Just friends, p.1
Just Friends, page 1
Advance Praise for Just Friends
“It is IMPOSSIBLE to believe that this is Haley’s debut novel! Just Friends is a heartwarming second-chance story that contemporary romance fans will adore. An absolute must-read!”
—Lynn Painter, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Better Than the Movies
“Haley Pham’s debut novel, a second-chance romance set in a seaside town, is a sun-drenched delight. Just Friends explores grief, vulnerability, and the power of forgotten dreams. I could not stop turning the pages, following Blair and Declan’s flight toward each other, and love.”
—Amanda Eyre Ward, New York Times bestselling author of the Reese’s Book Club pick, The Jetsetters
“Champion of reading Haley has written a beautiful, sensitive second chance romance that her millions of fans are going to love. I was reminded of the warmth and heart of Emily Henry. Just Friends is so assured and confident it’s hard to believe it’s a debut. Haley is a big new talent for the genre.”
—Mhairi McFarlane, author of Just Last Night
“In this debut novel, Haley Pham explores first love and second chances with a tender gaze. Not shying away from the raw emotion that accompanies grief, Pham handles both love and loss deftly and with a kindness that will leave readers warm and smiling by the final pages. The setting of Seabrook sings, and Blair’s struggle with friendships, family, and her own career path elevate this into a relatable coming-of-adulthood story—without losing focus on the romance at its heart. This novel feels like the perfect bridge between young adult books like The Summer of Broken Rules and the fully mature struggles you’ll find in adult contemporary romance—exactly what a new adult novel should be!”
—USA Today bestselling author Emma St. Clair
“A moving story of first love finding its way home. Utterly delightful.”
—Rachel Catherine
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For Ryan, who made my life a romance book before I discovered them
Chapter 1
The fear part only come when it’s love,” Aunt Lottie would always say in the kind of broken English others noticed but I never did. “The kind of love that burrow so deep, it transform you. If you lose it, it feel like losing a part of yourself, too.”
That feeling is personified in my stomach right now, and not in the way I expected her advice to come true—about some boy, about Declan. Instead, that full-bodied, love-fueled fear was stirring awake because of her.
“I just want to warn you. Things will look a little different when you get here.” My mom’s voice fills the car speaker.
“I know. It’s— That’s fine. I’ll be there in twenty. Love you, Mom,” I say in a rush, finger hovering over the red button.
She sighs like mothers sigh when they know they can’t protect their daughters from inevitable pain. “Okay, then. I love you more, sweetie. See you soon.”
The call ends, and I swallow hard, readjusting my grip on the steering wheel. A two-lane highway stretches before me, kissing a steep cliff that slopes toward waves that crash against the shore.
As I drive through the tunnel that transports you from vast, open skies to a town that feels too cozy not to be fiction, I force myself to perceive its beauty like the travelers who flock here every summer might. An overhang of trees makes it seem like the town is wearing a beret, and flowers in bloom seemingly all year dot the quaint cottages that look like they’re built by fairies.
A few turns later, I’m nearing my childhood home—or more specifically, The Great Aunt Lottie’s house—but I want to make a stop first. Perhaps it’s further avoidance of what I’m scared to find when I arrive, but I veer left toward the picturesque downtown square regardless.
There’s one local bookstore in Seabrook, California, and it’s only open during the busy tourist season—which seems to be now, judging by the crowds. I have to yield to a conglomerate of pedestrians almost every ten feet. Dads wearing fanny packs are followed closely behind by kids wearing waffle crewnecks screen-printed with the name SEABROOK, melting ice cream cones in hand.
Scoring an unlikely parking spot in front of the bookstore, I brace myself before pushing open the heavy oak door to Seabrook’s Books and Nooks, knowing the odds of running into someone I know from childhood are extremely high.
The comforting aroma of vintage paper wafts toward me as I step in, and my shoulders drop. A bookstore is the first place my feet take me in every town, even the town I know every square inch of. Just as I predict, I’m only three strides into the romance section when my suspicions become a reality.
“Oh my gosh,” a familiar voice starts, “Blair?”
Slowly, I rotate on my heel to see a girl peering around the bookshelves. She wears oversized square glasses and a messy bun, and she’s awaiting my response. It’s a relief that I recognize her.
“Hey, Rosie,” I say with a wan smile.
We were never close in high school, but she was always sweet. Sat in the back of class, smiled at me in the hallways.
“What are you doing back? I thought you were moving to New York City or something.” She waves nonspecifically with her hand into the ether as she fully emerges from around the corner.
At first, I’m astonished by her forwardness. Perhaps I’ve forgotten how much four years can change about a person, but Rosie was particularly known for her lack of speaking.
“Uhh, well.” My hand scratches the back of my neck. “My aunt is sick actually. Came back to spend some time with her.” I drop my hand and try a smile to show her she doesn’t need to feel awkward for asking.
“Oh gosh, Blair, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
Before she can continue stammering, I fill her in on the details she’s probably wondering about, or maybe I do it in an attempt for it to feel real.
“It’s okay. Stage four lung cancer. Came out of nowhere and has progressed quickly.” I say it like I’m describing the weather, trying to dismiss the rising emotion in my chest.
“But it will be fine,” I tack on.
That was good, I decide. Instead of trying to scurry around unnoticed I actually let Rosie in on something in my life. I try to not regret it as I look at the pained expression on her face, half sympathy and half panic, unsure of how to respond to something so grave.
Rosie just nods with a grimace as she looks down at her twiddling fingers, which I take as permission to turn around and end this painfully unpleasant experience for both of us, finishing my journey toward the romance section.
There’s a book I just finished on my Kindle last night I want a physical copy of. Frivolous, I know, but I’m unwilling to restrain myself from any hit of dopamine right now. I’ll take any ounce I can get to prepare me for what’s to come.
* * *
Usually, pulling into the smooth cobblestone driveway of Aunt Lottie’s house feels like exhaling. Today it feels like forgetting how to breathe. There’s a roundabout that loops in front of the sprawling mansion. Smooth brown-gray stucco sits under sloping wooden roofs, as if the house were built from the nature surrounding it. Contemporary glass windows adorn the sides, but the curtains are all drawn, making the pit in my stomach open wider.
Childhood memories of Lottie chasing me through the garden flood my mind. I try not to choke on the thought of her weakened body laying inside.
My great-aunt Lottie fled Saigon as it fell and was taken over by communists. She told me the story in detail of how she picked up and left everything she knew at age twenty, boarding a boat that was meant to hold two hundred people, but became one thousand. Desperate and grief-stricken, the people forced themselves onto the boat, trying to take hold of their last option out of the country as their homes vanished behind them.
Food had to be rationed, and even so, there wasn’t enough to go around. She described the bunk bed she lay atop of, hidden in a lower level of the boat, trying not to move, trying not to think, for the seven days it took to arrive at a small neighboring country.
From there, she waited months for a sponsor in America to host her arrival, and it came in the form of a generous family in Orange County. In her adult life, she stumbled upon the small town of Seabrook, California, and fell in love with the beaches lined with cypress trees and moss-covered thatched roofs. She settled down before tourists discovered it, and opted to open a convenience store instead of finishing college in a language she barely knew. That convenience store expanded to two locations, which later became seven.
Lottie understood what it was like to be ejected from the life you knew. So, when my mom and the five-year-old me showed up on her doorstep, fleeing from an abusive husband, my father, she let us take refuge inside her home. And eventually, inside her heart. I take a deep breath and bolster myself to see the women who raised me waiting inside.
As I enter, my body takes note of the eerie silence before I can register why it feels so blue. Lottie is missing from her spot by the window, where she’s usually whistling a tune or reading her newspaper.
I call out, “Mom? Lottie?”
“Up here!” my mom yells from above.
I sprint up the winding staircase to Lottie’s bedroom. When I walk in, I try to hide my shock at seeing Lottie propped up in a mechanical hospital bed, wearing one of her beautiful floral dresses.
My eyes dart to my mother’s. She smiles at me encouragingly, opening her arms as I run toward them.
Her comforting scent wraps itself around my heart and squeezes as I squeeze her.
“Hi, Mom,” I breathe into her neck, “I missed you.”
“Missed you too, sweet pea.”
Turning to the mechanical bed, I bend down.
“And Lottie!” my voice pitches upward, hoping to raise the obviously somber mood. “How are you managing to look so gorgeous in this dinky bed?!” I kick it playfully, trying to disguise my unease as I take in how wrong she looks in a hospital bed.
A mild laugh bubbles out of her, eyes twinkling as her shoulders shake up and down gently.
“Come here, my sweet girl.” She reaches out to my head to bring me down, giving me her famous sniff kiss—a kiss on the cheek that starts with a deep inhale and ends with a smooch. The ridiculous sound of her aggressive inhale on my cheek always makes me laugh.
“Congratulations on graduating, con.” She uses the Vietnamese word for child lovingly. “I am so proud of you.”
Her voice sounds weaker, bringing tears to my eyes before I can stop them.
“Now”—she waves her hand in my face—“no crying for me, con. I’ve had a happy life. Everything I could ever want is right here in this room.” I look behind me at my mom standing in the corner with a pained expression on her face, trying so hard to be stoic for my sake. “You don’t let this drag you down, okay? I’m comfortable here. I want you to go enjoy! Enjoy life!”
Even after living here for fifty years, she has an accent that perseveres. I will never stop loving the sound of it. Speaking her life truths to me in fragments or dropping the s on plural words.
No matter how much pain she is experiencing, I know she will go to lengths unknown to keep it hidden from me. She and my mom have always been this way. Encouraging me to be strong, forge on, despite the circumstances.
I give her another hug, aware that this frail body beneath me contains all the love I felt in my childhood, and is now being ravaged by cancer.
“I love you,” I whisper brokenly into her ear. I wipe my tears with my hands before taking a seat in a chair set up beside her. But the second I do, Lottie chastises me.
“No, no, con! Don’t sit here with me. You finally back home. Go explore.”
I squint as I try to catch her darting eyes.
“Lottie, don’t be silly—”
“Baby,” she croaks. “I’m not joking. Please, go enjoy this beautiful day. I’m not going anywhere.”
I still at her words, unsure how to respond.
“Shoo! Out you go!” She waves her hands theatrically until I stand. “Keep going!” She doesn’t relax until I’m halfway out the door.
“Okay, okay,” I concede in a weak voice, peeking my head through the door one more time. “I love you.”
“I love you too, con. Now, go have some fun.”
Chapter 2
Two weeks ago I got the call. If you’ve ever gotten “the call” in your life, you’ll unfortunately know what I mean. The one that creates a before and after in your story, bookending each side. Whatever you had been doing prior to it becomes so hilariously insignificant in comparison to the words coming through the phone speaker.
I was sitting on an ocean-aged bench overlooking Malibu’s choppy waves when the podcast I was listening to was interrupted by “Hopelessly Devoted to You” wailing in my headphones. My phone was ringing, a photo of my mother’s effervescent smile and dark hair filling the screen.
“Hi, Moooom!” I drawled with faux lethargy.
“Hi, baby. Is now a good time?” My mom’s usually light, sugary tone was pulled taut. The tension in her voice stiffened every muscle in my body, causing me to shift to a straighter position on the bench.
“Yeah, what’s going on?”
“It’s Aunt Lottie. I just wanted to let you know we decided to put her on at-home hospice care. The cancer progressed way faster than any of the doctors saw coming so we’ve made the difficult decision to quit treatment and…” Her voice trailed off as my ears began to ring.
My body felt like it was tilting internally, an air of unreality coating me. My fingers tingled and my vision darkened at the periphery.
A memory of Lottie dancing around the kitchen in one of her floral printed maxi dresses, singing “The Butterfly Song” in Vietnamese, waltzed across my mind.
“Kìa con bướm vàng, Kìa con bướm vàng!” She would sing to me with her eyebrows raised and skirt fluttering around her as she seemingly floated over the wooden floor. I would sit there in a fit of giggles, completely enraptured by her beauty. Her voice felt like a safe cocoon. She was a second mother, a grandmother, and a best friend, all in one beautiful, tiny body.
“I-I’ll come home as soon as possible, Mom. This is top priority to me. I’ll get someone to—” My mind sputtered as I tried to work out the logistics of leaving college when there were only two weeks left until graduation, of abandoning the consulting job I had lined up in New York.
“No, baby. I want you to graduate first. Don’t worry about us just yet. She’s comfortable here; the nurses come twice a week. Just work out how to come here for the summer if you want to, okay?” my mom said, tone placating my panic.
“I will be there for sure. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” I emphasized, promising with no concrete plan of how. But didn’t at-home hospice care mean death was approaching?
My mom has always been worried about overstepping—the complete opposite of a stereotypically overbearing mother. At times, she’s too polite in her attempt not to overstep, and it feels like I could drift away from her and Lottie and never hear from them again if I wasn’t the one to tug on the rope, pulling them closer to me. I couldn’t rely on my mom to emphasize how dire the situation was. Lottie could be at risk of dying tomorrow and Mom would still encourage me to go to New York City and not worry about it.
Now, two weeks after the call that derailed my life, my massive luggage bobbles violently up the cobblestone walkway that leads to the guesthouse.
I could have spent my visit home in my untouched bedroom, but the thought made my skin crawl. There was nothing like a childhood bedroom to make you feel like the years you’ve spent trying to progress have been erased.
If Lottie’s compound was an island, the guesthouse would be like a lighthouse perched on a rocky cliff. As a kid, the short walk made me feel like a character from The Hobbit, trekking up the cozy pathway that led to the smaller structure with its curved wooden door.
But I don’t see any of it as I pull my belongings behind me. My body feels numb from shock. Seeing Lottie for the first time after the call was even worse than I conjured in my imagination. The last time I saw her she had been sick, yes, but she was still moving about the kitchen like she was floating beneath her floral dress.
Pushing open the wooden door of the guesthouse, the comforting musk of old clothes and fresh sheets greets me. My gaze snags on the wooden coatstand in the corner. An aged yellow bucket hat hangs from the top rung. Memories flash through my mind of the beach trips Lottie took me on when she had a day off managing her convenience stores. She’d help me build “hot tubs” in the sand, transporting ocean water to our man-made hole and sitting in it like lobsters in a pot. The memory feels like a hand reaching through my chest, squeezing my heart uncomfortably. I fight to take a deep breath and drag my bags all the way inside. I have a sinking feeling the sensation will only become more prevalent in the future.
I cross the small bedroom to the bathroom, lined with jade-green tile, turning the shower handle to its hottest setting. As I wait for the water to heat up, I scan the layout of the bedroom, trying to appreciate the coziness of the beautiful room rather than feel the pit of dread rising in my stomach.
A glimpse of my reflection in the seashell-encrusted mirror causes me to do a double-take.
My body looks deflated, like it’s had a head start processing the news before my mind got to the starting line.
