When she uncovers his plan to lead an entirely uneventful life, Mia Evian is determined to teach Preston Maddox how to stop living like a ghost, but Mia and Preston have history, tension, and a lot of complicated feelings.
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Despite my reservations, I take Margot's advice and brave the indoors to face Preston. Only, I can't find him, and Joe saves me from the dignity of having to ask for his whereabouts by proactively letting me know he's popped upstairs.
I try my best to engage with everyone as I await Preston's return, and I pray no one's noticing my frequent glances towards the living room door. He's been gone at least twenty minutes. Maybe I should check on him. Worry is beginning to crawl underneath my skin, and it's creating a strange amalgamation of bitterness and concern, like if someone who bought the last muffin you were eyeing up at a cafe got robbed on their way out.
In an attempt to not drive myself crazy, I resort to returning to the garden to call the worst person ever for advice.
'Mia!' Aiden screams down the phone, and he's drunk–he's off his tits, no question.
The only other people in the garden are standing at the opposite end of it, but Aiden's animalistic screech is loud enough to cast their eyes my way. I mouth an apology.
'I'm not gonna lie to you, I'm off my tits–'
See.
'–so if I start talking shit, just shout!'
'On the topic of shouting,' I say down the phone. 'Let's try five.'
'Holy mackerel, volume five?' he replies, and I'm impressed that he even understood my request. 'C'mon, at least let me have six.'
'Fine. Six. Whatever, just sh,' I mutter.
'Uh oh,' he replies in a tone not too dissimilar to a kid's TV show host. 'What's happened? Do you need me to come to London? I think the trains are still running and I'm out in Cardiff, so it's easy for me to–'
'Appreciate the love and concern, but it–No, it's not that deep, don't worry.'
'Hang on!' he shouts, and he's back to volume ten.
I mouth another apology to the garden's other occupants. Aiden's voice has been replaced with shuffling sounds, and the music that was pulsing as he was speaking is fading.
'Okay, hit me with it,' he says.
'No, it's–I'm fine, honestly; sorry I called. I won't steal you from your friends and–'
'Euphemia Evian!' he cuts in, again at volume ten.
'Sh!' I hiss through the phone, but he pays me no attention.
'I will stand in this sketchy club's smoking area and you will tell me what's wrong!'
A laugh breaks through my lips, and I'm giggling as I say, 'okay, okay! Fine, just–just sh, okay?'
'Deal,' he replies.
Finally, I spill everything. Not just tonight's events, but the other stuff–the weird stuff. How thrown I was when I bumped into Preston at Margot's first house party, the under the covers hand holding, the heat of his touch in the lake, despite the freezing temperature of the water.
