Page 4 of The Exit Strategy

And maybe, maybe because a small part of my pathetic heart has been waiting for an excuse to see him again. To ruin his day like he ruined my senior year of high school.

Probably freshman and sophomore years of college too, but even I can only carry so many grudges.

GPS directs us through an aggressively charming coastal town with pastel buildings, hanging flower baskets, and a coffee shop called Grounds for Celebration that I will absolutely never enter on principle alone.

A girl can only handle so much wicker, and I’m already at my limit.

The scent of salt air blows through the AC, and I begin to fidget.

Cole always said the ocean made everything feel…smaller.

Easier to survive.

When we turn onto the road for The Haven at Porchlight Cove, things get…weird.

The Haven is a gated community, but the gate is wideopen and decorated with a banner that says, “Welcome Home, Juniper!” in glittery letters.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

Fen laughs. “Welcome to The Haven.”

“What is this?”

“Nana Mae alerted the welcoming committee.” Fen sounds downright gleeful. It’s irritating as hell.

A golf cart pulls up alongside my car. The driver’s an elderly man wearing a bucket hat and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, while binoculars hang from his neck. Awesome. The first person I meet is a bird-watching enthusiast.

I hate birds.

He honks the horn on his golf cart. It blasts a rap song from the early 90s I vaguely remember from a podcast on an East Coast-West Coast rivalry.

“The new girl’s here! I repeat, the new girl’s here! Stanley out!” the old guy says into a walkie-talkie, then winks, points two finger-guns at me, and peels away. Literally. His tires squeal and he leaves rubber marks on the pavement.

What the hell kind of place is this?

“You’re going to love it here.” The sarcasm in Hudson’s tone makes me want to throat punch him.

Slowly we roll through the open gate, and people stand on front porches, backlit by the soft sunset while waving us by. By the third stop sign, we’ve accumulated a train of golf carts following us through the streets, with one of them blaring the theme song for Jaws, which feels like a personal attack.

When Hudson finally pulls into a driveway, I’m white-knuckling my seatbelt. Who the hell gets followed by a parade of golf carts? Me. That’s who. And now they’re sitting at the end of a very long drive, watching.

Nolan must be pranking me.

A woman in her forties walks down the sidewalk in wedge heels, white capris, and a navy-blue tube top, shooing away the golf carts. As they disperse, I take a deep breath but don’t follow Hudson and Fen as they exit the vehicle.

The house before me is beautiful. All the ones in this neighborhood are. They have a…homey feel to them that makes my skin itchy.

Despite how people made me feel there, my home has been my only safe space.

The house in front of me is different. It’s white with blue shutters, has a wraparound porch with rocking chairs, but my favorite thing is the gas lanterns that bracket both sides of the front door.

It makes my throat uncomfortably tight. They’re probably meant to make guests feel welcome, like someone was waiting for them, but I know better than that.

Cole is likely counting down the days until he can tell Nolan that this little experiment isn’t working out. After all, he’s run away from me before, and this time, I come with way more baggage.

Maybe I can just stay in my car. Or better yet, turn around and drive anywhere but here.

As if reading my mind, Hudson waves my keys at me through the windshield. He’s such an ass.