What if the one you left behind won’t let go of your heart?
From the first time they locked eyes, Lila Morrow and Luke Bowman had a special spark. Their first kiss sealed their fairy-tale romance… until everything fell apart.
After their breakup, Lila moves back in with her family. The twenty-nine-year-old veterinarian’s transition to a life without Luke isn’t as easy as she expected. With the help of her wild Grandma Claire and her high-heel-loving sister, Maren, she starts to play the field… but she isn’t sure she’ll ever stop loving the curly-haired man from her early twenties.
Luke Bowman’s life began when he met Lila Morrow—and in many ways, it ended when she left him. Drowning in regrets, Luke is determined to give Lila the space to be happy. The sexy, singing roofer quickly realizes, however, he really shouldn’t have let her go.
Luke and Lila’s love story ended, and their individual boxes have been packed. But as they explore the single life and the dating world, both realize sometimes the love you leave behind is exactly what you need to be happy.
Still Us © 2018 by Lindsay Detwiler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Still Us is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.
www.hottreepublishing.com
Editing & Formatting: Hot Tree Editing
Cover Designer: Soxsational Cover Art
ISBN-13: 978-1-925655-64-3
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
More from the Author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
To anyone who has ever loved and lost
And to my husband, the love I never want to lose
Chapter One
Lila
As I stand in the barren kitchen, the dusty room screams at me of broken dreams, shattered promises, and final goodbyes. I let my fingers dance over the faux marble countertop one last time, thinking back to the first time I’d envisioned our lives melding together in this room.
On that day—a summer day, sun shining as if promising a fresh, new life—I’d ambled in on his arm, picturing all the Italian feasts, candlelit dinners, and takeout food we’d share in here. I’d touched the smooth countertop with my perfectly polished fingernails and felt the warmth we’d experience here, together.
We’ve had our dinners. We’ve made our memories and experienced the warmth. But now, this room has been sucked clean, a chilling quality left behind reminiscent of a mausoleum. Now, there’s nothing left but the lemon scent from our scouring efforts and the frosty feel of knowing it’s over. I’m not leaning on anyone’s arm. I’m standing here alone, biting at my chipped black nail polish. I wonder what the earlier version of me would have said if she could’ve seen this train wreck coming. I wonder if she’d have still smiled, still wrapped her arms around him, still whispered sweet nothings in his ear as he leaned her against their new faux marble countertop, as they prepared to move in and start a new life.
It doesn’t matter now. That girl, that couple, is long gone.
The wooden floor creaks under my feet as I make my way to the living room. My footsteps echo in a way that sounds unnatural, the emptiness of the rooms foreign to my ears. Glancing around, the bright rectangles on the faded walls remind me of where our memories used to hang. Now those photographs have been sealed away in boxes we’ll both remember but try so hard to forget.
What happened to us?
I traipse by the furrows in the carpet left from the plaid sofa I inherited in college. I pause, seeing him in the corner, still fiddling with the final box as if the layout of tools within their cardboard home is actually important.
As he silently repacks the box over and over, I can’t help but wonder if he’s stalling, like the sealing of the final box is a permanent admission we’re through.
But putting off the last box won’t put off the final parting. We’ve said our goodbyes over and over again. From the first box I loaded in the U-Haul to the dance over what mugs were whose, we’ve maneuvered the painful division performance. Piece by piece, we’ve unglued our papier-mâché lives back into a cryptic, individualized version of us.
We’ve reclaimed our furniture and rearranged our lives. There’s one final walkthrough with the landlord, a final division of our security deposit, and we’ll be loosed from one another for good.
Luke finally resigns from his task, pulling out the roll of tape.
“Shit,” he exclaims as he’s wrapped up by the cheap, sticky tape.
Instinctively, I cross the room to help him like I have so many times.
I hate the tension between us as I grab the roll, use my nail to pry the last end loose, and slap on the final nail in the proverbial coffin of our relationship.
Three years and fourteen days started unraveling six months ago, but the slapping on of the tape on the last box makes me mourn.
“So this is the last of it,” he says, hoisting the box from the floor, eyeing me with the dark eyes that used to wordlessly speak to me.
They’re the eyes that used to say forever.
Now, those eyes look at me and silently, irrevocably close that door.
“I’ll call you when Landlord Joe schedules the final walkthrough,” I say matter-of-factly, as if I’m talking to my dentist or the man at the post office, not the man I’ve built a life with and torn down around us.
“Okay. You know my number.”
This is perhaps the hardest of all, hearing the seriousness in his words. Three years, fourteen days, a life together, has boiled down to a barren apartment, a separation of coffee mugs, thirty-one packed boxes, two moving vans, and a “You know my number.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, as if we’re both unsure of the true reality of this. There’s a moment when I think, like so many other times, Luke’s charisma and charm will set this right.
But this is, I suppose, no match for even Luke. So, in an anticlimactic yet earth-shattering move, he turns and heads for the door.<
br />
He doesn’t look back.
Instead, after three years and fourteen days, I’m left in a cold, dusty shell of the life and love we once had. Wiping away a rogue tear, I’m left with the realization I have no clue what the hell I’m supposed to do now.
Chapter Two
Lila
“Lila, are you sure there aren’t bricks in these?” Maren asks as she hands Will the last of my boxes from the U-Haul.
“Where’s this one going? Your room and the spare room are full,” Will says, sweat beading on his forehead. The poor guy is earning his place in the family already, and he hasn’t even said his “I dos.”
I sigh, swiping a piece of hair out of my face, wanting to crumple to the pavement. I didn’t consider that all the stuff I acquired over the past few years was quite a bit more than what I had when I moved out of my parents’ house all those years ago.
Moving back in with your parents at twenty-nine is bad enough without having to solve dilemmas like where your extra boxes should go.
“Just put them in the shed,” my dad says, coming up behind me and putting a hand on my shoulder. He squeezes it, and I put a hand on his. “It’ll be okay, Lila Lou. We’ll figure this all out.”
I shake my head at his childhood nickname for me as I motion for Will to go ahead to the shed.
“Okay, are we finally done now? I’m exhausted,” Maren announces, wiping her hands as if she’s gotten dirty. She hobbles toward the house, yanking on my hand. “Let’s get inside. Mom said dinner’s almost ready. She made your favorite.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Maren eyes me. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going into this whole emo, no-eating depression. I won’t have it. Now listen. I know this is a little shitty right now, moving back home—no offense, Dad—but it’s going to be fine. You made the right decision. It’s going to take some time to get back on your feet, but it’s all good. So come eat some damn food, drink some wine, and settle in.”
I grin. Only Maren can get away with telling it like it is and not offending anyone. She hobbles toward the front door, her red stilettos not exactly the best moving shoes. But that’s Maren for you—she could be dying of pneumonia and she’d be worried about what her hair looked like and asking for her six-inch heels.
Will emerges from behind the house, still sweating, the June sun pounding down on us.
“Thanks, Will. I owe you.”
“It’s not a problem. Seriously. Happy to help.” I smile at Maren’s fiancé as he readjusts his glasses, sweat now pouring from his forehead. The guy’s a desk job kind of guy, not a moving day kind of guy. Still, he was here bright and early, ready to haul away my life and put it back to the place where I started.
I’m glad my sister got a good one, a truly good one.
I follow Will into the house, his designer jeans and button-up looking a little crumpled from all the exertion.
But who am I to judge? My whole life is a bit crumpled right now. Moving back home at this stage of my life wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Neither was breaking up with the guy I thought was the love of my life.
He might still be. Because right now, this sure doesn’t feel like the right thing or the better thing or even the thing I want. It sucks, even if I put moving back into my childhood room aside.
But this is reality. We’re over, and I’m no longer the semi-independent grown-up I’ve been trying to be for years. I’m now the “I live at home” woman who will be staring at the bright turquoise walls of my childhood, Justin Timberlake posters still adorning every inch. I’d like to say I’m going to tear them down immediately—but the man is pretty hot, and right now, a hot man to keep me company in the coldness of my empty bed might not be a bad thing. Plus, this is temporary, I remind myself. It’s just a stopping point in this new, exciting journey.
I blow a strand of hair out of my eyes. The way things are looking, this is a stopping point only on the way to lonely old age. With my student loans needing to be paid off, going out on my own doesn’t even seem to be anywhere on the horizon.
Maren offered to let me move in with her and Will, but I didn’t really want to cramp her style. Living with soon-to-be newlyweds just seemed a little creepy. There’s also the problem that her apartment doesn’t allow dogs, and I’m not leaving the only true, loyal man in my life behind.
“Hey, big guy,” Will says as Henry rushes down my parents’ stairs to greet him for the tenth time today. He doesn’t care that Will’s been in and out of the house already. He still gets as excited as if he’s someone new.
I try to get a hold of Henry’s collar so he doesn’t knock everyone down, but it’s no use. The two-hundred-pound dog plows through, almost knocking me to the ground when he bumps against my knees. Just what I need—a broken leg on top of it.
One look at that droopy face and happy, wagging butt reminds me why I chose my childhood room and Mom’s overbearing tendencies versus a life without Henry.
Although Maren promptly told me I better get on finding a sugar daddy—and soon—because she firmly believes Mom is going to drive me mad.
It’s certainly possible.
Right now, though, I’m too tired to consider all the ridiculous antics my mother is sure to pull. I follow my family upstairs to the kitchen where Mom and Grandma are already setting up for dinner.
Despite my fears and the embarrassment, I sigh, telling myself it’s all good. This was the right choice. It’s going to be fine.
Now I just have to hope my faux positivity speaks to the universe and all that trippy stuff. We’ll see.
“There you are, honey. How’s it going? Can I get you anything? Need any help organizing?” Mom asks, rushing at me and talking a mile a minute.
“Mom, give the girl room to breathe. She’s going through a breakup, not paralysis. She can manage,” Maren says, and Mom rolls her eyes at her.
“I’m just worried about her. She’s not getting any younger, you know,” Mom notes, clutching at her chest for dramatic effect. The woman should have been an actress on daytime soap operas instead of a secretary. She’s got a flair for the dramatic.
“I don’t think that’s helping things, Lucy,” my dad warns, giving her a look.
Grandma is parked at the kitchen table, her Pomeranian on her lap although Mom constantly tells her dogs do not belong at the table.
But Grandma doesn’t listen to sensibilities like these, and she certainly doesn’t listen to my mother. Which absolutely drives my mother mad.
Henry approaches Grandma and Cookie, who emits a vicious growl, and Henry erupts in a barking fit. Grandma chuckles as Cookie snaps at Henry’s nose, and Henry darts around the table, hiding in fear for his life despite the obvious size difference. Mom and Dad argue in the corner of the kitchen about whether Luke should be mentioned, the volume rising to a level above the barking of the dogs.
Maren and Will are making out in the corner like he’s just come back from war, and I quickly avert my eyes so I don’t see something I won’t be able to unsee. Maren’s bold, but I didn’t think an accountant would be so shameless at a family gathering. I guess Maren really does bring out a different side of him, as he claimed during their crazy romantic proposal last December.
My head swirls as I try to figure what to take in and what to block out. It’s like I’m lost in the kitchen, my family going right along without me. I’ve been left behind, the Lila without Luke not worth noticing.
I guess that’s okay because right now, I’m not 100 percent sure who the Lila without Luke even is. It’s crazy how a few years together and suddenly I’m no longer just one person anymore. My identity melts into his and when I try to separate them, there’s residual effects of him marked in me and on me. I’m not quite who I was before.
I shake my head, reminding myself I’m lucky. I’m going to get through this. I can do this.
Looking around at my crazy family, I realize I am lucky and I do love them.
But I don’t know how a
nyone could survive them.
And then it happens. During the chaos, the smoke detector goes off, and everyone looks to my parents.
“Oh shit,” Mom exclaims, rushing to the stove where the lasagna was cooking. Grabbing potholders, she whips open the oven to pull out dinner.
Black smoke billows through the kitchen.
Grandma screams, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”
Mom swears. Dad rushes to open windows, and Henry starts dry-heaving while Cookie barks loudly.
Yep. Things are going just swell.
How long until I can move back out?
***
“Oh, Harvey, you know I like to get a look at the delivery boy. How am I going to rate him on my scale when you didn’t let me answer the door?” Grandma whines. “I even put on my red lips, my good Avon lipstick, because I knew he would be coming. What a waste.”
“Mom, they have to keep sending a new pizza delivery boy here because of the inappropriate comments you keep making. No more answering the door. You know the rules,” Dad replies, shaking his head at Grandma, who is leaning against the counter now, pouting.
Grandma winks at me. “There are quite a few nice-looking ones at that Phil’s Pizza. Next time we order, make sure you get a look. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new man.”
I shake my head, but can’t help but grin. Grandma Claire is one of the bright spots of moving back home. I’ll get to spend more time with her, and she’s definitely a firecracker for her age.
Maren, Will, Mom, Grandma, and I gather around the table as Dad dishes out paper plates.
“Sorry I ruined your welcome home dinner, Lila. I wanted things to be perfect,” Mom admits, looking truly disheartened.
“It’s fine, Mom. Pizza is great,” I reply as she leans in to put an arm around me. The lasagna, black as coal and still smelling pretty nasty, simmers on the top of the stove, Henry stupidly eyeing it with drool flying out of his mouth. That thing is so burnt, I think it’s going to be lava-hot for at least a week. And that pan is definitely garbage.
In truth, we were all expecting pizza for dinner, even if our naivety let us believe we were eating home-cooked lasagna. Mom’s never been a great cook, although she certainly tries. We just aren’t brave enough to bring it up. We always let pizza be the backup and pretend like we’re so shocked when the delivery man comes. Let’s put it this way, though—Grandma Claire’s rated a lot of pizza delivery boys over the past few years since she moved in with Mom and Dad. A lot.
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