The Reckless Collision

Sam.

~~~

Molly and Mason had arrived in Vancouver a few days ago, and we caught up over video chat one morning while she was in the middle of unpacking. Molly was practically glowing with excitement as she panned the camera around their new place. "It's so much better than I expected!" she said, setting down a box labeled "kitchen."

She explained that Mason had only sent her a few photos during his house-hunting trip, so she'd gone in with a vague idea of what to expect. "But the reality? Way better," she added with a laugh, giving the camera a quick tour. The house was bright and airy, with large windows that framed a view of the mountains.

Even their dog, Spot, seemed thrilled with the new setup. Molly had sent me a video of him earlier, sprinting around their small backyard, ears flopping wildly as his tongue hung out. The yard was charming, with a few decorative trees scattered around like little guardians of their slice of paradise.

Meanwhile, I'd been flying solo for the past few days. Ray had been stuck in the studio with Purple Rain, finishing up their third album. We talked on the phone whenever we could, but I still missed him. At least tonight, I'd finally get to see him again.

But tonight wasn't just about us—it was a family dinner. I'd be meeting his mom, Nora, and his younger brother Logan, who also happened to be the band's drummer. After dinner, Nora would drive us all to the airport for our flight to Paris. I was a bundle of nerves and excitement, alternating between obsessing over what to wear and worrying if Nora would like me.

To keep myself occupied yesterday, I decided to bake. My grandma Rose had passed down her recipe for Napoleon cake, a classic from her Russian roots, and I figured it would be the perfect dessert to bring to dinner. Raymond had mentioned his mom had a serious sweet tooth, and showing up with a homemade cake might score me some points.

Before I could focus entirely on the dinner, I had some business to wrap up. My grandfather's publicist, Marcy, had been persistent about a few things related to his upcoming book. We'd been having regular video calls since she was based in New York, and today was no exception.

"Hello? Samantha? Can you see me?" Marcy's voice crackled through my laptop, her cleavage dominating the screen.

I suppressed a laugh. "Yeah, Marcy. But maybe sit back? All I can see right now are your boobs."

"Oh, right," she said, adjusting her position. Finally, her face came into view. "So, I don't have much time. Did you do what I suggested?"

"And that would be?" I asked, stretching out the words.

"Instagram, honey," she said with a dramatic sigh.

I shook my head. "Not yet, sorry."

"All you have to do is make it public," she said, exasperated. "That's how it works these days, Samantha."

I rolled my eyes. "I should've mentioned this earlier—I'm dealing with some privacy issues. Making my Instagram public isn't exactly the best idea right now."

"What kind of issues?" she asked, leaning closer to the camera as if that would help her see my soul.

I hesitated, then sighed. "I have a stalker."

Marcy's eyes widened, and her voice shot up an octave. "Since when?"

"I found out recently," I replied, keeping my tone as even as possible.

"Do you need my help?" she asked, suddenly looking concerned.

"No, it's handled. I hired a detective," I explained.