Page 51 of You're The One
I slip out of bed and feel my way to the dresser, slowly opening the drawer I know holds my activewear, praying it doesn’t creak. I grab what I hope is a sports bra, leggings, and some kind of shirt. As I tiptoe into the bathroom, I’m relieved to hear the soft, steady breathing of my still-sleeping roommates.
When I finally see my outfit in the light, I’m glad I found all the right pieces and that they match. Which shouldn’t be a surprise with most of my wardrobe being neutrals. Black. White. Beige. Maybe the occasional hunter green or plum, but I’ve never been one for anything bright or colorful.
I change, flip the bathroom light off, and ease the door open. I hate being cold, so I risk the creaky drawer one more time, hunting for something to block the ocean breeze I know will hit this early.
“Mia? You okay?” a sleep-heavy voice, I’m pretty sure is Summer, asks.
“I’m good. Just going for a walk. I can’t sleep,” I whisper.
“Oh.” Sheets rustle. “I’ll come with you. You shouldn’t be out alone at… whatever time it is. But definitely too late to walk alone.”
“Don’t worry. It’s nearly morning. And I’m going with Dominic.”
“Oh.” There’s a longer pause after the single syllable this time. “Be safe.”
“I will. Go back to bed.”
There’s more rustling, then a soft exhale as I slip out of the room.
Dominic is exactly where he said he’d be, high on the beach, closer to the dunes than the water. Even from a distance, he practically glows. I didn’t know it was possible for one person to wear that much reflective material. He’s got on a neon backward ballcap, reflective details catching on his shirt logo and the stripes down his shorts. And are his sneakers actually glowing?
I glance down at myself. Aside from the white T-shirt, mostly hidden beneath a hunter-green flannel, I probably blend right into the lightening navy sky.
I quicken my steps, not wanting him to think I bailed.
When I’m close enough to speak—shouting doesn’t feel right in the early-morning stillness—he gives me a once-over, scanning me from head to toe.
“I see you ignored the ‘wear something bright’ memo,” he says.
“I see you wore enough of it for both of us.”
“I guess we balance each other out.” He smiles, but I don’t acknowledge the comment.
His so-called villa sits a couple of hundred yards back, perched high above sea level. I’ve heard production refer to it that way, but let’s be real, it’s more like a modern mansion.
“You a big fan of modern design?” I ask.
His brownstone, next to my brother’s, might look charming from the outside, but Ryan always complains about the interior. About its sharp-edged, glass-heavy aesthetic, and this temporary house matches that description.
Instead of answering, he counters, “I take it you’re not?”
I shrug. As we move farther along the beach in quiet agreement, I try to picture what my dream house would even look like, and come up completely blank.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had my own place, so I guess I’ve never really thought about styles.”
“You don’t want your own place?”
Do I? I think I do… eventually. But a home means roots, and roots are what I’ve spent my whole life running from. I wish I were the kind of person who found comfort in having a place of their own. A spot in the world that feels like mine. Not just physically. A place with meaning. With belonging.
But staying still? That’s always brought the opposite. Unease. Worry. Loneliness.
“Yeah. Eventually,” I say, then circle back to my original question. “So, modern’s your thing?”
“I don’t know. I like the clean lines… but that’s about it.”
A comfortable silence settles between us as we walk, broken only by the hiss of the surf. So it catches me off guard when Dominic speaks again.
“How’re you liking the house? The other girls?”
