Chapter 31: Let’s go
Joe’s Jeep was a tank, much like him, and currently packed with a military precision that Svet found both impressive and mildly offensive. Her single, battered duffel looked pathetic next to his organized cooler, two neat suitcases, and a separate bag just for shoes.
“Planning on moving in?” she asked, leaning against her apartment doorway as he double-checked the back seat.
He shrugged, a gesture that made his shoulders strain against the fabric of his plain white t-shirt. “I like to be prepared. Sunscreen, first aid, extra towels. You never know.”
“What you have there is a catastrophic departure from the typical ‘guy going to a beach party’ packing list, which is usually a six-pack and a pair of shorts.” She smiled despite herself. It was endearing.
“The six-pack is in the cooler,” he said, deadpan. Then he looked at her, his brown eyes soft. “You ready?”
“Almost.” She vanished back into her apartment, leaving the door open. He followed, his large frame filling her small living room. She was throwing last-minute items into a tote bag: phone charger, a paperback with a cracked spine, her favorite hair tie.
Joe watched her, quiet. He’d been quiet since picking her up, a thoughtful silence that she was learning wasn’t empty. It was full of observation.
“You’re nervous,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
“I’m not,” she said automatically, then sighed. “Okay, fine. It’s just… Bridget’s one thing. The queen bee of the moment. But she’s an amateur.” Svet zipped the tote bag a little too hard. “Emily’s going to be there.”
Joe just waited.
“We grew up together. Our parents were close. She was this… golden child. And whatever I had, whatever I wanted, she made it her mission to take it. Not because she wanted it, but because she could.” The words came out in a rusty flow, things she hadn’t articulated in years. “My spot in the sophomore talent show. My internship application mysteriously ‘got lost’ when she applied for the same one. And my first real crush, Jason. She smiled at him at a pool party, and he was texting her by sunset.”
She finally looked at him, expecting pity, or worse, dismissal. He just listened.
“She’s charismatic. Like a sparkly vampire. She draws people in and sucks the confidence right out of them. And she’s always, always been better at the game than me.” Svet huffed a laugh, devoid of humor. “So, going to a confined space with her and Bridget, who’s basically Emily’s understudy? It feels like walking into a themed haunted house called ‘All Your Insecurities.’ Pass.”
Joe crossed the room in two strides. He didn’t hug her immediately, just took her face in his hands, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. His touch was steadying, an anchor in the churn of old memories.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice low. “I’m not a spot in a talent show. I’m not an application. I am not Jason.” Each sentence was a soft, firm hammer. “You don’t have to play a game, Svet. There is no game with me. I’m already yours.”
Her breath hitched. He said things like that, so plainly, so definitively, and it still short-circuited her defenses. She leaned her forehead against his chest, listening to the solid thump of his heart. “I know. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid. It’s history. But I’m here now.” He kissed the top of her head. “And I’m pretty hard to miss. Or steal.”
A real smile broke through. She pulled back, looking up at him. “That’s true. You’re a logistical nightmare to steal. You’d need a crane and a tranquilizer gun.”
“See? Practical thinking.” He picked up her duffel and tote. “Now, let’s go before Alexa sends a search party. She texted me seventeen times already. They’re caravaning with Edwin and Diego.”
The drive to Malibu was a study in contrasts. The sun was a fierce California white in a cloudless sky, baking the congested freeway. But inside the Jeep, the air conditioning hummed, and Joe’s hand rested on her knee, his thumb tracing idle patterns. They talked about nothing—the terrible radio station, a billboard for a movie that looked painfully bad, the peculiar shape of a passing cloud. It was easy. Normal. She found herself clinging to the normalcy.
When they finally turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and onto a narrow, winding road lined with fragrant eucalyptus and obscenely expensive houses, the knot in her stomach returned.
Bridget’s parents’ “beach house” was a modernist cliffside box of glass and steel, all sharp angles and cantilevered decks hovering above a private stretch of sand. It screamed money in a silent, intimidating whisper.
Music—a pulsing, bass-heavy pop beat—spilled out into the quiet canyon as Joe killed the engine. They could see figures moving behind the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouettes against the aquamarine glow of the infinity pool.
“Showtime,” Svet muttered, smoothing her sundress.
Joe came around, taking her hand. He interlaced their fingers, his grip firm. “Stay close.”
The front door was unlocked. The wall of sound and smell that hit them was almost physical: thumping music, shrieking laughter, the sweet-acrid tang of coconut rum and spilled beer, the underlying brine of the ocean. The entryway opened into a vast living area where a dozen people Svet vaguely recognized from campus were already in various states of weekend abandon. A girl was dancing on a low coffee table. Someone was doing a keg stand in the kitchen, held aloft by cheering friends.
In the center of it all, holding a neon green drink and holding court, was Bridget. And beside her, laughing at something Bridget had just said, was Emily.
Emily hadn’t changed. She had that effortless, beachy beauty—sun-streaked brown hair, a tan that looked born, not earned, wearing a simple white linen dress that probably cost more than Svet’s textbooks. Her eyes, a cool blue, swept across the room and landed on them. A slow, warm smile spread across her face. It was a perfect smile. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“Svetlana!” Emily cried, gliding over, arms outstretched. She air-kissed near Svet’s cheeks, the scent of her gardenia perfume overwhelming. “God, it’s been forever. You look amazing.” Her gaze flicked to Joe, and her smile deepened, calcifying into something more interested. “And you must be Joe. Bridget’s told me all about you. I’m Emily, an old friend of Svet’s.”
She extended a slender hand. Joe shook it, a brief, polite pump. “Hey.”
“We just got here,” Bridget said, sidling up, her eyes locked on Joe. “Let me get you guys a drink! Shots are in the kitchen.”
“I’m good for now,” Joe said, his hand tightening on Svet’s.
“Oh, don’t be boring,” Emily laughed, the sound like wind chimes. “It’s a party, Joe. Svet, you used to be so much fun. Loosen him up.” She lightly touched his arm, a fleeting, proprietary tap. “Come on, big guy. One shot to christen the weekend.”
Svet felt it then, the old, familiar slide—the feeling of being slowly erased from her own scene. Emily was already rewriting the narrative, casting herself as the vibrant hostess, Joe as the intriguing new guest, and Svet as a relic of a less-fun past.
Joe looked down at Svet, his expression unreadable to anyone but her. In his eyes, she saw a quiet question, a reassurance, and a steely promise all at once. He didn’t move toward the kitchen. He turned his body, subtly but definitively, placing himself slightly between Svet and Emily.
“We’re gonna find where to drop our stuff first,” he said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. “Catch up with you later.”
He guided Svet through the crowd, towards a hallway leading to the bedrooms. The noise and the heat of the party pressed in on them, a chaotic jungle. But as they walked away, Svet felt a tiny, fierce warmth in her chest. It was small, fragile against the weight of history and the blare of the music, but it was there.
He’d planted his feet. He hadn’t moved. And for now, that was everything.