The 4th of July bonfire has been held at Dawson's Beach since before I was born. I wasn't allowed to go until I was sixteen, so during the years I was too young, Adelaide would wake me up when she got home and fill me in on all the juicy gossip. Who hooked up. Which couple had a huge fight in the middle of the party, followed by a break-up worthy of a reality TV show reunion special. Who ended up naked in the ocean. Brooks Connolly, Cash's older brother, always supplied the party with kegs and thanks to him, people were usually found skinny dipping by the end of the night.

The bonfire used to consist of mostly teenagers from South Grove High intermingled with people who graduated years prior and kids from nearby schools, and by the looks of it, things haven't changed. A group of teenage boys are playing football down the beach. Mitchell and Cash are involved in what looks to be a very serious game of cornhole with two guys I don't recognize, and girls, clad in bikini tops and mini jean shorts, raise their red solo cups above their heads as they dance to a generic, Top 40 song coming from a Bluetooth speaker that's burrowed in the sand, and I don't miss the way their eyes follow Greyson as we make our way toward our friends.

Or...well, his friends.

I used to look forward to this party every summer. Jo and I would dance the night away. Greyson would cater to my every need while simultaneously dominating a game of whiffle ball in the meantime, and when the game was over, we'd strip down to our bathing suits and play a few rounds of chicken in the ocean. We'd roast marshmallows and set off sparklers, and after a while, Wyatt would pull out his guitar and serenade us with Amos Lee, Jack Johnson, or his personal favorite, Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show.

I haven't seen most of these people since graduation. Not since Greyson and I were a couple. Not since he was chosen in the first round of the MLB draft by the St. Louis Cardinals and was on top of the world, planning our future to the most minute detail. We were set to move to Florida a few days after the 4th, his parents having surprised us with a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment right in the heart of Jupiter where the Cardinals hold rookie ball. Only after he was established and was able to sign a contract with a no-trade clause would I start school, getting the degree in fashion journalism I always wanted.

That was our plan anyway, but thanks to me we learned that plans aren't permanent and can change in an instant.

Does the whole town see me as the girl who left South Grove's resident golden boy behind for a more glamorous life in New York City? Or is that just Greyson?

I'm going to have to make superficial small talk with people who were fake in high school and are probably even faker now, and after we talk about who they married, where they live, and how many kids they have, they're going to want to hear about my fabulous life in New York. What am I going to say? That instead of going to Florida like we planned, I moved to New York to follow my dreams, and there, I met a man who I fell in love with almost instantly and believed when he said he'd give me the world, only to come home from work seven years later and find him in our bed with his assistant? I'm going to have to tell them that Greyson and I broke up and I left South Grove...for nothing. That despite my big dreams, all I ended up with was a shitty, unpaid internship where I was taken for granted and an even shittier husband.

I'm not a fashion journalist.

I don't work for Vogue.

I don't have a husband who loves me unconditionally, like he promised he always would.

I don't live in an expensive brownstone in the Upper West Side.

I'm not living a glamourous life in New York, because I'm a failure.

Yeah, coming to this party was a fucking fantastic idea.

I stay close to Greyson as we make our way down the beach – ignoring the natural urge to take his hand and lace my fingers through his – and as we maneuver our way through the crowd, Greyson receives an unexpected reception. Some people clap and some whistle, while most of them praise him like he just hit the winning homerun in Game 7 of the World Series. Guys high five him. Teenage boys gawk with wide eyes and slacked jaws. And the girls? The girls flutter their lashes and smile flirtatiously, and when one of them steps in front of him, running her hot pink fingernails down his chest, he wraps his arm around my waist as we push past her, looking down at me and rolling his emerald-green eyes.

Greyson started making a name for himself in the baseball world when he was about ten years old, so he always got a lot of attention, but it was never like this.

"I didn't get the Greyson McKinnie Fan Club email that you were doing a meet-and-greet tonight."

He narrows his eyes at me and smirks. "You're still in the fan club?"

"I'm not in the number one spot anymore, but I haven't officially quit. Still considering whether or not I wanna stay a member."

A playful smile spreads across his face, brightening his eyes and deepening the dimple in his cheek. The dimple I used to lightheartedly poke when we'd have a disagreement and he'd pretend to be mad at me, or after he pitched a game and blamed himself for the team losing, just to get him to let go of whatever he was upset about and give me a real, genuine smile.

He chuckles as he crosses his arms against his broad chest, and a moan builds in my throat as I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth, my mouth nearly watering at the way his strong, well-defined biceps stretch the sleeves of his pale-pink, short-sleeved shirt.

"I'm not sure if you know this," he says, tugging playfully on the strings of his hoodie I'm still wearing. "But I'm kinda known around these parts."

I swat his hand away. "Yeah. Known for your gigantic ego."

"There's that sparkling sense of humor I've missed so much." He tucks his cherry red lips into his mouth and points his thumb toward the kegs. "I'm gonna get a beer. You want one?"

"Sure. Thanks."

An unexpected rush of heat runs through me and rolls down my spine as he winks at me, the corners of his mouth turning up in a gentle smile, and as I watch him disappear into the crowd, I anxiously shove my hands into the back pockets of my jean shorts, making circles in the sand with my toes.

I can feel people staring at me – The dirty looks. The pointing. The whispers – and my skin begins to crawl, a cold sweat breaking out along the back of my neck. I know exactly what they're thinking. What nerve do I have showing up in their town after being gone for ten years? And wearing Greyson's sweatshirt? Do I think I can just come home after all this time and pick up where we left off? Like nothing's changed?

"Hey, blondie!" Jo exclaims, wrapping her arms around me from behind and scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.

"Jesus...fuck - Jo, you scared me." I turn to face her, draping my arms over her shoulders and holding her tiny frame against me. "I'm so glad you're here."

"Because I light up your life and you don't know how you've gotten through the last decade without me by your side?"

"That and I don't wanna be at this party all by myself." I adjust my red, white, and blue bandana headband and sneakily glance at all the judgmental partygoers. "Everyone is staring at me."

Jo pulls away from me and looks around, her brow furrowed. "Um...with the exception of Ripley, who looks like she wants to tear Greyson's sweatshirt off you and strangle you with the sleeves, and a teenage boy who's gawking at you like he's never seen a female in a pair of jean shorts before, no one is staring at you. You're being paranoid."

Okay. Fine. Maybe I'm paranoid, because when I look around, no one is paying me any attention. But I'm back after being gone for ten years. In their town. Wearing Greyson's sweatshirt. Acting like I can just come home after all this time and pick up where we left off. Like nothing's changed.

I'm already thinking those things about myself, so why wouldn't anyone else think them about me too?

"Here you go," Greyson says, handing me and Jo a cup filled with cheap beer. "Got one for you too, Jo-Jo."

"Not my name, McKinnie. Been telling you that for years," Jo says. She lifts the cup to her lips and takes a long sip, shuddering as she swallows it down. "Oh, that's gross."

"No one said you had to open your throat like a snake and drink the entire cup in one sip," he teases. "Slow down, Wilde."

Jo lowers her cup and narrows her violet eyes at him. "I'm a single mom, Greyson. Besides the night Delaney and I got completely smashed at Climax, this is the first night I've had away from Hannah since she was born." She holds up her cup and smirks. "Don't try and tame me tonight, McKinnie. You'll lose."

"Well, shit. Okay." He taps his cup against hers and laughs a happy, hearty laugh. "Drink up then."

"Talented, and smart." She squeezes her nose with her thumb and pointer finger and takes another big sip. "Who knew?"

He drapes his arm over her shoulders and pulls her into his chest, rubbing his knuckles against the crown of her head, causing her wild curls to stick out all over the place. "Literally everyone, Jo-Jo. Everyone knows how awesome I am."

"Stop it!" She frees herself and gently pushes him away. "You're messing up my hair!"

I can't help but laugh at them. Greyson and Jo have always gotten along. Their friendly banter and who-can-annoy-who-more relationship was always a source of entertainment for me, and after all these years, it's nice to see they're still close.

I turn to Greyson and lift my cup. "Thanks for the beer. It's not bourbon, but it'll do."

"Of course. Baby wants, ba –" he starts, but quickly snaps his mouth shut and rubs his hand against the back of his neck. He slowly starts to back away from me. "Uh...I'm gonna – Mitchell needs a new partner because Cash sucks at cornhole and if they lose one more time, I think Mitchell might actually hold his head under water, so I'll be...I'm gonna go over there, okay?"

"Oh, okay."

He moves toward me, gently brushing my hair off my forehead with the tip of his finger and opens his mouth to speak, but before the goosebumps his touch caused can even disappear, he steps back and tucks his bottom lip into his mouth, seemingly shaking his head free of whatever he was about to say.

"Well, that was awkward," Jo says. She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the firepit where a couple people we graduated with are standing. "Come on. Let's go be social."

I throw my head back and groan. "Do we have to?"

"Yes, we do. You don't want people to think you're a stuck-up socialite now, do you?"

My eyes peruse the crowded beach as I chew on the inside of my cheek and ask myself, don't they already think that?

Jo and I meander around the beach, talking and catching up with people we went to high school with, and as expected, they ask me about my life. What am I doing now? Where am I working? What's it like living in New York after growing up in such a small town? Am I married, and if so, what does he do? I play the game and answer their questions, but I stick to my script that I came home to see my parents and get away from the city for a bit, but Will couldn't come because he's in the middle of a trial. They believe me, and soon enough are back to asking questions about what it's like to live in Manhattan.

And surprisingly, it's not that bad.

"Okay, this is going better than I expected, but if one more person asks me if I've met a Kardashian, I'm gonna – what did you say that time – take a hostage?"

"Oh! I volunteer as tribute! We'll go shopping!" she says, enthusiastically. I drape my arm over her shoulders and playfully bump her hip with mine. "Look, you're like a shiny new toy right now. The women here don't have anything to be concerned about other than daycare expenses, getting the kids to soccer and baseball practice on time and what they're gonna bring to the school bake sale. The novelty of your New York life will wear off and the vultures will eventually descend."

"Yeah. I guess," I say. "I'm just glad it's not –"

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to finally leave Manhattan and grace us with her presence," I hear a shrill, whiny voice say from behind me. "Do my eyes deceive me, or is that Delaney James?"

"Ugh. Great," I whisper to myself. I stand up straight and put on my best fake smile as I turn to face her. The girl I've been trying to avoid all night. "Hi, Ripley. It's nice to see you."

"Mmhmm." She crosses her tan, slender arms against her chest and stares me down with her cold, judgmental, icy blue eyes. "You too. I guess."

Ripley and I have been nemeses since middle school. It all started when I was named cheerleading captain over her our freshman year of high school. I quit soon after – I hated the politics and constant gossip during practice – but that didn't stop her from tormenting me, and when Greyson and I started dating things only got worse. She always had a huge crush on him and resented me when, in her opinion, he chose me over her.

Little does she know, I was always threatened by her, and now that she's standing in front of me, I realize I still am. With her golden bronze skin, slim, toned frame, and thick, naturally wavy, platinum blonde hair – not to mention boobs guys would give their left nut to see in person – she looks like she should be walking the runway in a Victoria's Secret fashion show instead of socializing on a North Carolina beach.

She's perfect, and the exact replica of the girls I've seen Greyson photographed with in the past, while I'm just...me.

"How've you been?"

"Me? Oh, I've been great," she says, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. "The better question is, how are you? How's life in New York?"

"It's good. Thanks for asking."

"Really? Because I heard your husband cheated on you. He slept with a temp in his office, or something, and you're getting a divorce. Which would explain why you're back in South Grove after being a ghost since we graduated. You have a hard time holding onto men, huh? It's probably because you're so...uninteresting." I inhale a sharp breath and look back at Jo. She's the only person I told the intimate details of Will and my break-up to, so if she didn't spread the word, who did? "Oh, don't blame Josette. She didn't tell me, but for future reference..." She moves closer and cups her hand around her mouth. "You should watch the volume of your voice when you're talking about your personal life in a public place. You never know who's sitting at the counter at Maribelle's."

Jo steps up beside me and wraps her hand around my arm, offering me her support, but it doesn't stop the humiliation I feel from flushing my cheeks, or my stomach from dropping.

"You don't know the whole –"

"Oh. I also heard you got wasted at that club opening last week and Greyson had to carry you out. You threw up all over yourself and had to be rushed to the hospital with alcohol poisoning." She looks at the girl next to her and giggles. "How embarrassing. I mean, who acts like that in public?"

Well, it's not good, and I hate that she knows so much about my personal life, but it could be worse. She could know about my accidental Ambien overdose and could have spread that little tidbit all around town. I guess I should be thankful for small blessings.

My neck and cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I drop my head and focus on my hands as I twist my ring around my finger. "I didn't throw up on myself."

"Whatever. I'm bored now." She waves her hand dismissively and starts to walk away but stops when she spots something – or someone – over my shoulder. "You know, I was really sorry to hear you and Greyson broke up. Though not that sorry, because it did open the door for me." She waves flirtatiously at him and when I turn around, he's watching us cautiously, a frown pulling at his face. "You never told me he was such an amazing fuck."

My jaw drops along with my heart. "What did you just say?"

Her crimson red lips turn up in a condescending smile and her bony shoulder bumps mine as she walks past me, right toward Greyson. "Good to see you, Delaney."

I'd be setting myself up for disappointment to imagine I'm the only girl Greyson's ever been with. I know there are other woman in his past. I even accidently met a couple of them when I helped Nico work a Revolve fashion show. I can accept that there have been others, but does Ripley Payne have to be one of them?

"God. She's such a bitch," Jo says. "She's lying. There's no way in hell Greyson slept with her."

I stare at them as they talk, and if Greyson can feel my eyes on him, he doesn't react. I watch her throw her head back in an overenthusiastic laugh at something he said, and I watch him smile down at her, and when I see her grab his hand and pull her toward him, peeking at me over her shoulder as she does, I almost grab her by her stupid hair and bury her stupid face in the sand.

I'm not an aggressive person by nature, but if she keeps touching him, my stance on violence might drastically change.

Thanks for reading!