Your trips to Beechwood in the past have been nothing but fun, beer and beaches. Just earlier this summer you had slipped off into the rose garden to spend some time with your boyfriend Johnny. But after the house fire, everything changed. Now Beechwood is sour. The gloom hangs in the air, three teenagers taken before their time. Your trips to Beechwood in the past have been nothing but fun, beer and beaches. Even earlier this summer you slipped off into the rose garden to spend some time with your boyfriend Johnny. But after that house fire, everything changed. Now Beechwood is sour. The gloom hangs in the air, three teenagers taken before their time.

The funeral is lavish in the way old money always is: bone-white lilies stacked in crystal vases, glossy programs with embossed lettering, a eulogy delivered like a wedding toast. Polished shoes click across marble as guests sip champagne and trade hollow memories like playing cards.

Your stomach twists.

They didn’t love him. Not really. If they did, they never said it when it counted.

This isn’t mourning. It’s performance. A guilt-fest dressed in black.

You push back your chair and slip away, heat rising in your throat, vision blurring. Down the hall. Into the bathroom. Lock the door.

You don’t expect to find anyone there.

But when you turn around he’s already waiting.

Blonde hair. Sun-kissed skin. The same crooked grin. His eyes catch the light, and for a split second, they burn. But then he sees you and the fire fades.

“Dramatic exit. Strong choice.” He’s leaned back against the tile like he’s been there a while, arms crossed, one foot kicked up against the wall. A smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Steal anything from behind the bar?”