Meet Me at Midnight

Avery pulls her black Mercedes G Wagon through the entrance of Altos Del Mar, the exclusive community in Miami we both grew up in, and I scroll my phone to distract myself.

There are a lot of wonderful memories here, but a number of bad ones all the same, and the more I look out the window, the more they come rushing back to me.

Sitting on the front steps of my house, hoping one of my parents would come home and surprise me on the night of my twelfth birthday and ending up opening gifts sent by mail while my newest nanny looked on.

Hearing my parents fight like cats and dogs while I hid my head under my pillow and cried when my dad told my mom he wanted a divorce the year before.

Hoping for a family vacation but getting a guided solo tour of Europe with my nanny the year before that.

My dad still owns the house I grew up in—he kept it after the divorce—and I go to it on very rare occasions, but eleven bedrooms and their corresponding baths can’t fill the empty space being alone in ten-thousand square feet creates in your heart. Even though it’s still filled with staff who keep it maintained, it feels emptier than a morgue.

I don’t even have to text my dad to know he’s not home today. He’s never home. Between running his real estate empire and his wife, my twenty-seven-year-old stepmom, Lola, Richard Perry’s life is one of jet-setting and expensive hotels on endless repeat.

And my mom isn’t any better. After my parents divorced when I was eleven, she turned herself into Julia Roberts and Eat Pray Love-d with reckless abandon. She never stays in one place and is always going on unconventional spiritual retreats in places like Fiji and Bali to find herself. After twelve years of doing that, you’d think Jackie Perry would have a handle on who she is, but it’s a never-ending quest. Maybe it’s all just a guise to spend her days relaxing on exotic beaches while living off all the money she got in the divorce settlement, or maybe she really is lost. I don’t know.

All I know is she isn’t here. Ever. And the only way I know her whereabouts is from the sporadic texts she sends me. The last one came in two days ago and consisted of Hi, my darling. Sending you love from Milos, Greece.

That message was followed up with a picture of my bikini-clad mother standing on the beach with some tanned, muscled-up, shirtless guy I’ve never seen before.

Ironically, not even twenty-four hours before that, Lola sent me a picture of herself and my father standing on some fancy yacht in the South of France and a text message that only made me roll my eyes.

Lola: Your father and I miss you, Avery! When we’re back in town, let’s have a family dinner together, okay? I have a killer steamed mussels recipe that you need to try! Kisses from France, sweetheart!

I don’t have anything against my father’s wife, but her trying to act like she’s a mother figure in my life when I’m a grown adult and she’s only four years older than me is the world’s biggest joke. Plus, she doesn’t cook—my father’s staff does that—and the last time I had a family dinner with my actual family was years and years ago, before Lola was even in the picture.

Needless to say, everything about my family life is nonconventional at best. Completely dysfunctional and devoid of true love and affection at worst.

Avery pulls up to the gate blocking the entrance of her parents’ home and types the code into the security keypad. Once the gates slide open, she pulls inside and parks in the circular driveway of the Bankses’ eight-thousand-square-foot mansion and shuts off the engine.

I click out of my dad’s message telling me to “Have a good first day of work next week” from this morning and figure his assistant Shirlene must have gotten the calendar entry wrong by a week. I also laugh to myself—because crying is useless—over the fact that my twenty-seven-year-old stepmother makes a bigger effort than my own father. At least her messages come from her.

Avery is the first out of the car, and her mom Diane has the door to the house open shortly after.

Diane Banks is the definition of a woman who ages gracefully. She’s fairly tall, with shiny dark hair, and her face showcases just the right amount of wrinkles to make her look sophisticated and wise but still ten years younger than her actual age. She’s also one of the kindest human beings I’ve ever known. A true mother, that’s Diane.

Her smile is warm and excited as I jog to catch up with Avery, and the two of us get to the door at the same time. “Aw, my girls!” Diane exclaims and pulls us both in for a tight hug. “Dinner’s almost ready. Are you hungry?”

Eating dinner at the Bankses’ house at least once a week—and sometimes way more than that, depending on how lazy we are—is a routine Avery and I have been doing ever since we graduated high school and started living on our own.

“Starved,” Avery comments and drops her purse in the foyer before traipsing across the Italian marble floors and heading straight for the kitchen. Linda, the Bankses’ housekeeper, picks up the YSL bag, and I smile apologetically as I hand her mine more politely.

Avery isn’t as rude as she seems. She’s just self-involved. Linda, thankfully, knows that better than almost anyone. She’s been around pretty much as long as I have.

“How was the first week of the new job?” Diane asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as we follow Avery into the kitchen.

“Good. But my boss is a real hard-ass,” I tease, knowing Neil can probably hear me, and she laughs.

“Dad got mad at me for leaving work early today for hot yoga, Mom!” Avery calls over her shoulder, milking the opportunity I’ve given her for all it’s worth. “You know I can’t miss those sessions. Callie is impossible to rebook!”

“Neil!” Diane exclaims, her lips curving up into a smile as we enter the kitchen. “Are you being hard on our girls?”

Mr. Banks sits at the massive marble counter in the center of the kitchen, a newspaper in his hands. He barely lifts his eyes above the pages. “Hard on Avery?” He chuckles. “There’s no time to be hard on her. She barely shows up for work as it is.”

“That’s not true,” Avery counters defensively. “I was at work today.”

“You showed up an hour late, took a two-hour lunch, and then only stayed for an hour because,” he changes his voice to a high-pitched, girly one, “I have hot yoga, Daddy. I can’t miss it.”

Diane grins at Avery, unfazed. Her daughter’s behavior may not be a reflection of her own work ethic, but she accepts it for what it is. “Where’d you go for lunch?”

“I didn’t even have time to eat, Mom!” Avery complains. “I had to get my nails done.”

It’s been less than a week since Avery’s nail appointment last Tuesday—you know, the one she scheduled in the middle of our first day of work. Frankly, I’m not surprised that’s where she went today. She’s been complaining about the color of her polish for almost every waking moment since she got it.

“Neil, your daughter didn’t even get to eat lunch,” Diane comments, tsking her lips with an amused smile. “Sounds like the work conditions are not ideal.”

“Oh yeah.” Neil snorts and adjusts his reading glasses on his nose. “Horrible work conditions when the boss lets you just come and go as you damn well please.”

“You knew she was going to be like this,” a deep, oh-so-intoxicating voice adds, making my heart kick into a gallop. I don’t dare look over my shoulder as Beau joins us, hugging Diane right behind me before chucking me on the shoulder with a buddy-ol’-pal fist. First, the brother comment, and now this. It just gets worse and worse for my delusions around here.

“Shut up, Beau,” Avery announces with a roll of her eyes. “Just because I’m not a workaholic like you doesn’t mean I’m not an asset to the company.”

“An asset?” Beau questions, a bright but sarcastic grin covering his perfect mouth as he leans into the kitchen island across from me. I try not to stare at the strain of his biceps against the sleeves of his T-shirt. “And what exactly do you bring to the table?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know,” Avery goads.

“Actually, yeah,” Beau agrees. “I honestly would. What exactly are you bringing to the marketing firm, Ave?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Avery says, sticking out her tongue at him.

“Remind me not to hold my breath while I wait.” Beau shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, and I immediately miss his previous posture. If I stare at any of the obvious bulges now, I’m going to get myself in a lot more trouble than I can handle.

But damn, he looks good in jeans. So good.

“Yeah,” Neil adds with a smirk. “Me either.”

“Daddy!” Avery cries with a little pout on her lips.

“I’m just messing with you, princess,” he coddles, and she walks over to him to give him a big hug. “I’m happy I get to see you at the office now. Even if it’s only for an extra ten minutes each day.”

“I was at work longer than ten minutes today!” she retorts on a laugh, and for the first time, I have both the urge and the ammunition to join in on the fun.

“Avery’s right, guys. She was at the office for at least forty-five minutes. Honestly, it might’ve been a full hour.”

Avery flips me the bird, but the smile on her face is evidence of the truth. She doesn’t give a single shit about any of it, and I admit, it’s freaking impressive. She’s so secure in her personality, nothing can bring her down. Not her brother telling her she’s lazy or people thinking she’s shallow—she owns it.

“Oh!” Avery exclaims as she grabs an olive from the charcuterie board on the kitchen island and pops it into her mouth. “Beau! Tell June the good news!”

I look between Avery and Beau, confusion in my eyes and the dumbest intrusive thoughts about what the news could be jumping around my mind like ping-pong balls. That he also has a crush on me? That he’s in love with me and wants to marry me? That the sooner we get started making and having a million of his dark-haired, brown-eyed babies, the better?

Clearly, I have a problem.

“W-what’s the good news?” I say, clearing my throat as I do.

“My big brother is moving in to our building,” she says and walks over to wrap her arm affectionately around Beau’s shoulders. “He just can’t stand being away from his baby sister so much that he decided he needed to move closer to her.”

“Half of that’s true, Juni,” he says through a laugh.

“Uh…which half?”

“Seriously, June? I might miss you, but it’s a little hard to miss Avery,” he says, the words sending a zap of electricity from my cooch to my toes. The rational part of me knows he doesn’t actually miss me, but she’s currently being smothered by the irrational, mooning, far-too-hopeful girl with stars in her eyes. “But the part about me moving in to your building is true.”

“You…” I pause and clear my throat again to stop myself from asking about him missing me. It’s one thing to harbor delusion internally, but spewing it all over the Bankses’ countertops would be embarrassing. “You’re moving in to our building?”

“Yep,” he answers with a nod. “Since my house isn’t going to be ready in time for my lease expiration date, I made a few calls to your dad. He was kind enough to let me rent out one of the condos while I wait for the contractors to get their shit together.”

About six months ago, Beau purchased a fancy-schmancy mansion that overlooks the water on Biscayne Bay. It has a pool and a private dock, and I think about the comment he made about the hot tub the day he gave Avery and me the dime tour to this day.

“I’m excited about the hot tub, but I am definitely getting it cleaned. It’s one of the topmost-used locations for fucking, according to Google.”

I’d definitely fuck Beau in a hot tub. I’d fuck him in a paper bag if we could fit in it.

But yeah…the house. Right.

It requires a hell of a lot of reno, which is probably why it’s taking so long for him to be able to move in, but it’s gorgeous all the same. I know he’s proud of saving up and paying for it himself, and he should be. He’s one of the hardest workers I know.

“And,” Avery adds with a big smile. “not only is he in the same building—he’s our neighbor.”

“Our neighbor?” I question, my mind still buffering somewhere between Beau’s brown eyes and the thoughts of Beau fucking me in a hot tub.

“Yes! He rented the condo right next to ours,” she says. “Like, if we go out on our balconies at the same time, we’ll see each other. Stalk much, bro?” she teases with a roll of her eyes. “It’s like you’re obsessed with me or something.”

Beau chuckles. “It was the only unit available.”

The only unit available. Right next to ours. My first thought is one of elation.

My second is one of outright dismay as I watch Beau pull his phone out of his pocket to take a call.

“Hey,” Beau says, his voice sultry in just the way my mental spiral needs to nose-dive straight toward the ground.

As much as I wish he were, Beau is not my boyfriend. He’s not anyone’s boyfriend at the moment, but he’s also not lacking for female attention, as proven by what I know is a woman on the other end of his current call.

If Beau lives right next to us…so will a never-ending train of his hookups and their loud moans, potentially separated from my ears by nothing more than a wall.

Dear Judy Blume, it’s me, Juniper. Could you have Margaret get a line to God for me and do it pronto?

I know I’m twenty-three, but I think the thirteen-year-old girl inside me is about to have a coming-of-age tale she’ll never forget.

And her hero Beau won’t be around to dry her tears anymore either. He’ll be too busy banging bimbos while she listens.