(Not So) Famous in Paradise (Love in Paradise Valley) by Brittany Larsen

Author:Brittany Larsen [Larsen, Brittany]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2023-08-24T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 18

Zach

By the time I turn into Little Copenhagen, I’m a wreck. I’m man enough to admit there were tears on my drive. But not just over Carly. I’m grateful I have Georgia to talk to, but I wish I could go to Mom too. A hug from her would be nice right now. I’d take a chance she’d give it to me, even if she doesn’t remember me today, but I’m afraid I’d only upset her if I show up this much of a mess.

Georgia’s car is already in the driveway, and she’s walking toward the door. My headlights bounce over her as I pull in, and she waves. I park, then check my face in the rearview mirror for any signs of tears. My eyes are red, but I slide out of the car anyway.

When I meet Georgia at her front steps, I attempt a smile. She’s not fooled. One look at me, and her eyebrows draw together. I try to look away, but she holds my gaze.

“What happened?” She almost whispers, her voice is so soft with concern.

“It’s over.” I swallow hard, but I can’t stop the slight quiver in my lip.

Georgia blinks, and for half a second, I swear her eyes light up. But it’s only the reflection of the porch light in them.

“Get in here.” She pushes the door open with her hip and grabs my arm. “You need a drink, some ice cream, and a good cry.”

“I think I’ll skip the cry. I’ve had enough humiliation for one day.” I let her lead me to the couch where I sink into the overstuffed cushions. It’s not quite a hug, but it will do.

“The cry is the best part,” Georgia says. “You need it, so you can either do it voluntarily, or I can show you TikTok’s of dads returning home from military service and surprising their kids.” Her voice rises and falls as she walks to the kitchen and opens the freezer.

“No need,” I laugh. “I cried on the way here.”

“Okay, good. Step one, done. Now what flavor ice cream?”

“What flavors do you have?” I turn enough to see her.

She’s standing in front of the freezer, eyebrow up. “All of them,” she states matter-of-factly. Georgia loves ice cream.

“Surprise me. As long as it’s not mint chip.” I love ice cream too.

“Never.” She grabs a pint of what looks like Ben & Jerry’s. Perfect.

I stretch out my legs and lean back to stare at the ceiling until Georgia returns holding ice cream, two spoons, and a bottle of wine. No glasses. Which actually makes it better. If I’m going to cry into my wine, it feels more manly to drink it right out of the bottle.

Georgia hands me the ice cream—Cherry Garcia—and the spoons, then sets the wine on her antler-leg table. “If we’re doing a break-up ice cream binge, I need to get out of these clothes into stretchy pants. I’ll be right back.”

I start in on the ice cream without her, but she’s back within two minutes wearing fuzzy PJ bottoms and a big sweatshirt.

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