Caught by the question and knowing there was no way around it, Grace Barron chose the straight line. "Yes," she said. "I did. I'm sorry. I was drunk."
Oakley Ponciano went still for a beat. So the half-lit scenes from last night hadn't been a dream sewn out of longing, nor an illusion fed by wishful thinking. They had kissed.
Her hand rose before she could stop it, fingers brushing her mouth as if Grace's warmth might still be there, a trace at the rim of her lips. The Grace from memory and the Grace in front of her slid into focus as one, and Oakley's heart stumbled—then quickened.
Honestly, she was curious—what the kiss had tasted like, what shape their breathing had taken, whether the world had tilted a fraction. But she'd been fogged with liquor, the kiss had fogged her further, and the details had dissolved.
Curiosity was one thing. Asking for a lesson was another.
Seeing her drift, Grace mistook the silence for reproach. "Don't worry," she said, leaning back against the stone edge of the pool. "It won't happen again."
Oakley lowered her hand, wetted her lips, and caught a petal from the water, turning it idly between her fingers. "I never said I was blaming you. Why make such a solemn promise?"
"Wrong is wrong," Grace said quietly. "I should promise."
"No need…" Oakley teased the petal apart into thin ribbons and flicked them away, then let her hand skim the surface. Ripples rose and folded, rose and folded. "Life's long. Who can swear what comes next? Maybe one day I'll be over this sexless marriage and not only want you to kiss me, but want you to take me to bed…"
Grace frowned, uncertain she'd heard. "Want me to what?"
The boldness reached Oakley a heartbeat late. Her back tightened; her hand stilled. "Nothing. You misheard. I said—so what if we kissed? It's not like anyone lost a piece of themselves."
"Is that so?" Grace asked, still dubious.
"Of course." Oakley lifted her chin and lied without the faintest blush.
Grace didn't truly believe her, but belief wasn't the point. She let it stand.
A thread of awkwardness slid into the steam between them. Both of them felt it, neither of them named it.
Heat tugged at Oakley's patience, and she grabbed the first safer thing that floated past. "By the way—does your grandmother live in Skylark, too?"
Grace eased farther back and exhaled. "No. The climate here's hard on her. She lives with my mother in City A."
"I get it." Oakley drifted until her shoulder touched the coping near Grace's, then tipped her head. "Did you book our flights?"
Grace pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "I nearly forgot. I've been swamped. I'll do it later."
"Okay." Oakley studied her a moment. "If you're that busy—any trouble spots? Your body, I mean."
Grace dropped her hands and took stock. "Not much. Sometimes my head feels… swollen. Overthinking and overworking."
"Careful," Oakley murmured, brows knitting. "I had a stretch like that. I ignored it and it turned to nausea."
Grace tipped her face toward the ceiling. "Once this patch passes, I'll be fine. It's just too many irritating things at once. Drains you."
Zach's mess crossed Oakley's mind—no wonder she was tired just thinking of it. She couldn't help, not really, so she lifted both hands and kneaded the air near Grace's temples. "Want me to try a massage?"
"You do that?" Grace asked.
"Of course." Oakley smiled. "I'm decent. Haven't killed anyone yet."
Grace's eyelid twitched. "Is there a chance I'll be your first?"
Oakley blinked round-eyed. "Don't be absurd. If I had that kind of power, I'd use it on the person who stabbed me in the back."
It was so outrageous that Grace had to laugh. "Fine. Work your magic."
But steam and water made everything slippery and buoyant; there was nowhere to plant pressure.
"Forget it," Oakley sighed. "Next time."
"Next time," Grace agreed.
They dressed and left the spa.
Outside, night had thickened into an ink-wash. This was the outer edge of the city; the road lay wide and mostly empty, lamps pearling the rows of trees. A leaf swung loose and fell without sound, sketching a hush that felt almost like solitude.
Unlike the clamor downtown, here the quiet rose up and met whatever weather moved inside a person.
By the car, Grace's hand found the door handle. Oakley tugged her sleeve. "Hey."
"Mm?" Grace turned.
"I love it here," Oakley said, eyes bright. "It's so still. So easy. Let's not drive yet. Walk with me? Talk a bit?"
Grace looked around as if noticing the world for the first time in weeks. Work had swallowed her and left only a ghost to pass through the days. She'd walked under shade and over concrete and seen none of it.
"Okay," she said, releasing the handle and locking the car again. "Let's walk."
They slipped between parked cars and stepped onto the street. Oakley pointed toward the far side. "There's a river path over there. Let's go."
"West River," Grace said, recalling the map. "Pretty. When the river-view condos went up, they sold out in a week."
"Not gonna lie," Oakley said, watching her own shadow tilt and stretch, "I almost bought here. Gorgeous, but rivers are damp. I'd be miserable after a month."
They crossed and found a path of rounded stones winding along the water. Grace angled a look at her. "You run cold?"
"A little. Winter turns my hands and feet to ice."
"Then ease up on the iced drinks," Grace said. "Even in summer."
Oakley turned, a little surprised. "How'd you know I love them?"
Had she broadcast that so loudly?
Grace's mouth tipped. "First time I opened your fridge—wall-to-wall cold bottles."
Oakley's brows lifted. "You remember things like that? I'd have missed it."
Grace tilted her head toward the dark river. "Can't help it. Too much storage up here."
Oakley snorted. "So mine's empty? I'm the slow one?"
"Not at all." Grace laughed. "Choosing not to remember what doesn't matter is its own kind of smart."
Praise warmed Oakley quickly. "You do know how to talk."
"Thanks for the compliment."
"Please…" Oakley walked on, then looked over again. "Grace, sometimes I wonder—what kind of person are you, really?"
Grace thought for a moment, then glanced sideways, mischievous. "Heaven-sent."
She lifted a finger toward the sky. "See? I live up there. Came down to the mortal world for a trial."
Oakley laughed, unable to help herself, and gave Grace's shoulder a soft, mock-annoyed punch. "Cut it out, heavenly being. If you're celestial, then I'm the Queen of Heaven."
"Oh?" Grace pulled an exaggerated face of surprise. "So you're the Queen of Heaven? Then we're colleagues. Incredible. My deepest apologies for not recognizing you. Shall we shake on it?"
Oakley glanced at the hand she offered, shook her head, and steered them back. "Don't change the subject."
Grace tilted her head. "Am I?"
"You always do," Oakley said, unflinching. "The second the topic turns to you—really you—you start clowning, skating sideways until the moment passes. If that's not changing the subject, what is?"
Hands in her pockets, Grace studied her for a breath, then smiled. "There isn't much to say. I'm not as complicated as you think. Just ordinary."
Oakley hissed lightly through her teeth and folded her arms around her waist. "Fine. Then I'll tell you something—off the record."
"Mhm?" Grace waited, patient.
Oakley lifted both arms and stretched until her spine clicked. "Shameless confession: since I was a kid I've thought I was pretty great. So when someone doubts me, I might sulk for a minute, but afterward? I always decide the problem is theirs, not mine."
Grace laughed. "The classic wisdom: instead of chewing yourself to bits, fling the mess back to where it started."
Oakley tugged her sliding bag strap up onto her shoulder and nodded, mock-solemn. "Because I've learned there's only one person in the world who can listen to me from every angle, understand me, and hold me. Me. Whatever anyone else sees, in my eyes I'm the cutest, sweetest, most singular, most fun—most worthy of love."
Grace's gaze dipped to the chain of Oakley's bag, catching a small shimmer in the dark. "That mindset suits you."
"Maybe." Oakley smiled, then sighed. "It does mean I offend people without noticing. They call me a narcissist. Plenty can't stand me."
Once it hadn't bothered her, not really. But since meeting Grace, the contrast had sharpened—how blunt she could be, how so many friends had drifted through her life like passing weather. Everyone except Amelia Hayes.
Grace shook her head. "That's not narcissism. You're confident, and your temper isn't especially tame. People who can't tolerate healthy self-regard—that's their issue. They're not your people."
She went on, voice even, steady as a hand at the small of the back. "Some folks are highly sensitive—the unhealthy kind. Your sensitivity runs lower; you're not afraid to show yourself. They're different: even when you mean nothing by it, they over-interpret. Like those online crusaders who strike first and forbid you to answer back. Not sensitive at all while they're swinging, hypersensitive the moment anyone pushes back."
She glanced at Oakley, mouth tipping faintly. "That's what 'different circles' really means—different ways of looking, different readings. Friction follows."
Oakley nodded, then frowned a little. "So am I sensitive or not? When I'm being myself, I don't overthink. But once they go for me, I bristle."
Grace thought about it. "You're normal. It's the ecosystem that's skewed. With the collective temper running hot, a normal person starts to feel out of place—unsure how to adapt."
Something in Oakley eased. Grace's words had a way of loosening tight knots. She felt it again—that strange safety, as if standing under a tall, dependable tree.
"And you?" she asked, curious as ever. "Would you call yourself highly sensitive?"
Given all her angles on people, that calm remove—it would fit.
Grace answered honestly. "I don't know."
Often, she couldn't read herself at all.
Oakley blinked. Not the answer she'd expected. She turned it over, then clapped once, eyes bright. "I've got it."
"Oh?" Grace's gaze warmed. "Let's hear it."
Oakley broke into impish laughter. "You're the allergic type."