Private jets always land in the same tucked‑away corner of the airport — the part meant for executives, celebrities, and people who don’t want to be seen. I never cared much for the anonymity, not like anyone would recognize me anyway, but Dad insisted on it. “Security,” he always said. “Convenience,” Mom added. “Prestige,” my sisters teased.
San Myshuno’s airport handled private arrivals the same way most large international hubs did — quiet, efficient, a separate terminal with polished floors and staff who pretended not to recognize anyone. I stepped through the glass doors into the arrivals area, scanning for our driver.
Instead, I saw a pink sign.
A handwritten pink sign.
“NATHANIEL CUNNINGHAM” in bubble letters, complete with a tiny doodled heart.
Holding it: Evie.
Who now stormed at me, hugging me like I had been lost at sea. And maybe it shouldn’t have felt this familiar — her arms around my neck, the way she laughed, the way she looked at me like I’d been gone for a year, not a couple months — across the country in San Sequoia, buried in classes, papers, and the kind of schedule that only let me fly home when I could carve out a long weekend.
But we’d been in touch almost every day since her mom passed almost six months ago — calls, texts, late‑night messages, quick meetups whenever I was back on the East Coast again. Somewhere around month four she started laughing again. Not all the time. Just enough that I knew she was coming back to herself. By month five she was bouncier, lighter, like someone rediscovering color after a long winter.
Seeing her now didn’t feel like a reunion. It felt like picking up the last conversation we hadn’t finished.
“You’re early!” she said, breathless.
“You’re… pink,” I said, gesturing at the sign and her outfit. Okay backstory here: after the death of her mother everything about Evie became very colorless and grey. Seeing her inch towards color, especially so bright was … progress. She had told me about it on the phone, but seeing it was another level.
She grinned. “I am currently obsessed with pink. Can’t miss me. Come on, let’s go.”
“Okay, let’s find my driver.” I started craning my neck while following her through the crowd.
“Your driver isn’t coming.”
“What?” my head snapped to her.
“I called him. Well, I called your dad and he called him off.”
“You called my dad?”
“Yep.” She popped the ‘p.’ “I ran into him a couple weeks ago and we talked, he gave me his number and asked for mine. So, today I used it, told him you’re coming home with me first. He said ‘have fun.’”
I blinked. “He said that?”
“Uh‑huh. He also said to tell you to text your mother before she has a heart attack. Said she just needs to hear your voice confirming you landed safely. I don’t judge, mine was the same way. It’s a Mom thing.”
That tracked.
She grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the curb. “Come on!”
“Evie—wait—”
She stepped directly into the street, waving her arms at a cab like she was trying to flag down a rescue helicopter. A sedan screeched, honking. I yanked her back by the elbow.
“Evie!”
“What?” she said innocently. “He saw me.”
“He almost hit you. Don’t make me put you on a leash!”
“Details.”
I couldn’t help it — I laughed. She was chaos wrapped in sunshine. I was glad that she was becoming herself again. I knew losing her mom had been hard but I couldn’t help the egoistic part of me who missed the Evie I had gotten to know before that happened. And I loved the glimpses I was getting. Like medicine.
To Infinity and Beyond (aka. Evie’s Place)
A cab finally pulled over. She shoved me inside first, tossed my bag into the trunk, then climbed in after me. It was so intense I told the driver I wasn’t being kidnapped.
I gave him her address from memory.
She nudged me. “Actually no.” She gave him a different one.
I turned. “What?”
“You’ll see.”
The cab pulled into downtown San Myshuno — not the rougher part where she used to live, but a nicer district with glass towers and clean sidewalks. We stopped in front of a mid‑range skyscraper. Not luxury. Not penthouse. But safe. Bright. New.
She grabbed my hand, I barely had time to open the trunk and grab my bag before she practically dragged me inside. My wheeled carry‑on went airborne a few times as I stumbled along after this force of nature.
“Evie—slow down—”
“No! I want you to see!”
We rode the elevator up. She bounced the entire time, like she had been living on a diet of coffee and energy drinks.
When the doors opened, she ran down the hall, unlocked a door, and flung it open with a flourish.
“Ta‑da!”
The apartment was mostly empty — a couch, a lamp, a mattress on the floor — but the space was bright, clean, and hers. She twirled in the middle of the living room, a perfect ballet turn, arms lifted, hair flying.
“I got approved!” she squealed. “I moved in Monday! I painted it myself! It was so hard not to text you but I knew you were coming and I wanted to surprise you.”
I leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “Evie, this is great. Congrats.”
She hopped toward me — literally hopped — wrapped her arms around my waist, and squeezed like she’d just won the lottery. “Will you help me furnish it?”
“Uh… sure.”
She pulled back, narrowing her eyes in that way she does when she’s reading me like a book. “Not the money part. I pay. Chill. I want your help. Advice. I want you to like it. You know me — if you let me loose, everything will be pink. I was *this* close to painting the living room wall pink. And one accent wall in the bedroom. But the landlord said white only.”
“I will absolutely be your pink police,” I said, trying to joke, but the guilt hit me hard and fast.
Because the truth was ugly: for half a second — a reflex, a flicker — I’d thought she wanted me to buy her stuff.
And I hated that thought. Hated that it even existed. Hated myself for it.
Evie wasn’t like that. Evie had never been like that. Evie had invited me out and paid for my meal more than once. Evie had never asked me for anything except time, help, and honesty.
And she’d read me. Of course she had. She always did.
She nudged my arm. “Hey. Don’t do that face.”
“What face?”
“The guilty one,” she said, tilting her head. “The one where you think you’re a terrible person for having a reflex thought. You’re not. You’re fine. I get it. You’re used to people wanting things from you.”
I swallowed. She wasn’t wrong.
“I know you’re not like that,” I said quietly.
“I know you know,” she said. “And I know you hate that you even thought it. But it’s okay. You’re learning me. I’m learning you. That’s what friends do.”
Friends. The word landed soft and warm — and complicated.
“Alright.” She clapped once. “Can we go today? Or are you too jetlagged?”
“It was a three‑hour flight from the West Coast. No jetlag. That’s when you fly international.”
“Oh. I’ve never flown anywhere,” she said quietly.
I stared. “What? We have to fix that.”
“Hold on, rich boy. Love the idea, but I need my place to look great. No money for fancy vacays for a while. So — are we going?”
“Can I go home first and get my car?”
“What for? Nothing fits in that fancy ride and I’d be too paranoid about scratching something. No. We’re taking an Uber to the rental place. I’m renting a truck.”
“A truck? How much are you planning to get?! Have you ever driven a truck?” I was so overwhelmed by this flood of Evie.
“We’ll figure it out. Please… Nateyyyy.”
She looked up at me with those wide eyes — hopeful, earnest, impossible to refuse.
“Okaaaayyyy…” I sighed. “Can I text my parents to tell them that I made it?”
“I already texted your dad,” she said proudly. “But fine. I’ll use the restroom. You should too. Flights dehydrate you. There are drinks in the fridge. Drink.”
“That’s for—” I started, but she slammed the bathroom door. “…international flights, not private jets with full service the entire time,” I finished to no one.
I texted my parents. Mom sent two rows of heart emojis. Dad sent “Good. Have fun.”
Evie emerged, grabbed a drink from the fridge, shoved it into my midsection, and dragged me out the door.
“Shouldn’t we measure first? And don’t you need to book the truck?” I asked.
“I booked the truck while peeing. Unlike you boys, I have both hands free. Tell me that isn’t efficient, Mr. Business Major.”
“I wish I could, but have to admit can’t argue with it. So, you wanna guess if things fit? You’re a massage therapist, not an architect. You don’t want to buy a bunch of stuff only to have to take it back.”
“Nate, it will fit.”
She ran to the curb. An Uber pulled up. She waved at it like we were being rescued.
Truck Trauma
The rental truck was… an adventure.
Evie insisted on driving. If I’d known then what I know now… yeah.
She climbed in, adjusted the seat, adjusted the mirrors, adjusted the seat again, then gripped the wheel like she was preparing for liftoff.
“Okay,” she said. “It was gas and brake. Or the other way around?”
“You don’t own a car. When’s the last time you drove?”
“Details.”
“Gas is on the right.”
She pressed the gas. The truck lurched forward like a startled elephant.
“Evie—brake—brake—”
“I AM BRAKING!”
“You’re accelerating! The other pedal!”
“I AM pushing the other pedal!”
“Push harder!” I yelped, seeing my entire life pass before my eyes.
Suddenly the truck stopped so hard I thought we’d roll over.
She screamed. I screamed. The truck screamed.
“Okay. Okay. I got it now. All coming back to me.”
“Are you su—AAAAAAHH!”
She hit the gas again. In no time we were on the highway, bursting into honking traffic without hitting anything, which was honestly a miracle. My heart was pounding in my head.
Her phone nagged directions at us — the GPS increasingly sounding like it was losing its will to live.
“Exit right,” it said. Evie went straight.
“Make a U‑turn,” it begged. She continued straight, stubbornly.
“Recalculating,” it sighed, like it needed a drink.
“Exit right,” it tried again.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Evie snapped at it. “I can’t exit right, there is no right! Want me to take this giant box off‑roading or something? Why don’t you exit right?! You’re about to!” For a moment I really thought she was gonna hurl her phone onto the freeway.
The GPS droned, “Exit right.”
“SHUT UP,” she yelled, slapping the screen like it owed her money. “You’re basically one of those restaurant buzzers they give you when the wait is long — blinking and vibrating like my table’s ready. I don’t trust you!”
I mentally facepalmed so hard I saw stars.
“Evie, see those signs ahead. Merge right over there.”
“Okay,” she said and yanked the steering wheel, barely missing a car next to us, which fell back, honking.
Her steering was jerky. Several times we both screamed. I clenched everything I had.
Finally I made her pull over into a restaurant parking lot. She was near tears. I calmed her, told her it wasn’t so bad (it was), then got behind the wheel myself.
This wasn’t easy, I’ll admit it. We had a few clenching moments with me driving too until I got the hang of that monstrosity. Getting it parked was not for the faint of heart. We finally backed it into a spot—
And then realized we were idiots and couldn’t load anything in the back this way.
Luckily a spot across opened up and I just planted it in there. And exhaled. Man, other people jump off bridges on rubber bands or did BASE jumping. I didn’t need that for adrenaline spikes and moments on the edge.
I had an Evie.
Decorating Wars
IKEA was… IKEA.Evie was a kid in a candy store.
She touched everything. Opened every drawer. Sat on every chair. Spun every swivel stool. Tested every lamp. Sniffed every candle.
I felt like a mother at Walmart with a teething toddler running a fever.
I grabbed a cart.
Ten minutes later, I grabbed a second cart. The first one was beyond full.
“Evie,” I said, “we haven’t even reached the halfway point.”
“I need all of it.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
She put a fuzzy pink pillow in the cart.
I took it out.
“You wanted me to stop you from too much pink.”
“That excludes pillows! I can buy a case if I ever don’t like pink anymore.”
“You would have to shave that thing first before it fits. It has worse bad hair days than me.”
She glared.
I put it back.
She smirked.
We kept going.
Every few aisles she’d sneak some random knick‑knack into the cart — a ceramic cat, a glittery vase, a heart‑shaped bowl, a tiny fake plant. She thought she was subtle. She wasn’t. I’d quietly pluck them out and return them to shelves as we passed, like some kind of reverse shoplifter. She never noticed. Or pretended not to.
By the time we reached checkout, our carts looked like we were furnishing a small nation. Two bookshelves, a dresser, a coffee table, a dining table, four chairs, a shoe cabinet, a TV stand, rugs, lamps, storage bins, a mirror, approximately three dozen candles, more curtains than even our estate in the Bay would ever have enough windows for, a million knick-knacks, dishes, pots, pans and about a thousand pillows — all threatening to avalanche onto the conveyor belt and bury the terrified‑looking checkout guy alive.
I pulled out my wallet on reflex. She grabbed it from my hand and tried to stuff it back into my back pocket, which resulted in a strange, contorted dance‑wrestle.
“I’m not letting you buy my home decor,” she said. “I’m not a charity case. Nor a mooch.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Good.” She slapped my wallet into my chest and while I slipped it back in my pocket, she bought everything with her own card, chin lifted proudly.
Move-In Marathon
Back at her building, we carried everything up three flights of stairs because the elevator was broken. If you’ve never done this, congratulations — you’ve missed out on the best cardio and strength training rolled into one.
We sweated. We swore. We bruised our shins. We dinged our elbows. We got blisters. We put Band‑Aids on Band‑Aids. We assembled shelves. We assembled dressers. We assembled tables. We assembled cupboards. We moved things back and forth. We argued about rug placement. We argued about lamp height. We argued about whether the mirror should be horizontal or vertical.
She won every argument. I won the mirror one.
By the time we finished, it was dark outside. The apartment looked… good. I had to admit it — she had a vision, followed it, and it came together nicely. Very Pinterest‑perfect. My sisters would go nuts over this. Cozy. Warm. Hers.
Evie collapsed onto the couch, hair sticking to her forehead, cheeks flushed.
I sat beside her, equally destroyed.
She nudged me with her shoulder. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
She leaned her head on my arm. “You’re the best.”
I swallowed. “You’re… something.”
She laughed softly. “You’re something else.”
“I know.” I smiled.
“Glad you’re here.”
“Yeah. Same. But I should be heading home soon” I nodded at the dark sky outside her window. “We still have to return the truck.”
She fake‑sobbed instantly. “Oh noooooo … I can’t… not tonight, honey… we’ll just report it stolen or something.”
“I’ll go,” I said, standing up. “You stay. Try not to die.”
She lifted one limp hand in a tragic wave. “No promises. Tell my story.”
Returning the truck alone felt like a religious experience. No screaming. No GPS having a nervous breakdown. No Evie threatening to fight a navigation system during death-defying maneuvers. I dropped it off, ordered an Uber, and on impulse stopped at her favorite takeout place.
Sesame chicken. Dumplings. Fried rice. And the neon‑pink bubble tea she loved — the one she claimed tasted like “liquid joy and early‑onset diabetes.”
When I buzzed her apartment, she answered immediately.
“NATEYYYYY! You’re back!” she sang through the speaker like she’d been waiting at the door.
I sighed deeply looking at the ‘Out of Order’ sign on the damn elevator and up the flights of stairs. Her next place better be ground level or a house. Those stairs were murder.
I was breathing hard when I stepped inside her apartment.
She launched at me.
Arms around my neck, bouncing like she was made of springs. “You’re my HERO. My BEST FRIEND EVER. My FAVORITE HUMAN. You returned the truck and—” Her eyes locked on the takeout bag. “Is that… sesame chicken?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
She ripped the bag out of my hands like a rabid raccoon discovering a treasure chest.
“Oh my GOD,” she gasped, already digging through it. “Dumplings! Fried rice! You got the pink drink! You remembered the pink drink! Nate, I officially love you.”
“It’s takeout.”
“It’s heaven on earth,” she corrected, clutching the bubble tea like a newborn.
I sat on the couch, completely destroyed. She plopped beside me, opened a container, and immediately started feeding me like I was incapable of feeding myself.
“Eat,” she commanded, shoving a dumpling at my mouth.
I took it. It was good. I was too tired to chew properly.
Then she handed me the pink drink.
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
I took a sip.
I grimaced. “Nope. Still don’t like it.”
She cackled, delighted. “You will. Eventually. I’ll train you.”
She leaned against me, warm and soft and glowing with triumph, happily inhaling sesame chicken like she hadn’t eaten in days, jamming bites against my lips every so often.
After we finished, she curled into the couch cushions, looking blissed‑out and half‑asleep.
“Glad you’re here,” she murmured again.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Me too.”
I pulled out my phone to call my parents. She put her hand over it.
“Wanna crash here tonight? I’ll let you have the bed. Brand new. I slept in there once. I just got it yesterday.”
“No. Thanks though — but no way you’re sleeping on the couch.”
“I don’t mind it. Where do you think I slept before my bed was delivered? My brand‑new, beautiful, super‑comfy, perfect couch.” She demonstratively fell back, sighing dramatically as she rubbed her back on it like a dog on grass.
She smiled up at me — bright, soft, grateful.
I must have glanced toward her bathroom, because she caught it instantly.
“That is also fully stocked. With brand‑new towels. Pink ones. The pink YOU liked best.”
Yeah, out of a felt fifty options I picked the least offensive to my eyes. Might come as a shock to all, but pink isn’t my favorite color. Doesn’t even make the list for me.
“Are you supposed to wash them first?”
“No. I want to enjoy them brand new and stiff. Plus laundromats are closed — there’s only one still open and it’s clear across town. I’ll do most anything for you, Nate, but I won’t do that.” She sing‑sang the last part like the song.
“Drying off with towels with other people’s fingerprints all over them. And probably some children’s boogers.”
She sat up and leaned forward, her face close to mine.
“Don’t slut‑shame my beautiful towels. I will throw down with you, Cunningham. You’re in medicine, it will build your immune system.”
“Okay, let me make a call and see what’s on my plate tomorrow. Mom often plans breakfasts and family things when I come home.”
“You can take the private call in the bedroom. I’ll put the mirror the right way now. It’s not meant to go like that, as I told you. You asked me to give it a chance — I have, I hate it, and I’m doing it right.”
I shook my head and went into her bedroom, calling Mom. I explained what I’d been up to and she snorted laughing, immediately giving Dad and my sisters the rundown. I heard a chorus of laughter in the background.
“She invited me to stay over,” I said. “We just ate.”
I will spare you the jokes and what they all thought. I shut it all down, then Dad took pity when the girls dissolved into unintelligible snorts.
“Son, if you want to stay, do. You are an adult and don’t need approval. It’s special that she wanted you to be a part of this. You do realize what’s happening, right? She’s stopped grieving and is trying to start over. And she got herself out of that bad area, just like her mother wanted. She wants you to be part of her renaissance. So… be. And while I heard you, and I’m not your uber‑romantic mother, I know situations can change on a dime. Just be safe, if you catch my drift.”
“Dad! Not you too. I said we are friends. I am not here for some Netflix‑and‑chill moment. Seriously now. And after the day I had, even if I wanted to, I’d be too sore to move and have a feeling — same goes for her.”
“Nate, if life taught me anything, it’s that where there’s a will, there’s always a way. Besides, you were conceived when your mother and I were just platonically reconnecting. That situation changed faster than I could wrap my head around into one of those — as you put it — Netflix‑and‑chill moments. All I’m saying is: be reasonable even when things pivot. I’m not telling you what to do, just urging you to be cautious. That is all.”
Not that conception‑miracle story again. Would you want to hear that on repeat? I sure don’t. I get that it was a pivotal moment for Mom and Dad — especially for Dad — the thing that finally pushed him to end a loveless marriage he’d never wanted and gave him the courage to build the life he actually always wanted with his Briar Rose. And yes, I know I was the catalyst that made them rush to make everything official once I was on the way. Great for them. Beautiful, even. Still not something a son loves hearing over and over again like a bedtime story.
“Yeah. I’ll see you guys tomorrow. I need a shower — alone, just for the record.”
Dad chuckled. “Have fun, kid. See you tomorrow.”
The Pink Cloud
When I got out of the bedroom, she was already in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers and cabinets like she was trying to find the meaning of life. It hit me all at once. This was too special to burn on what‑ifs and trying to shove it neatly into drawers. So I walked over and asked if I could help.
She smiled up at me — and man, that smile got me in a weird spot — then pointed at the tiny hallway.
“Shower, Cunningham. You stink.”
“Wow. You know how to build a man’s confidence.”
“You don’t need help there, you got plenty of confidence. But you need shower gel in your life.”
I grabbed my bag and started digging for a shirt and sweats.
Under the shower I realized idiot me hadn’t grabbed my dopp kit, so I used her soap. Pink, of course. It smelled like I was washing myself with a handful of Starburst candies. It clearly had lotion in it, so I wasn’t going to wash my curly hair with that. Instead I grabbed her shampoo — it squirted pink into my hand, naturally — and my hair ended up smelling like whatever Blushberry Bliss was supposed to smell like.
I dried off with a stiff, straight‑from‑the‑store towel — pink, of course — wrapped it around my hips, threw another one over my shoulder after towel‑drying my hair, then saw the still‑packaged toothbrush she’d put out for me. Want to guess the color? You’d be wrong. It was one of the few things that wasn’t pink. I was assigned a blinding shade of green, probably because my eyes were green — just not that radioactive shade.
I unwrapped it and looked for toothpaste. That, naturally, was pink. Bubblemint flavor.
I looked at myself in the mirror and had to laugh. I was pretty in pink in a frilly pink bathroom, smelling like a candy store and wrapped in towels that looked like they belonged in a dollhouse. I imagined my dad going through this with Mom at my age. Or the poor boyfriends of my sisters. I never thought about any of this until now. I never had a girlfriend I spent this much time with, let alone stayed over. The closest had been the last girl I dated, and even that was nothing like this.
When I stepped out, she had a bottle of wine on the counter and three little bowls of snacks — pretzels, chocolate‑covered almonds, and something pink I didn’t want to identify.
I pointed at the setup. “Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?”
She snorted. “Please. I already got all the use out of you. You hauled my entire IKEA purchases up three flights of stairs and built half my apartment. I’m done exploiting you for the day.”
“Good to know my worth. And I feel like I built more than half. At least three quarters.”
“Here, can you open this?” She handed me the bottle and a corkscrew.
I tried to look cool doing it. The cork was on so tight that when I finally got it out, it shot out with a loud pop, bounced off the ceiling, onto the counter, and against her cheek.
With a yelp she rubbed it.
Apologizing profusely, even though it clearly was a freak accident, I tore open her freezer and slammed a bag of cake bites on her face. She tore them off and replaced them with a bag of broccoli.
“I love the cake bites. Screw broccoli. I don’t care if it thaws.”
I laughed again.
This girl.
We clinked her brand‑new glasses and I pretended to like the wine.
I sat on the couch and she plopped down beside me. I shifted, sniffed my arm, and shook my head. “I feel so emasculated, floating on a pink cloud. I smell like Barbie.”
She leaned in and sniffed me — aggressively, like a bloodhound. “Oh my GOD. You DO smell like Barbie! That’s amazing. Full nostalgia. Seriously, I used to love that smell.”
She leaned in again and I pushed her face back.
“Great. I’m a collectible doll now. Living the dream.”
“You will be irresistible to any girl who ever has been obsessed with Barbie.”
“I’ll add it to my resume. And dating profile.”
“You got a dating profile?”
“No, I was being funny.”
“You failed.”
“Noted.”
We watched a comedy that had us both in stitches.
Then we argued for almost two hours about the sleeping arrangement until we were both so tired neither cared. We ended up in her bed with a wall of throw pillows separating it into two sections.
Laying there staring at the ceiling, wondering about my life’s odd turns, I heard her say my name.
“Hm?”
“This is really dumb, isn’t it? I mean, what exactly are the pillows doing? If you were a rapist, would they stop you?”
“Yeah, or if you were a rapistess…”
I heard her turn her head, so I turned mine to face her, grabbed the pillow blocking the view, and tossed it off the bed.
We both snorted.
“So, are you going to rape me then? You better hurry, cos I am fading fast.”
“Nah. Too sore and tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Gotta do it before nine though. I have early classes.”
“I’ll set my alarm.”
She laughed, and I felt her move — all the other pillows went flying — then she shimmied closer, her head against my shoulder.
“Thanks for being you, Nate. Never ever change. You are absolutely perfect.”
It made me feel amazing. I was processing it when I told her I thought she was very great and special too.
No response.
I looked over and noticed the even, shallow breath.
“Oh good. Put her to sleep.”
And I felt it again — that quiet, steady thing. Not romantic. Not complicated. Just… us.
Whatever we were. Whatever we were becoming.
Something easy. Fragile. Something warm. Something inevitable.
By The Morning Light
I woke up because I had to pee.
It took me a minute to register the strange sights and sounds — the hum of a different A/C, faint traffic below, the skyline framed by a window that wasn’t mine — before I remembered where I was.
I turned my head.
Dawn was breaking over San Myshuno, soft light spilling across the mattress. And beside me, a flood of blonde hair fanned across the pillow.
A strange jolt went through me.
This was the first time since Elodie that I’d woken up next to someone.
I smiled — small, surprised — then my bladder reminded me why I was awake. I sat up carefully, not wanting to disturb her, and headed to the bathroom.
Walking through her apartment — the apartment I’d helped build, piece by piece — made something shift in me again. Something warm. Something steady. Something I didn’t have words for yet.
It felt like a rite of passage. It felt… good. I couldn’t describe it, but it was all good.
I washed my hands and caught my reflection. Shadow of a beard. I looked around for a razor and saw a pink LadyShave sitting on the counter.
“No. Absolutely not.”
I went to dig through my bag and realized I’d left mine at the dorm. I had another one at home, but that didn’t help me now.
The bedroom door burst open.
She came running out, panicked. “I am late! I am so late!”
She vanished into the bathroom. I grinned and started making coffee and breakfast — eggs, toast, fruit, whatever I could find in her kitchen. After last night’s takeout frenzy, she needed something real in her system.
When she came shooting out again, she stopped short at the sight of the food. Her face went blank — like her brain couldn’t process it — then softened into the sweetest smile.
“You… cooked?” she asked, voice small.
“Just a simple breakfast. Figured you’d need fuel,” I said.
She sat down slowly, almost reverently, like she wasn’t sure the plate was meant for her.
“I never had a boy cook for me before,” she said quietly. “Really sweet.”
“Yeah, sweet of me doing this in your kitchen with your groceries. I’m just amazing.”
“It’s the thought.”
We ate together, and suddenly she wasn’t in such a hurry. She kept looking at me oddly, then quickly away, blushing whenever I caught her.
“What?” I asked, smiling.
“Nothing. Just… thank you. Really.”
We left soon after. My driver was downstairs. We dropped her off at campus, then headed home.
Mom was ready for it.
They were still at breakfast when I got there. She sat me down and the interrogation started. When I got to the part where I smelled like Barbie, I had my sisters and Mom on me, sniffing me. It even got too much for Dad.
“Ladies! We are not dogs in heat at the dog park. Give him some space.”
“Braddy, he does. Our son smells like a Barbie.”
Caro ran upstairs and came back with one of her old dolls. The big sniffing started. It was shoved under my nose, then my arm — and while I never admitted it to them, she wasn’t wrong.
Needless to say, I went to take a shower and then jumped in the pool after.
I’d rather smell like chlorine.
The Poolside Talk
After a few laps, Mom came out poolside.
“Nate.”
I poked my head up. She waved me over, so I swam to the edge. She crouched down, smiling.
“Are you able to come home end of the month? Briony’s invited us for their wedding anniversary and to see the kids. Said the girls have grown so much and are asking for us by name. Isn’t that precious?”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. How long — a weekend?”
“Yes. Maybe a long weekend so we all get some quality time with them. It’s semester break soon anyway so I doubt they are having you guys cram too much.”
I thought for a moment. And I’d noticed months ago — more and more — how much Evie haunted my mind. Just as she did now. I’ve never flown before echoed back.
I smiled. Mom knew I had something.
“Baby, it’s almost semester break. Think you can skip one visit home to spent 50% of the time with your new bestie and see her to your heart’s content over summer instead?”
“What?”
“Nate, your face reads disappointment.”
“What are you talking about, mother of mine?”
“Oh, you need me to spell it out? Evie. You are literally trying to figure out how to fly to Bellacorde with us and wedge in time with her.”
“MOOOOOM.”
“Nathaniel, I am not arguing with you. I know. Dad knows. Your sisters see the writing on the wall. Deny it until you’re blue in the face. There used to be a time when I mentioned visiting Briony you were all over it. Now your poor sister hasn’t seen you in over a year. You know Briony can’t just up and come here as she pleases.”
“You know why I’m kinda not too keen.”
“I do. But you know she is somewhere in Innisgreen and this is a family‑only thing. Luc didn’t invite anyone. Just us. You’re safe. If you don’t leave the palace grounds there is no risk of running into the past you rather forget. Come on, Luc and Briony would love to see you again too. You skipped so many visits and I am tired of making up excuses for you so they don’t get their feelings hurt. Not their fault things happened the way they did.”
“Yeah…” I dragged it out in the most non‑committal way.
“Okay, how about this. You will come with us. Period. Rip off that Band-Aid. Face the fear. Your sisters are going too — without their boyfriends, hear, hear — so you will as well. I am changing my question to a directive.”
“I am twenty‑one, Mom. Not a minor.”
“Okay Nate, firstly, I will pretend I didn’t hear that, and secondly, I wasn’t finished. I was going to say: if you do that for Briony and me, we will let you invite a very special girl to our family trip to Sulani. How does that sound?” She smiled, winked. I could feel myself blush.
“Mom, she is just a friend.”
“I said girl. She’s still a girl, right? And if she isn’t special, why are you spending so much time with her?”
“Mom, I can tell what you’re really thinking.”
“Well, back at you. I get it, you have baggage and I respect that, but I’m not dumb, Nate. You like her. So — are we inviting her to Sulani? Separate cabana, just to make that clear.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“I don’t know if she’d even want to go. She doesn’t really know you guys all that well. Besides, would you all even be able to not embarrass me all the time?”
“That can be arranged. Can you do the same? The separate cabin thing wasn’t a joke, you know. Just thought I’d stress that — I mean, now that you’re staying overnight at her place and going furniture shopping with her… I am not going to be you guys’ pimp.” She giggled.
I splashed water at her. She squealed and retaliated — since she couldn’t make someone swimming in a pool wetter, she grabbed my face and smothered me in kisses until I squealed and swam out of reach. She fell on her butt from laughing so hard she was wheezing.
That’s when it hit me.
You know how they always tell girls they’ll likely marry a man like their father, and boys will marry a girl like their mother?
I still maintain we are friends — just friends — but I swear Mom must have been the same way Evie is. I remember Dad talking about her and all the crazy ways she made him laugh and love her more and still does.
I’d heard stories of Mom’s pink room as a teen and her romantic ideas. And her crazy ones that used to cause so much chaos.
Souvenir Surprise
The next trip to see Briony, Luc and my nieces came faster than I could prepare for.
Landing in Bellacorde felt strange. The moment the island came into view — that glittering crescent of pale stone and lavender all across rising out of the water like a postcard — my stomach dropped. I regretted agreeing to the trip before the wheels even touched the runway.
After landing, my pulse spiked. I hadn’t been back since the day everything shattered — the day I overheard her talking, the day I cut ties and never looked back.
The air smelled the same: salt, citrus trees, and the faint perfume of the royal gardens drifting even this far from the palace. Everything here felt familiar, painfully so. And I felt foolish remembering how often I’d begged to come here, pretending it was to see Briony, when really it had been something else entirely.
Briony had been pregnant with her second the last time I visited; now my niece could walk. I felt guilty. Mom had shown me photos, but photos weren’t the same as hearing her laugh or seeing her toddle toward me.
The welcome was warm and mercifully free of nagging. Luc was in full family mode — still a little stiff, but without the royal decorum he wore in public. The babies were adorable, chattering in a mix of English and French, proud of every word they could manage.
Staying at a palace is always an experience. I did enjoy it, even with the ghosts in the corners. I FaceTimed Evie, who lived out her royalcore era vicariously through me, squealing over the gardens and the architecture. When I wandered downtown on a free afternoon, I took photos until she called again.
“I have to see that live! Turn the camera, I know what you look like.”
“Ouch.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Fiiiiiine…” I pretended to be annoyed, but I wasn’t. I moved the phone around, narrating until she had to leave for her shift.
When the call ended, I felt oddly sad. In a way, it felt like she’d been here with me. Without her, the city felt bigger, emptier. I felt… vulnerable. I sighed and looked around for something to bring back for her. Something she’d like. Maybe something pink — though Bellacorde’s royal color was lavender, so pink wasn’t exactly abundant.
Unmotivated, I leafed through postcards, picked up knickknacks, browsed a rack of t‑shirts.
“Bonjour, can I ’elp you find somezing?” a young girl chirped.
I turned — and her mouth fell open. “Nathaniel? Oh, mon dieu, so good to see you!”
“I’m sorry?” I was confused.
“Is me, Anaïs. Marceau. You don’t remember? You gave me a horse and candy last time I saw you.”
A ton of bricks hit me.
Elodie’s sister. Taller now. Older. But unmistakable.
“Anaïs… hi. Umm…” What do you say to the sister of the girl who derailed your life? Whatever it was, I couldn’t think of it. I just stared.
“Are you looking for yourself or your maman or papa?” she asked, pointing at the souvenirs. I turned and looked at them like I’d never seen postcards before.
“She was very ’eartbroken, you know. We all were.”
“What?”
“When you suddenly just — poof — gone. Elodie tried so ’ard to reach you. Even sent letters. You never replied.”
Right. The letters. The ones I burned unread in the fireplace like some dramatic movie protagonist. Spoiler: real mail doesn’t burn that dramatically.
“Why did you just go away?” she asked, her face tightening — somewhere between about to cry and accusatory. It made me feel bad and angry at the same time, so I snapped.
“Are you serious? You wanna know why? Because I found out what your sister was planning with me. That she wanted to trap me into a marriage with a baby so I could pay your bills. THAT’S why.”
Anaïs looked shocked, then grabbed my arm and dragged me away. I let her — people were starting to stare. She pulled me into a quiet alleyway between two pastel buildings.
“No. You misunderstood.”
“Anaïs, don’t lie to me. I was right there, trying to surprise you guys with a visit and a translator app, and instead I got blindsided. I’m not one to eavesdrop, but I’m glad I did. And don’t tell me I broke her heart or some crap. She got married a couple months later. Give me a break.” Every feeling I’d buried for two years collided and spilled out, sharp and messy.
She sighed, then explained — in broken English, searching for words — how desperate their situation had been. How the duke had come for official business with Luc. How his parents were pressuring him to marry. How he was in love with the Crown Princess of Henfordshire, and she with him, but their families refused the match. How he hated every aristocratic girl presented to him.
How he ran into Elodie and found her pretty and sweet, and in his fiery temperament proposed on the spot after they’d shared their troubles. How she came home with the proposal, and the siblings decided it was the only lifeline left before they all drowned. She accepted the next day.
Anaïs said the marriage wasn’t one of love. Not even friendship. They had nothing in common. He was still pining after Princess Josephine, and Elodie believed he met her whenever they could sneak away during diplomatic trips. And Elodie was alone in a foreign country with no friends, no allies, no way out — but she sent money home whenever she could.
For the first time, I didn’t feel angry at her. I just felt sorry — not in a way that pulled me back, but in a way that finally let me let go.
By the time I walked back to the palace, my heart was full and empty at the same time.
Later that evening, while Mom and Dad were having tea with Luc and Briony, I mentioned offhand that I’d tried to find something to bring back for a friend but everything downtown had been pure kitsch — plastic keychains, novelty mugs, and t‑shirts that looked like they’d been printed in 1998. Mom laughed, Dad teased me, and Luc raised a brow like he was filing the information away. Ten minutes later, he disappeared and came back with a boxed bottle of Beaumont champagne, signed by him and Briony. “For your friend,” he said, like it was nothing. I didn’t know what Evie would do with it, but I knew she’d scream when she saw it.
Descent Into Chaos
The plane dipped lower, the skyline of San Myshuno rising like steel teeth against the afternoon haze. I leaned toward the window, half-listening to my sisters argue about armrests, when something familiar caught my eye.
A cluster of apartment towers. Glass, brick, balconies. And there — the one with the pale stone trim and the rooftop garden.
Her building.
My chest tightened. Not painfully. Just… sharply. Like something inside me had clicked into place.
The past wasn’t pulling me backward anymore. It wasn’t even whispering.
All I could think about was her — the girl who smelled like nostalgia and chaos and home. The girl who made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. The girl who had no idea how much space she’d taken up in my head these last few days.
I didn’t even realize I’d spoken until Mom turned toward me.
“I’m not going home with you,” I said quietly.
Three heads swiveled.
“What?” Caro asked.
“I’m already packed. I’ll fly back to San Sequoia tomorrow morning. But… I want to see Evie first. I’ll stay in town.”
Mom’s smile was soft and knowing. Dad’s was small and proud. My sisters exchanged looks that were way too smug.
I ignored all of them.
When we landed, the driver dropped me off at the curb by her building with my luggage. As I walked up, someone exited the building; I slipped inside and rode the elevator up.
My heart was pounding. Not with nerves. With something lighter. Something new.
I knocked.
The door swung open — and she froze.
She was in pajamas, a towel wrapped around her wet hair, a face mask smeared across her face, two under‑eye patches like war paint. She held a bowl of ice cream. Her socks didn’t match.
I snorted at the sight.
Her eyes went huge.
“What—Nate?!”
I widened my eyes dramatically, stumbling back a step. “Oh my God. What is that? Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
She swatted at me with her free hand. “Shut up! What are you doing here? Are you moving in?” She pointed at my bags.
“Not with whatever’s happening on your face.”
She gasped, offended. “Wow. And you forgot how texting works?”
But she was already pulling me inside, ice cream bowl still in hand, towel bobbing as she moved.
I felt… good. Chipper. Light. Like someone had taken a weight off my chest and replaced it with helium.
“No seriously,” she said, shutting the door behind us while I parked my luggage along the wall. “What is happening here?”
I pointed at her face. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Then I took her ice cream bowl right out of her hand, sat on her couch, and started eating it with her spoon, grinning up at her like an idiot.
She stared at me. “Dude. Please give me a status update on why you are manspreading on my couch with your luggage in my hallway.”
I shrugged. “We just landed. I wanted to see you before flying back tomorrow morning. Don’t worry, I’ll grab a hotel room. Just wanted to stop by first.”
She sat down next to me, still blinking like she couldn’t believe I was real.
“No. You can stay here. Getting a room is dumb. But next time, can I get a little heads-up so you don’t see me like this? And in my jammies, because I wasn’t expecting company.”
I looked at her mask again. “I mean… it’s a lot.”
She shoved me. “I hate you.”
She disappeared into the bathroom. I turned on the TV, still eating her ice cream, still grinning like a fool.
She came back a minute later — mask and eye pads still on — but holding another face mask and a pair of under‑eye pads.
“Oh no,” I said.
“Oh yes,” she said.
She straddled the couch arm, leaned over me, and tried to smear the mask onto my face. I twisted away, laughing, grabbing her wrists, both of us wrestling like kids. She shrieked when I dodged, then chased me around the apartment, her towel slipping, her laughter echoing off the walls. But she finally cornered me and plastered something that smelled like fruit yogurt all across my contorted face, followed by two under‑eye pads that landed somewhere crooked between my eyes and chin.
She stepped back and nearly suffocated laughing, folding over, snorting.
“Oh, it’s on!” I said after catching a glimpse of the disaster she created in the hallway mirror. Some of it was in my hair, and of course it was a pink mask for me with bright green under‑eye pads.
She ran, dodging me around the dining table, both of us laughing hard. “Green — matches your eyes!”
“My eyes are not nuclear‑waste green!”
When I finally caught her, I rubbed my face — mask and all — against hers. She screamed. I laughed. Someone pounded on the wall.
“Keep it down!”
We froze.
Then dissolved into laughter so hard I had to brace myself against the counter.
She wiped her cheek, breathless. “You’re insane.”
“Back at you.”
And for the first time in two years, I felt completely, stupidly, wonderfully free. I was still laughing half an hour later when I was in her shower, grinning as I didn’t even look for my dopp kit — just smeared her candy‑scented everything on myself.
When I came out of the bathroom, towel around my shoulders, she was curled up on the couch scrolling her phone, the remnants of our mask war still drying on the floor. She looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Feel human again?”
“Barely.”
I sat beside her, suddenly remembering the box in my bag. “Oh—before I forget. I, uh… brought you something.”
Her head snapped toward me. “A souvenir? From Bellacorde? Please tell me it’s a tacky postcard.”
“Better,” I said, reaching for my luggage and pulling out the sleek lavender‑and‑gold box Luc had handed me. I set it on the coffee table.
She blinked. “What is that?”
“Open it.”
She lifted the lid — and froze.
“Nate.” Her voice went up an octave. “Is this… Beaumont champagne?”
“Yep.”
She stared harder. “Signed. By Luc. And Briony.”
“Yep.”
She slapped the box shut and pointed at me like I’d committed a felony. “You brought me royal champagne as a souvenir?!”
“It was either that or a t‑shirt that said I ❤️ Bellacorde. Felt silly, considering you haven’t actually seen it, so we don’t know if you love it — sorry, heart it — or not.”
She opened the box again, eyes huge. “This is insane. This is—this is like… museum‑level fancy.”
“It’s just champagne.”
“It’s not just champagne! It’s royal champagne! With signatures! From your half‑sister and the actual sovereign prince! Oh my God — is he as gorgeous in real life as he looks on TV? So tall and handsome. Yes, please! My friends and I were drooling during that parade last year. Jen said he looks exactly like the dream‑prince template we all had as kids. And she’s right. He and Briony are so beautiful together it should be illegal. Is he really that tall? Oh, that accent. Doesn’t it sound dreamy.”
I cringed, visibly, at her outburst and felt a pang of… something. “Wow. Okay. I mean, good for you, but I’m not exactly the authority on whether he’s dreamy. Not into dudes, royal or not. But yeah, he’s pretty tall, and of course he has an accent. He’s Bellacordian. I didn’t need to know you and your friends drooled over him.”
“He’s Luc Beaumont. The Sovereign Prince of Bellacorde. I’m allowed. Married women are allowed. I think fangirling him should be mandatory.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
She laughed, hugging the box to her chest like it was a puppy. “This is the coolest thing anyone’s ever brought me.”
I shrugged. “You can drink it. Or keep the bottle. Or sell it on the black market.”
She smacked my arm. “I’d sell my kidney before I sell this! I’m keeping it, obviously! I’m gonna put it on a shelf and flex on everyone who comes over.”
“Sounds about right.”
She hugged the box to her chest like it was a newborn. “I can’t believe you brought me this.” Then she hunched over, hands curled into claws, and in a fake voice went, “Myyyy precious…”
“Yeah, okay, Gollum.”
She didn’t even think — she launched herself at me, arms around my neck, hugging me with all the chaotic enthusiasm of someone who’d just won the lottery. It wasn’t romantic; she was squeaking and bouncing and half‑laughing into my shoulder. But something in my chest tightened anyway, sharp and warm, like my body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was supposed to be platonic.
I felt my face warm. “I wanted to bring you something. Everything downtown was kitsch.”
She softened, the chaos fading into something quieter. “Thank you. Really.”
We sat there for a moment — her with the champagne, me with damp hair and candy‑scented skin — and the apartment felt small and warm and stupidly perfect.
Morning Light, Again
I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone humming off‑key.
For a second I didn’t know where I was. Then I saw the towel she’d tossed on the floor last night, the half‑empty tea cup on her nightstand that read Tea Time is Me Time, and the soft pink throw blanket she’d insisted I use — even though she’d stolen half of it in her sleep along with the rest of the blankets. I was clinging to the sheet for dear life, shivering and crying inside when the A/C kicked on.
Right. Evie’s apartment. Again.
We’d ended up sharing her bed — platonically. She’d fallen asleep sideways, one leg thrown over mine, snoring softly. I didn’t mind.
I stretched, rolled out of bed, and followed the humming.
She was in the kitchen, hair in giant curlers, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt three sizes too big. She had makeup on now and looked really pretty.
“Morning,” she said, handing me a mug. “You look like you got hit by a bus.”
“You look like you morphed into a real girl after the scarring chrysalis stage I walked into last night.”
She flicked water at me. “Sit. I made breakfast.”
It was simple — toast, fruit, scrambled eggs — but it felt stupidly nice. Domestic. Easy. Like we’d done this a hundred times.
We ate, joked, argued about whether her coffee machine was possessed, and she kept stealing bites off my plate like a gremlin.
“Hey,” I said, wiping my mouth. “I wanted to run something by you. So… a couple times every year my family takes family vacations together. Summer at a beach, winter skiing. Would you go with me for summer break?”
Her eyes grew big. She stopped chewing. Then she chewed again — fast, like a squirrel — swallowed hard.
“With your entire family? On vacation? Do they know about this?”
“No. I thought I could sneak you in my luggage. Yes, of course they know. You’re officially invited.”
“And where to?”
“Sulani. Ever been?”
“Sulani. Me? Oh yeah, millions of times. You know how I jet‑set around the globe, independently wealthy as I am.”
I chuckled into my coffee. “You’ll like it. It’s nice.”
“I bet it is, but I can’t do that. Total mooch scenario. Especially knowing about how triggered you are by your past with girls trying to get into your pants and bank account and all.”
“I am not triggered, I had solid reasons. You didn’t hear me. You’re invited. My parents and sisters invited you. They’re bringing their boyfriends — both wealthy enough to afford it — but they, too, are invited. Means all‑inclusive. So, if we can do it for them, we can do it for you. Following my logic here? No mooching, just something we do. You didn’t ask for this. I’m inviting you.”
“Okaaaaaay. I am definitely into it. So, Sulani. Like white beaches and palm trees and sun and swimming and exotic drinks?”
“All that and more. You’d love it. It’s very colorful.”
She grinned. “Say less! Okay, I’m in. When? Agh, doesn’t matter. It’s during summer break and not like I have a full schedule or something. I was just gonna pick up extra shifts at the spa.”
“Well, you can always give me a neck rub in Sulani.”
I smiled. That was easy. And I was thrilled.
My phone buzzed. And my buzz was killed. Text from our driver.
I’m downstairs. Ready when you are.
I sighed and stood. “That’s me. Time to leave.”
The disappointment on her face hit me right in the chest, so I said:
“I’ll get dressed quickly. Luckily I still smell like a candy store from the shower last night.”
“Whoever is seated next to you will thank me.”
“Private jet. Nobody next to me. Just attendants.”
“Right. Well, then they will thank me.”
“I’m sure that is exactly what they’ll think. Hey, if you have classes, we can drop you off on the way.”
“I have classes later but need some library time. But I’ll drop you off first, then campus. Okay?”
“Deal.”
We headed downstairs together. The morning air was cool, the city loud and alive. My driver stood by the car, trunk open. I hated the goodbye and was glad she was coming with. I really wanted to kidnap her and take her to Foxbury with me.
The driver loaded my bags.
The ride to the airport was begrudgingly fast, especially for a city famous for traffic congestion. When we arrived at the private terminal, Evie hovered awkwardly, like she wasn’t sure what the protocol was for seeing off a guy who had surprise‑invaded her apartment last night and eaten her ice cream.
“So…” she said.
“So…” I echoed.
She rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, don’t be weird. Just go.”
I laughed, stepped forward, and while she wrapped her arms around me for a hug, I — without thinking — pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. Not romantic. Not planned. Just… instinct. I didn’t know why. I had no explanation. We’d never done anything like it before. No kisses, ever. A reflex, somehow.
She froze.
I froze.
We both pretended it didn’t happen, ears burning.
“Text me when you land,” she said.
“I will.”
The flight was a blur; my head was everywhere but present.
It snapped back into focus the minute I walked into my dorm room. My roommate Tate was there. He skipped the greeting entirely.
“Dude, did you spend the weekend in drag? I can smell you from here, you Sephora fairy! Did your sisters give you a mani‑pedi or what happened?”
“Evie happened,” I said, grinning.
Tate is my cousin. We used to be inseparable — Nate and Tate — growing up, then life happened and we lost touch until college made us roommates again. If I would tell anyone about Elodie, which I had, and Evie, which I had not yet, and everything that happened, it would be him.
Would he give me hell for it? Absolutely. He had given me such a hard time about Elodie. And I know he would give me an even harder time about Evie.
Would he spill the beans to anyone? Never.
Echoes Of Legacy 