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"I always knew this island was haunted, just didn't realize I'd be seeing ghosts so soon."
Salome tipped her head to the side, fork still stabbed in the piece of grilled chicken sandwiched between the lettuce. Her interactions had begun to feel like bucket list items: Topper, Wheezie, Kelce, and now Theo.
Salome tipped her fork, letting the chicken fall back onto the bed of arugula with a soft thud. The salad wasn't even hers—it was Theo's, barely touched, half an afterthought on the table between them. Her iced coffee, lukewarm by now, sat sweating in a tall glass on her side, untouched since she'd caught sight of him across the marina patio.
Theo hadn't changed much. Same slouch, same perpetually unbuttoned Ralph Lauren oxford, same hair that fell just a little too perfectly messy. He was a walking Vineyard Vines ad, all sharp angles and manufactured ease, the kind of boy who could sweet-talk his way out of a DUI with a smirk and a firm handshake.
"Didn't think you'd be back," Theo said, voice lazy, his eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. Not on her—never on her. That was the game with Theo. He spoke like he had all the time in the world to care, but the sharp edge in his tone always gave him away.
"Didn't think you'd care," she replied, leaning back against the iron-wrought chair, its frame digging into her shoulder blades. The Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag at her feet, half-unzipped and spilling receipts and a forgotten compact, felt heavier than it should. It was the bag she'd left behind, and felt the immense need to use the second she saw it in her closet. She hadn't bothered going through what was in it, knowing it most likely had all her essentials as all her bags did.
"I don't." He flashed a grin, all teeth and no warmth, as his fingers traced the edge of his Ray-Bans where they rested on the table. "Just saying, the last time I saw you, you were making a scene at the Pelican Club. Thought you were done with this place."
The mention of the Pelican Club pulled a faint laugh from her throat, low and humorless. She remembered that night—remembered the way the champagne tasted, flat and bitter, and the way the room had spun when she'd turned too quickly on her heels, trying to leave before anyone could stop her. Rafe had followed her out, his grip tight enough to leave bruises on her wrist.
