She took a deep breath, feeling herself slump. She was supposed to hate him, but instead she just felt . . . empty. She’d held on to a fantasy of the man she’d believed James was—a Casanova who’d changed when he met the right woman—and losing that was as painful as losing James himself. She turned her head toward the pinkish clouds in the sky, a realization dawning on her: Poppy had known that James cheated. And she’d stayed with him anyway.
It was the most jarring discovery Rowan had had in weeks, somehow even more shocking than the thought that Poppy might have killed Steven Barnett. Poppy was the kind of woman who lived purposefully. She was in complete control—and she always had been. Why would she stay with a man who cheated on her again and again? She could have had anyone in the world, and yet Poppy had looked the other way.
Had she thought she deserved it?
Was that why she hadn’t confided in Rowan or the others? Was that why she pretended to have a perfect marriage? Suddenly Rowan felt strangled by all the lies. Corinne and her fake smile as she kissed the fiancé she didn’t truly love. Mason and Danielle with their secret affair. And Rowan certainly couldn’t count herself out.
And what about Poppy? Who had she really been? Would Rowan ever know?
Unbidden, a memory floated to the fore of her mind. At the end-of-summer party when Steven died, the band had played “Nothing Compares 2 U,” which Poppy had always loved. She ran to James and looped her arms around him, nestling into his shoulder. They’d swayed to the whole song, holding each other tight. Rowan had stood on the sidelines, envy throbbing inside her like a second heart. A sob had escaped from her lips, and she’d looked around, hoping no one had heard.
Only Danielle Gilchrist was around. She looked pretty and pink-cheeked that night, and when she saw Rowan’s expression, she handed Rowan her full glass of wine. “It’s not fair, is it?” Danielle had said softly, her smile sad. “Her life just falls into place, while the rest of us have to struggle.”
Rowan nodded. She was so jealous of Poppy in that moment. Her cousin made things seem so . . . effortless. Rowan would have killed for just a little of that grace. For a little of that luck.
But was Poppy’s effortlessly perfect life real? Or was it just an illusion she’d carefully cultivated and maintained?
James sighed next to her, and Rowan looked up at him. “So that means there’s no way you and I . . .” He trailed off, his brows raised. There was a sheepish but hopeful look in his eyes. “I’ll try to change, Rowan. I’ll try as hard as I can.”
Rowan wanted to believe him. But James had said it himself: he was who he was, and he couldn’t help himself. She saw that now. She could take his hand and then look the other way when she found lipstick smudged on his collar or a suspicious text on his phone. Maybe that was what Poppy had done.
But Rowan wasn’t Poppy. She had the choice, and she didn’t want to fake it.
She touched the top of his hand. “I’m sorry, James,” she said softly. “But I think I’m going to have to let you go.”
And then, just like that, she finally did.
28
The sunporch in the house at Meriweather had always been Corinne’s favorite place to hang out, probably because the room was mostly unused by their parents. Edith complained it smelled like mildew and salt and was full of bugs, but Corinne loved it. It reminded her of long nights on the slightly damp old wicker couches, the citronella candles lit all around, the various swings and chairs squeaking, and the sounds of the waves loud in their ears. She and her cousins used to tell secrets in this close, humid little room—about boys, fights with their parents, their dreams. Back then, their futures had seemed as limitless as their fortunes.
Strange to think of that now, Corinne mused as she lay on the porch swing late that night, her head on Rowan’s shoulder. Through the years she had boxed herself in, little by little, the boxes getting smaller and smaller until her knees were bent and her legs cramped. Now it felt as if someone was placing a lid on that final box.
“It was a really nice rehearsal dinner,” said Aster, who had changed into yoga pants and a long, fitted T-shirt. “Great band.”
“Yes, everyone had a good time dancing,” Corinne said lightly. “Especially the kids.”
“Sky looked really happy,” Rowan said. The little girl had been on the dance floor all night, finally falling asleep on James’s shoulder as he carried her upstairs. Everyone had beamed at Skylar happily, but there was a sadness there too. She no longer had Poppy’s parents. She no longer had a mother. And what about a father? James was here tonight, but he looked totally vacant.
“Men are jerks,” Aster mumbled, as if reading her thoughts.
Corinne wanted to agree, but all she felt was sadness. Dixon wasn’t a jerk. Will wasn’t a jerk. But it was what it was. She was getting married tomorrow. Anything else was too much. Too hard. She felt like she was looking down a long, straight road; no twists, no unexpected turns. She wondered how something could feel like relief and regret at the same time.