothes. “I mean it. If you don't have a change of clothes I’m giving you one of the guest rooms. You can drive home in the morning.”
She groaned. “Rhys, no. I’ll just—”
“Don’t even argue with me,” he interrupted. “I will call your mother if I have to, and neither of us wants that. Just stay the night.”
She glared at him. “I’ll be fine. My little swim sobered me right up.” She turned her scowl on Fletcher next across the flames. He was holding a guitar now, a gorgeous twelve-string acoustic, paying her no mind as he chatted with Dallas and Aaron.
“I swear to god, Posy, I will call Aunt Liv.” As if to prove he was serious, Rhys pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up her mother’s contact screen, flashing it in her face with a defiant frown.
“Fuck, alright, fine!” She sighed heavily. “No need to get the authorities involved.” Fucking fuck, she thought, feeling cold dread settling once again in the pit of her stomach.
“Sweet,” Rhys teased. “A family sleepover, just like when we were kids!”
“Shut up. I’m not happy about this.”
“Surprise,” Fletch remarked with a wry smirk, prompting chuckles from a few people around them. "When are you ever?"
Posy’s face spiked with heat. “I don’t remember asking your opinion, actually,” she snapped.
Fletch's lower lip jutted out in a dramatic pout. “Jerk."
Put that fucking lip away before I bite it off, she found herself thinking. Then, mortified with herself, she clamped her mouth shut with the effort it took not to say the words aloud. She could already feel it—the familiar wheel beginning to turn. The vicious cycle resuming. Fletcher Ryan was her kryptonite. He’d barely done a thing and she was already powerless. And now they’d be sleeping under the same roof.
Everything that followed that night was inevitable. Unavoidable. Posy was a moth, remember? A stupid, stupid moth, utterly consumed by his flame in the blink of an eye. What else was a girl to do, really?
To be continued...
© Victoria St. Michael 2024