Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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The bonfire at Dawson's Beach ahs been a tradition since before I was born. I wasn't allowed to go until I turned sixteen, so when I was younger, Adelaide would sneak into my room after and spill all the gossip – who hooked up, which couple imploded in public, who ended up naked in the ocean. Brooks Connolly, Cash's older brother, always supplied the kegs, so skinny-dipping was practically guaranteed by the end of the night.
It's a mix of South Grove High kids, alumni, and stragglers from nearby towns. A pack of teenage boys toss a football down the beach. Cash is making out with a blonde I don't recognize on a towel by the fire. Mitchell and Wyatt are deep in a game of cornhole with a couple of strangers, while girls in bikini tops and cutoffs dance around the flames, red Solo cups raised high. Their eyes follow Greyson as we pass. Of course they do.
I used to love this party. Summers when Adelaide was home from college, she, Jo, and I would dance barefoot in the sand while Greyson balanced catering to me with dominating whiffle ball. Later, we'd strip down to swimsuits, swim under the stars, roast marshmallows, light sparklers. Wyatt would always pull out his guitar and play Amos Lee, Jack Johnson, and his go-to, "Wagon Wheel."
But I haven't seen most of these people since graduation. Not since Greyson and I were us. And now I'll have to face the questions. What happened? Why aren't we together? I'll have to fake small talk with people who were shallow then and are probably worse now—hear about their spouses, houses, kids—and then pretend I have some fabulous New York life to match.
What would I even say? That instead of going to Florida with Greyson, I chased a dream in New York and fell fast for a man who promised me the world—only to come home seven years later and find him in our bed with his assistant? That I gave up Greyson, gave up South Grove, for nothing? That all my big dreams left me with a failed marriage, a thankless internship, and nothing to show for it but regret?
I'm going to have to admit my life is nothing like The Devil Wears Prada. I'm not a fashion journalist. I don't work at Vogue. I don't have a husband who loves me the way he swore he would. I don't live in a brownstone on the Upper West Side. I don't go to glamorous parties or sip champagne with New York's elite. My life in the city isn't desirable—it's a mess.
A failure.
Yeah, coming here was a fucking fantastic idea.
I stick close to Greyson as we weave through the crowd, fighting the instinct to slip my hand into his like I used to. His reception is instant and loud—claps, whistles, cheers, like he just won Game 7 with a walk-off. Guys slap his back, teenage boys stare wide-eyed, jaws hanging, and the girls? They light up, batting lashes, tossing hair, smiling like they'd give anything to be noticed. One even steps right in front of him, dragging hot-pink nails down his chest.
Greyson just slides an arm around my waist and steers us past her, rolling his emerald eyes down at me. The gesture's casual, but it burns through me.
He's been getting attention since he was sixteen, when baseball first made him a hometown star. But never like this.
