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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I find Greyson exactly where I knew I would.
He's sitting near the water at Dawson's Beach, far enough from the parking area that he probably hasn't noticed me yet. His suit jacket is still on, but his shoes and socks are abandoned in the sand beside him, and even from this distance, there's something painfully familiar about the way he sits with his knees drawn up and his attention fixed on the ocean.
This beach has always been Greyson's escape.
When we were kids, he came here after bad games, arguments with his parents, or whenever something was bothering him that he wasn't ready to talk about. He would climb out his bedroom window without telling anyone where he was going, which usually resulted in one of his parents showing up at my house to ask if I knew where he was. The first few times, I didn't. By the third, I had figured out that whenever Greyson needed to disappear, the beach was where I would find him.
I asked him once why he came here instead of somewhere more obvious, like a batting cage or the baseball field. He told me the waves quieted everything down enough for him to think.
Apparently that hasn't changed.
I remove my heels and walk toward him, letting the sand slip between my toes. As I get closer, I see him wipe his cheek against his shoulder, and any uncertainty I had about if I should have followed him disappears.
"Hey, you."
Greyson glances at me before turning back to the water. "Hey."
I lower myself into the sand beside him. "You okay?"
He lets out a humorless laugh. "Not really."
For a while, neither of us says anything.
"I'm sorry about what happened back there," he finally says. "I just couldn't listen to it anymore. My mom keeps talking about how happy my dad would've been to see everyone today, and all I could think was that he's dead. You know?" He drags a hand over his face. "I doubt he's very fucking happy about that."
My fingers move through his hair before I think about whether I should touch him. I've done it so many times over the years that apparently my hand remembers what we are even when the rest of me doesn't know anymore.
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Mrs. Flynn brought her ambrosia salad."
Nothing.
"Apparently no one has found the courage to tell her sour cream and canned fruit shouldn't be friends."
Still nothing.
I glance at him. "Tough crowd."
Normally, that would earn me something. A smile, an eye roll, a sarcastic comment about my terrible timing. Instead, Greyson keeps staring at the water.
