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I drive like a mad woman through the streets of Myers.
I can’t get there fast enough. I’ve called his number seventeen times since I left the house, but I’m getting no answer. He either left his phone at home, or something terrible has happened. I can’t allow myself to consider it. I’ll never make it if I do.
I can see the smoke in the already dark sky long before I ever arrive on our street. The smell of it, even with my windows rolled up, permeates the air in my car. Each smoky breath I struggle to take bites at my throat.
My thoughts come in fragments: worry, fear, panic, anger. A blurry mosaic of terror.
I can’t believe him. I grip the steering wheel tighter as I remember that. I’m so angry, but it’s not my biggest concern. It can’t be. I have to know he’s okay.
When I pull into the driveway, all thought seems to dissipate. We’re far enough out that no one seems to have noticed the fire yet. No one is here trying to help. I called for a fire truck on the way, but it will be another fifteen minutes at least before they arrive. Ten, if we’re lucky.
I should’ve called sooner. I was too busy panicking to realize someone had to call, and that someone could only be me.
Once I’ve parked, I basically fall out of the Jeep, leaving the door open in a rush to get to the house. The entire top floor is engulfed in flames, which have begun to creep down the sides, burning the house from the back forward. Embers fly through the sky, and the heat reaches me where I am.
I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth to help the sound carry. It does no good. My voice is masked by the roar of the fire, by the creaks and groans of the old house as it burns before my eyes. Crying out again, I rush forward to the porch and unlock the front door as quickly as my suddenly uncooperative fingers will allow. I shove it open.
The air is so hot it feels like I’ve stepped into an oven. The heat sears my skin. Everywhere I look, flames lap at the things I love, melting and destroying everything in its wake.
I’m too late.
Maybe purchasing a house on a street named after a poisonous plant wasn’t the best idea. It’s certainly not at the top of the list of my smartest moves, but the more that I think about it, that list would be very short anyway.
It would not include wasting the last five years of my life on a man who told me over coffee in our shared townhome that he wasn’t sure he’d ever want to marry me. It would not include spending those five years with him and choosing to split the holidays between his family in Boston and my mom here in Myers.
Now she’s gone, and her last Christmas was spent alone. Thanks to me.
I push the thoughts out of my head as I round the curve on Hemlock Drive. What’s done is done, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.
After Nick and I broke up, I came home to spend Mom’s final weeks with her. I didn’t know how bad she’d gotten until I arrived, but being here with her when she needed me is something I’ll never regret.
Add that to the top of the smart-moves list.
Not that she literally needed me. Dad left her enough life insurance after he passed that she was able to stay at the best nursing home in Myers. Her nurses were amazing. The food actually looked tasty, not just edible. I couldn’t have asked for a better place for her, but still…I’ll always wish I could’ve moved home before she passed.
It wasn’t a wish I’d planned for before she died. I never thought I’d come back to Myers. Too many bad memories. Too many ghosts.
I pull to a stop at the end of the driveway of 40 Hemlock Drive, taking in the sight of my new home. The gravel drive is overgrown with weeds, and the grass is in need of a good mowing. None of that is comparable to the work the house itself needs.
Its wooden siding has been painted a burnt red for as long as I can remember, but the siding is chipping now, in desperate need of a new coat. Or ten. The inspection said the roof will need to be replaced soon and, even from where I sit, I can see a few spots where shingles are flapping in the wind.
An enclosed front porch spans the length of the house—concrete floored with just a single, metal door on one end. Once I get it painted, a pair of rocking chairs will look…
Er, well, maybe just one rocking chair.
Either way, it will look cozy. I can get a plant, too. Everything looks better with a plant, right? A pot of daisies, perhaps. Or dragon’s breath, though that might be too much red.
Small, wooden lattices have been attached to both ends of the porch over the screen windows, though they’re missing more boards than they have at this point, and the wooden railroad ties that frame the front walk are rotting and splitting in every direction.
I ease the car farther into the driveway, taking in the sight of the four-foot white fence
that encloses the backyard. It might last this season, but sooner than later, I’m going to have to replace it, too.
Sighing, I shut off the car and rest both hands on the steering wheel.
This is it.
As of nine o’clock this morning, I’m officially a homeowner. Not only that, I’m officially the homeowner of the house I used to dream about living in. Granted, it was nicer then. When Mom and I used to drive past it, there were always flowers growing around the base of the porch. I remember the fence being so white it hurt your eyes to look at it. It always reminded me of a storybook.
Call it what you want, but I like to think it was fate that on the day I received my inheritance, the house was put up for sale. Granted, it wasn’t in the condition I’d hoped it would be, but still. I’m not afraid of a little work. Elbow grease. That’s all it’ll take.
Its lousy condition meant I could pay for it in cash and still have a bit left over to do whatever repairs it needs.
I step out of the car and approach the porch, extra cautious in the ankle-deep grass. It’s still early in the year for snakes to be out, but I’m not sure what else might be lurking here.
On the porch, I take careful steps. I’ve never been this close, and I can’t explain the odd feeling I have as I draw nearer to the door. It’s…colder, somehow, than I expected it to be.
Probably just nerves.
I’m the poster child for impulsive decisions at this point. One minute, I’m living with my longtime boyfriend in a townhome in Iowa City with no plans to leave. The next minute, I’m a homeowner in a town I haven’t lived in since I was twenty-two years old, in a house I haven’t seen since I was at least that age, if not younger.
So much has changed in the span of four months. I guess it’s normal to feel a bit of nerves about this.
The keys are heavy in my hand, like the weight of a wedding ring you aren’t quite used to wearing. I don’t stop at the door. Instead, I walk to the window next to the door and peer inside, both hands cupped around my eyes.
The hair on the back of my neck stands at attention.
Suddenly, I’m no longer intrigued by this place. It’s no longer the childhood home of my dreams. It’s just a house that no one’s taken care of in years. A house that is now my problem and mine alone.
I turn back to the door and stick the key in the dead bolt. I twist, but nothing happens. It takes a second to register that the door isn’t opening as I continue to twist it. I pull the key out and study it. It’s definitely the one I picked up at the office this morning.
And they only gave me one, stating I’d need to have the shed and back door rekeyed. The only key they had was for the front door. I pull it out and try the keyhole in the doorknob instead.
It turns and I push, but the door doesn’t budge.
What the hell?
I try the dead bolt again, twisting the key with all my might.
Come on.
Come on.
Come on.
I groan, slamming my hand into the wood of the door. I’m lucky it doesn’t fall in with the condition it’s in.
What have I done? What did I do? Why did I think I could handle this?
I pull the key out, swipe it across my jeans, and try again, my eyes prickling with tears. I’m already picturing them having to remove the door. Having to bust through a window to get in. Can someone sell a house without a working key? Why would they?
I curse, slamming a hand into the door again.
“Need some help?”
A voice startles me from over my shoulder, and I spin around, my face flaming with embarrassment.
“Uh, yeah. If you can get it. I’m not sure what the—”
No.
Yes.
My conflicted emotions pull at me in every direction, my heart pounding loudly in my ears. My breathing catches as I take in his features. The features I once had memorized.
He hasn’t changed all that much in the thirteen years since I’ve seen him. The same dark, curly hair, the same piercing blue eyes. He has a full beard now, where it was merely stubble back then. His thin, sage-green sweater is pulled tight over the muscles in his arms. I don’t remember those being so prominent.
My gaze shoots back to meet his, realizing I’ve been staring for far too long without saying a word.
I’m both relieved and horrified to realize I’m not the only one. He’s taking in my
appearance, too. His face is pale, his jaw slack. I wonder what he must think of me now.
This is certainly not the way I hoped to meet him again, if I ever did. My jeans are worn and a size too big. The shirt I’m wearing has a mustard stain from a burger I ate on the way here. My blonde hair hasn’t been washed in three days, and that’s only minimally disguised by the bun at the top of my head. I haven’t touched makeup since mom’s funeral, and I desperately need to brush my teeth.
“Maggie?” he says—grunts, really, like it takes all the effort he has—in that gruff voice that sends a current of something strange and familiar through my body.
“Tuck?” My voice cracks.
“What are you…” we ask at the same time, both trailing off to let the other finish the question.
I blush, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I just bought this place.” Somehow, it’s more embarrassing now how proud I felt this morning. Like I was really doing something. Now, standing in front of him on this rundown porch with a front door that won’t open as if the house is physically rejecting me, I simply feel shame.
When he thinks of me—if he ever has—I want him to think I’m somewhere happy and successful. Living the life of my dreams.
Not here, back home, parentless, single, unemployed, and spending my every last dime to make my new house habitable.
Not here like this.
“You’re… You moved back?” His Adam’s apple bobs, and he takes a step forward. I swear I don’t think he realizes he’s done it. It’s as if his feet are moving without informing the rest of his body.
“After my mom died,” I say softly, dropping my head.
“I heard.” He looks away, scraping a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s… Wow. It’s really good to see you again.”
My cheeks burn again. I’m sure he’s just saying the words, not thinking about what they mean or if he means them, but they’re nice to hear nonetheless.
I bounce on my toes. “You, too. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I…” He licks his lips, casting a glance over his shoulder. “I live next door.”
“No you don’t.” The words shoot out of my mouth as I feel my heart plummet. He cannot live next door to me. No wonder the door wouldn’t let me in. It was trying to warn me.
He gives me that crooked, lopsided grin I remember so well. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“To…be the bearer of bad news, I guess.” He points to the small white house behind him. “That’s me.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure why he’s apologizing. Not sure if he should. “Maybe I should apologize. I didn’t realize you’d moved.”
“It’s been thirteen years,” he says without missing a beat. Like he’s kept count. Like he’s just as pitiful as I am. “You thought I was still in the campus apartment?”
“I…I guess I wasn’t thinking. Anyway, I won’t be a bother,” I say quickly. Always quick to minimize myself. Make myself scarce. I’m really trying to get better about that. “I mean, I’m going to do some work to the place and have it fixed up, which will really only help you with resale and stuff and…”
He nods slowly. As he does that, his eyes quickly rake over my body once more, as if trying to decide if he can handle this. Then, he gestures toward the key in my hand. “Do you…need help with that?”
“Maybe.” My voice is soft. Whimsical. I didn’t hear him, not really. I’m too busy thinking about how terribly awkward it’s going to be living next door to Tucker. Sharing a space with him again. Waving hello in the driveway each morning.
Very domestic.
Very much not normal.
I clear my throat, shaking the fog my head. “I mean yes. Yes, please.”
He chuckles under his breath and steps forward. “Here.” His palm stretches out toward me, and when I place the key in it, my skin brushes his. I ignore the bolt of lightning I feel, the heat that blooms in my chest.
He’s just a man.
I have no idea who he is now.
Whatever happened between us all those years ago doesn’t matter anymore.
He approaches the door, sticking the key inside the dead bolt. “See, the trick is”—he jerks up on the doorknob as he twists the key, and I instantly hear a click—“you have to pull up a bit.” He releases and pushes the door forward, and my house welcomes him quicker than it did me. As if he belongs here. Maybe he does.
This is his town, after all.
Not mine anymore.
“Have you had to open this door a lot or something?”
“No. These old doors just stick a bit. I deal with them daily at work.” He passes the key back to me, careful not to touch my skin. His smile is soft. Sad.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it.
“Thanks.” I push the key into my pocket.
“Is there anything else you need help with? Boxes?” He looks out at the rust-red car in the driveway.
“Oh. No. The movers won’t be here for a few days. I just have a few things with me. But thank you,” I add at the last minute.
“Sure.” His blue eyes dart between mine. “You may want to leave the windows open. Let it air out. It’s been closed up for a while.” He says it as the stale scent hits my nose.
“Right.”
“And listen…I should’ve said it earlier, but I was sorry to hear about your mom.”
A lump forms in my throat, so thick I can’t swallow it down.
“I wanted to call. I just didn’t…”
“Know what to say?” I finish for him. “I felt the same way when I heard about your grandpa.”
“You sent flowers,” he says.
“Yeah, but—”
We’re interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel, and when I look over, I recognize the matte black Jeep pulling into my driveway.
“Expecting someone?” he asks, taking half a step away from me to get a better look.
The Jeep shuts off, and Clayton steps out. I spot his caramel hair, his sharp jaw. His eyes find me, green and searching. He smiles but then quickly notices the person standing next to me.
In his faded T-shirt, his shoulders go tense. Next to me, Tucker releases a low breath.
Just like that, it’s all those years ago, the past written on each of our faces.
Just like that, everything I’ve tried to forget comes roaring back, demanding to be felt again.
I’m finally going to do it.
Finally.
After years of putting my fears first and allowing them to run my life, I have my chance, and I’m not going to let it pass me by.
The bar is crowded, but he’s all I see. I pinball my way through the dancing people, all too drunk and too loud to notice me, and point myself in his direction.
He hasn’t seen me yet, his focus entirely on the phone in his hand, but then, as if he felt me—as if we’re connected across the room by nothing more than molecules—he looks up.
His eyes scan the room slowly, cheeks pink from the heat and the alcohol and the excitement.
Does he know?
I can’t help wondering.
When his eyes land on me, something inside my stomach flips.
Spins.
Screams out.
His face brightens, and he places his phone down, standing from the seat at the booth he’s occupying. He holds out his arms as I draw nearer, and I launch into them.
“Hey.” He kisses my cheek, the spot marked by a familiar burning sensation, and when his hands leave my waist, I feel it there, too.
“Sorry I’m late,” I shout over the music.
“No worries.” As we sit down, he’s looking at his phone again, but his focus finds me quickly. “Jesus, Maggie, you look hot. What’s the occasion?”
I blush, pretending I didn’t spend hours getting ready in hopes of getting such a compliment. “Aw, thanks. I just felt like getting dressed up. You look great, too.”
His eyes linger on me a second longer. I could lose myself in his eyes—the most perfect green you’ve ever seen, with flecks of gray. When he runs his hand through his caramel hair, I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply to steel myself.
It’s time.
I suck in another deep breath, gathering my hands in front of me.
“So, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
He chuckles and pops a peanut from the bowl on the table into his mouth. “Okay. This sounds very formal.”
My smile is small, and it doesn’t reach my eyes. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’ve never been so cold in all my life.
“Is…” He reaches across the table and pats my hand. “Is everything okay? You’re scaring me.”
“Clayton, you’ve been my best friend forever…”
“Duh, dork.” When I don’t smile, his expression grows serious, and he pulls back. “Why are you saying that?”
“Well, I’ve…I mean, I’m not sure how to say this other than to just come out and say
it, and I’ve been freaking out about it because I’d never want to lose you or do anything to make you feel uncomfortable or—”
His hands shoot across the table again, this time to grip mine, his eyes almost as anxious and excited as I feel. “Hey. It’s me. Whatever it is, you can tell me.” His thumbs stroke the tops of my knuckles. “It’s impossible for you to make me uncomfortable. You’re the person I can be the most real with in the world. You know that.”
“I do know.” I suck in a deep breath, puffing my cheeks out. “Okay, do you remember the night of Allen’s party?”
Recognition floods his eyes, followed by a darkness I recognize: desire. On his features, the emotion is both foreign and intoxicating.
The night when we nearly kissed two months ago is replaying in his memory the same way it’s replayed in mine every night since.
He gives a hard swallow, glancing down, and when his eyes come back up, they take their time finding mine. “Yeah. How could I forget?”
I press my lips together. My heart is pounding so fast I feel as if I might pass out. I just need to say it. Just say the words. It can’t be as hard as it feels in my mind. Nothing is ever as bad as the anticipation. “Ever since that night, something has changed for me. I’ve tried so hard to pretend it hasn’t or to shut it down, but I can’t ignore the way I feel. And if you don’t feel the same, I understand, but if you do… If you do, I have to know.” I stare at my hands, twisting them together, pretending to examine my fingernails. Then, ever so slowly, I look up.
His eyes lock with mine, his face pale. “H-how do you feel?”
“I—um—” I’m interrupted by his phone screen lighting up, the vibrations scooting it around the table.
“Shit. Sorry.” He picks it up, holding out a finger to tell me to pause. “I’m sorry. I’m expecting this. Give me just…just two seconds.” His eyes linger on me as he slides from the booth again.
“Sure.”
When he steps away, I take the time to regain my composure. It’s hard to tell how it’s going. He seems receptive, at least. He’s been holding my hand. It would be hard not to guess what I’m trying to say, and he hasn’t bolted or tried to pull away.
I inhale slowly and release it just the same, smoothing a hand over my hair.
All too soon, he’s back, but something’s changed.
He doesn’t sit.
His eyes are the size of basketballs, and he’s not exactly looking at me, more like looking
through me.
“Clayton?” Chills line my skin. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Something’s happened. A sort of knowing falls over me that makes me ill.
He glances at the phone, his lips breaking into a smile. “That was an agent from the Noel DeMarcum Agency in Nashville.”
The phrase passes over me in an instant.
“They…Maggie, they want to sign me.” At his words, the room seems to spin, taking me with it.
“What?”
He scoops me into a hug, my mind and stomach somersaulting as he does it. “It’s happening. I can’t believe it. It’s actually happening.”
Snapping back to reality, I hug him tighter. Everything he’s worked so hard for. Everything he deserves. Everything he’s ever wanted.
“How?” I ask as he sets me down. When he does, he has tears in his eyes.
“Um.” He shakes his head, obviously still lost in thought. “They saw one of my videos on YouTube, I guess, and earlier today, I got an email that asked if someone from their office could call me this evening.”
I smack my hands into his chest. “What? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t even know if it was legit, to be honest. And, even if it was, I had no idea what they were going to say. I mean, I hoped, but I…didn’t want to hope if I was just going to be let down. I didn’t want to get your expectations up either.” His gaze slides down my face, landing on my mouth. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper. His lips hardly move. “Maggie, this is everything I’ve ever wanted.”
For a split second, I imagine he’s saying this about me. Us. About what I’ve told him. I imagine our evening ending in a whole new way. Could we both get everything we’ve ever dreamed of tonight?
Tears blur my vision so the bar is a watercolor painting of red and blue neons. “I’m so proud of you. You’ve worked so hard. I always knew it was just
a matter of time.” He smiles, but it’s sad. “What is it?” I ask, trying to understand that unreadable expression.
“I…” His eyes are locked with mine as he leans in. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s done it. That he realizes how reminiscent it is of the party that night. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. “Maggie, listen…”
I close the space between us, my chest pressing against his, and warmth spreads throughout my core.
Maybe I’ve misread the sadness.
Maybe we are both going to get what we want most tonight. ...
