It was Ayers. Ayers, not Brigid.

Or so she’d thought.

She wanted to dismiss what Maia had told her. Maia was only twelve. Could she really be trusted?

But Ayers trusted Maia more than anyone else she knew. Maia wouldn’t have said it was Mick and Brigid unless it was Mick and Brigid. Ayers had to admit that Mick kissing Brigid on the beach wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. She could only too easily imagine how it had unfolded. Brigid wanted “closure,” she needed to have “a talk,” she “deserved at least that.” And then she gazed at him a certain way or she nudged her knee between his legs or she stroked his earlobe—and Mick broke. Mick might have thought that since he’d proposed and would be with Ayers the rest of his life, he had one last pass.

He did not have one last pass.

Ayers had decided to verify Maia’s sighting with a second source. She’d texted Lindsay, another server at the Beach Bar, someone she considered a friend, to ask if she’d noticed Mick and Brigid slip away during service.

The response: TBH, yes, B. stranded me tonight with all her tables for…half an hour? She’s been crying since Monday, and I assumed Mick was going to talk with her about it because it’s been distracting for all of us. But they were gone an unusually long time and when they came back, B. looked much happier.

Ayers pulled the ring off her finger and nestled it back into its little velvet box. She wondered about the happy bride-to-be who would eventually wear it.

She sent Mick a text: I know you kissed Brigid. I’m leaving the ring in the box under the big rock at the end of my driveway.

Mick texted back: K.

K? Ayers thought. What kind of response was that? Didn’t he want to know how Ayers had found out? Didn’t he want to try and deny it? Wasn’t he going to fight for her?

Apparently not.

The engagement was over; it had lasted slightly more than forty-eight hours. Ayers should never have taken Mick back. Brigid was some kind of narcotic for him.

She sent a second text: Best of luck to you two.

She wanted to say something else, but You deserve each other was too cliché and Just remember—once a slut, always a slut seemed too mean. In the end, Ayers wrote, Poor Gordon. Because Ayers felt sorry for Mick’s dog. She’d miss him.

And then Ayers had texted Baker to let him know what was up. Maia saw Mick kissing Brigid on the beach tonight. I’m giving the ring back.

Baker responded: Can’t wait to celebrate your newfound freedom!

Ayers is so tired. She’s flattened. She lies in bed until three thirty, which is the last possible moment she can get up and make it to La Tapa on time, but she still can’t muster the energy to move. She picks up her phone—there’s no word from Mick, or from Baker either, for that matter—and calls La Tapa.