The Reunion by Kayla Olson(67)
It’s been ages since I did yoga, but I don’t have a better idea for how to distract myself for an entire hour, so I settle into a plank, then push up into downward-facing dog. It isn’t long before muscle memory takes over and I slip back into the daily practice I maintained half a decade ago. The breeze coming off the ocean, the rhythmic crash of waves, the occasional seabird swooping low over the water: it’s calming, all of it. For the first time all day, the tension melts from my neck and I’m finally able to just breathe.
I stay at it for so long I don’t realize how dark the sky has gotten until it breaks open. Raindrops fall fast and hard, soaking me in five seconds flat. Normally, I’d run inside immediately just to protect my phone, or my hair. Today, I let the rain wash over me, unhurried as I attempt to shake the sand from my blanket, watching as it peppers the ocean. It’s beautiful.
My house feels frigid after all that time outside, especially seeing as I’m drenched. I grab a kitchen towel, trying my best to dry off a little—and that’s when I hear the knocking on my front door, muffled by the storm.
“Liv?” I hear between knocks, as I rush to the front door. It sounds like Bre. “Liv!”
I whip the door open and yes, sure enough, there’s Bre, her fiery-red hair dripping. I’ve always told her she bears a striking resemblance to a certain little mermaid, and now it’s especially true in her soaking-wet teal-and-purple workout clothes.
“What are you doing?” I say, pulling her inside. “How long have you been here? I’m so sorry!”
“Probably fifteen minutes or so?” she says, teeth chattering. It’s high sixties out there right now at best, and my air conditioner isn’t helping. “I tried calling first, because I wasn’t sure you’d actually go through with locking your phone away, but it looks like you did it—aghhhhhh, I’m so sorry about your rug!” I follow her gaze and see she’s trailed spots all over it from the front door to my living room.
I wave her off. “No worries about that. Are you okay? I was doing yoga on the beach.”
We hadn’t made plans for her to come back, and in fact, she specifically mentioned a Peloton ride she’d been looking forward to all week, a special live event featuring Hālo’s music.
Her eyebrows raise at the mention of yoga—she never knew me during my extremely dedicated yoga phase, but I had quite the intense streak going for a couple of years until I went on location for a project and it threw off my entire routine.
“So, okay, I did some digging,” she says. “First of all, it definitely looks like one of the baristas was involved. I talked to a girl named Mattea, and she said her coworker Dex opened the café on his own yesterday morning. She also said he’s had money trouble lately, and when she tried texting and calling to ask about the photo, he ignored her entirely. So. That’s a promising lead. As for the website, no one would talk.” She follows me to the guest bathroom down the hall, where I toss her a towel. “Thanks. So, yeah, they’re keeping their sources locked down tight—but I still got some useful info out of the call. The girl I talked to made this comment about how this was her ‘best day on the job ever!’?” Bre puts the phrase in air quotes and does her best super-green intern voice to match. “She just happened to mention she’d talked to ‘Sasha-Kate Kilpatrick, like, right before this!’?” She gives me a look, and the pieces fall together.
“Which means,” I say slowly, “that if she’s committed to keeping their source anonymous but willing to spill that Sasha-Kate called only a few minutes before—”
“And that the Sasha-Kate call happened today,” Bre adds, “not yesterday before the article ran—”
“That means it had to be someone else who spilled,” I finish. “Ransom’s dad feels like the most logical answer.”
It’s the answer that would sting less, anyway.
“Or Ransom himself,” Bre says, ever thorough.
“Or Ransom himself,” I echo, but am quick to add, “but I’m, like, ninety-five percent positive he wouldn’t have told.”
“Ninety-five percent,” she says flatly, with a look.
“Okay, ninety-five might be a little high,” I admit. “Ninety percent. Eighty-five.” I shake the ideas out of my head before I go any lower. “The point is, with our history, and especially after last night in his pool—”
Her eyes go wide. “Wait, last night in his pool?”
“I only meant that we talked about keeping our relationship a secret for now,” I say, though I can’t keep the heat from flooding my cheeks, or the ghost of a smile that pulls at the corners of my mouth. “But yeah, um. Last night was good in other ways, too.”
“Okay, that is a conversation for later!” she says, but then the sparkle falls out of her eyes. “If you still want to have it after what I’m about to show you, that is.” She takes a deep breath, exhales loudly. “I’m not saying Ransom’s the one who told, okay? But some more stuff popped up today that made me wonder.”
All the calm I worked so hard to cultivate is gone, replaced by what feels like an avocado pit in my stomach. A roll of thunder swells outside, the rain really picking up. A few taps later, and her phone is unlocked, open to a new headline.