Chapter 100 Twenty-Four
Elena: POV
The next morning, Mom was already up when I shuffled into the kitchen. She was humming—actually humming—as she poured herself orange juice.
"Good morning, sweetheart." She turned, beaming. "Did you sleep well?"
"Not really," I muttered, heading for the coffee pot.
"Nervous about tonight?"
I froze. "What?"
"The bonfire." She winked. "With Ethan."
Oh. Right. That.
"I'm not nervous," I lied.
"You should be." She took a sip of juice, eyes twinkling. "First time he's seeing you in a fun, relaxed setting. No broken windows. No dying mothers to impress."
"Mom—"
"I'm kidding." She laughed. Then sobered. "But seriously, Elena. Wear something pretty. Let yourself enjoy this."
Enjoy. Right.
I poured coffee, avoiding her gaze. "I'll try."
She studied me for a long moment. Then set down her glass. "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you're scared."
I looked up sharply. "Scared of what?"
"Being happy." Her voice was soft. Sad. "You've been through so much, baby. You forget that you're allowed to have good things. Good people."
I'm not scared of being happy. I'm scared of dragging Ethan down with me. I'm scared of him realizing I'm not worth the effort.
But I couldn't say that.
So I just nodded.
"I'll wear something pretty," I whispered.
She smiled. "That's my girl."
---
By six that evening, I was pacing the living room in a simple black sundress Mom had pulled from the back of my closet. It was too nice. Too much. Like I was trying too hard.
You are trying too hard. Because you're about to drag Ethan into another lie.
My phone buzzed.
Ethan: On my way. Be there in ten.
Shit.
Mom appeared in the doorway, looking more alive than she had in days. She'd put on makeup. Lipstick. A soft blue cardigan that matched her eyes.
"He's almost here," I said.
"I know." She grinned. "I can't wait."
Of course you can't. Because you think this is real.
A knock at the door made us both jump.
Mom started toward it, but I held up a hand. "I'll get it."
I crossed the room, hand on the doorknob.
Just breathe. It's just Ethan. It's just one night.
I opened the door.
He stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, wearing a light gray button-down and jeans. His hair was slightly messy, like he'd run his fingers through it too many times. His eyes met mine.
And he smiled.
"Hi," he said softly.
"Hi."
Behind me, Mom's voice rang out. "Ethan! Come in, come in!"
He stepped inside, and she pulled him into a hug before I could stop her.
"Mrs. Vance." He returned the embrace gently. "You look beautiful."
"Oh, stop." She waved him off, but her cheeks flushed with pleasure. "You ready for some chaos?"
Mom looked so much better than she had in weeks—maybe it was because she'd taken the time to put on makeup today, or maybe it was the sheer joy of being able to go to the bonfire that had brought color back to her cheeks.
"Absolutely." He glanced at me. "I'm excited."
---
The beach was alive with energy when we arrived. Strings of lights hung between palm trees, casting a warm glow over the sand. A massive bonfire crackled in the center, surrounded by people of all ages—families with kids, college students, couples holding hands.
Mom's eyes lit up as she took it all in. "Oh, this is perfect."
Ethan offered her his arm as we made our way across the sand. "Careful with the uneven ground, Mrs. Vance."
She beamed at him. "Such a gentleman."
He really is.
We found a spot near the fire where Mom could sit comfortably on a piece of driftwood someone had dragged over as makeshift seating. Ethan sat beside her, immediately engaging her in conversation about the music, the crowd, the way the firelight danced on the water.
I stood slightly apart, watching them. Mom was animated in a way I hadn't seen in months, gesturing as she talked, laughing at Ethan's gentle jokes. And he was completely focused on her, like making her happy was the most important thing in the world.
This is what she wanted. To see me with someone good.
Too bad it's all fake.
"Alright, everyone!" A voice boomed through a portable speaker system. The host—a sun-weathered guy in his fifties with a megaphone—stood near the fire. "Time for our annual dance-off! We're going to draw numbers, pair you up randomly, and see who's got the best moves!"
The crowd cheered. Mom clapped her hands together.
"Oh, you two should do it!" she said, looking between Ethan and me.
"Mom, I don't think—"
"Come on," Ethan said, standing and extending his hand. "It could be fun."
I looked at his outstretched palm. Then at Mom's hopeful face.
Fine. One dance. How bad could it be?
"Okay," I said, taking his hand.
We made our way to where the host was holding a bucket filled with folded papers.
"Draw your numbers, folks! Ladies first!"
I reached in, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. Twenty-three.
Ethan drew next. Forty-two.
Different numbers. Of course.
"Alright!" the host called out. "Find your partners! Number one with number two, three with four, and so on!"
I looked around, searching for whoever had number twenty-four.
"Excuse me."
I turned.
Alexander Sterling stood behind me, holding a piece of paper. Even in the casual beach setting, he looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine—white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark slacks that probably cost more than my rent.
What the fuck is he doing here?
He held up his paper. Twenty-four.