by Amelia Wilde
I break into a jog, then a run, because I’m so damn worked up that I’m not going to be able to talk to Cole Granger with clear eyes. There’s no fucking way.
I haven’t really run since high school, aside from that trip to the falls with Reggie, and it’s strange for a single instant and then it feels as natural as riding a bike. I’ve spent thousands over the years with personal trainers doing fancy-ass routines, but when I open up my stride, pushing back against that tension, I don’t know why the hell I’ve wasted my time. Not a waste, I remind myself. It’s kept me strong and fit enough to impress the hell out of Reggie. But running? This is the only thing that lets me wrench my mind away from the shit that’s bothering me.
I pick up the pace, and then again, until I’m sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as my legs can carry me, breath burning in my lungs. Shake it off. Shake her off.
I can’t, but at least I can run.
I feel like I’m running toward a battle, some kind of showdown, even though that’s what I just left. My legs max out after a few blocks of a dead sprint and I have to stop, sucking big breaths in. I haven’t been paying attention to the streets I’ve taken, but somehow I’ve ended up in front of my father’s house anyway. There’s a truck parked at the curb, a shining white one. I put my hands on my knees and force myself to focus.
The door of the truck opens, and a guy slides out in a t-shirt and jeans.
“Adam,” he says. “You okay?”
I do an actual double-take. “Cole?” It really is Cole Granger, standing here in work clothes, his hands scuffed with what looks like dried paint. “I thought you were fancier than that.”
He grins, raising his eyebrows. “I was doing some work on a property.”
I’m seized with jealousy, so strong that it almost takes my breath away again. I cover it by standing up and stretching my arms over my head, which probably looks just as ridiculous. I can’t remember the last time I was in the thick of things, instead of just handing down orders at the business. In college, when I printed t-shirts? Even then, I only did the first few batches, then hired that out. I don’t know the first thing about building anything, or working on properties—my dad made me mow the lawn a couple of times as a fucking token—but suddenly I wish I did.
Or maybe it’s just that my hands ache to be on Reggie’s waist again, sliding down over the curve of her hips. Cole gives me one more look and slams the truck door shut behind him. He meets me on the sidewalk and we both look at the house.
I can’t see anything but memories.
There’s the scar on the oak tree where I had a rope swing. Reggie would do terrifying shit on that rope swing just to prove she could, but only for a little while. It wasn’t long before we both decided we’d grown out of that kind of thing. And the driveway, the long driveway where I learned to ride a bike, is where I met her for the first time. I can just see her now, wiping out hard, setting her ten-year-old jaw and pretending that it didn’t hurt, her dark eyes determined in the sun. The way she gave me a long, steady look before she let me take her bike into my dad’s workshop.
I can fix it myself.
I can fix it better.
She’d screwed up her lips and watched me do it, chattering on the entire time like I was some kind of game show host. And at the end, when she’d taken it back, she’d given me a curt “thanks” and gone on her way, but I couldn’t get it out of my head, how tough she was. I even told her so, the next day at school, blabbing about a friend who’d fallen and cried.
I never cry.
I bet you do.
Why did I think I could tease her? Because I could. She let me get away with it, but not before she wound up and punched me in the shoulder. Hard. Like she meant it.
“Siding needs some sprucing up.”
I blink at the house. Cole’s right, but I could have stood here all day and never would have seen it.
We walk through the house, Cole pointing out minor fixes. “These’ll really made this place a hot seller.”
“Sure.”
“Has it changed much since your last visit?” He asks me the question on the front porch, walkthrough completed. I feel hollow, but also harassed by the sudden flood of memories.
“No.” It sounds bitter, the way I laugh. “Just like Reckless Falls.”
Cole grins again, then claps me on the shoulder. “Yeah, you haven’t changed much either.” Then he launches into some nitty-gritty shit about selling the house, calling him if I want him to contract out some of the fixes, find a buyer. I can’t hear any of it. I’m seething. Why the fuck do people keep telling me that I haven’t changed at all? And why does it bother me so damn much? “I’m assuming you don’t want to waste a lot of time letting it sit on the market.”
“No. Nope.” It’s got to be terrifying, the smile I manage to force, but Cole just gives a nod like everything’s fine.
“Good. Get back to me as soon as you’re ready to list it.” He starts making is way down the front steps, then turns back and raises his hands in the air. “I swear, I won’t even make you come back here again. I’ll take care of it all.”
“I’m sure you will.”
“See you later, Adam.”
He actually whistles while he goes back to the truck, climbs inside, and starts it up.
I let out a deep breath and stand in the quiet, feeling the breeze in my hair and looking down the driveway. A couple of kids ride past on bikes, shouting to each other. I’m faster. No, I am. You barely know how to ride a bike! I’m riding it better than you!
I shouldn’t be standing here reminiscing about times I’m never going to get back. Reggie’s pissed-off face flashes into my mind. I should get out of here. I should get my rental car and my stuff and leave.
I walk out to the sidewalk, my legs feeling leaden, and turn back toward the B&B.
Ten steps later, I change my mind, do a 180, and head toward the center of Reckless Falls.
A trip to the bar is in order.
30
Regina
My ankle is throbbing in time with my racing heart.
I know he’s gone again because the house is as silent as a tomb, even my normally busy street has gone quiet as if everything is holding its breath and waiting for me to get up and fucking do something instead of sitting here like a statue. But when I do straighten up, I spot his rental car still in my drive and slump back down again out of sight.
What the fuck is he doing?
My ankle throbs. It feels like there’s a hive of wasps in there, pissed off and buzzing angrily.
Adam is right, I need to go to the clinic. Dammit.
Swallowing against the throbbing, I sit up straight again. His car is still there, mysteriously left behind. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air.
How appropriate.
With a sharp hiss, I lower my ankle down off the couch and test it gingerly. The tiniest bit of pressure sends pain singing up my leg and I hiss again.
“Okay,” I say aloud to my empty house. “Now what the fuck?”
I can’t walk. I for sure can’t drive and even if I could, my car is still parked at the waterfront, abandoned along with my triathlon dreams. With an angry sigh, I fall back into my couch and stare accusingly at my ceiling like it owes me an answer. “I’m not calling a fucking ambulance,” I tell it grimly. “And there’s no way in hell I’m asking Adam.” I grimace. “Or my mother. So who does that leave?”
The ceiling is blank and sorely lacking in answers. I turn away in disgust and my eyes fall on the picture next to my couch. The one of me in the middle—how appropriate—with my two sisters posing like we’re all best friends. Which is funny, because aside from Adam, I don’t really have friends. I have sisters. I have classmates. I have co-workers....
Work.
Shit.
With a sudden pooling of ice water in my chest, I remember that I’m scheduled for a double tomorrow. There’s no fucking way I can do that, not on this ankle.
Fuck
.
I glare at the ceiling one more time before I sigh and shift to fish my phone from my pocket and flick through my contacts.
“Hello?” Charlie’s bright, confused greeting tells me she has no idea who it is that’s calling her. She clearly doesn’t have my number programmed into her phone and I have no idea why that bothers me.
“Hi Charlie, it’s Reggi—Gina,” I tell her, nearly stumbling over my own nickname. Adam’s name for me has wormed its way into my brain.
“Hey there!” she says, far more warmly than I was expecting. “How was your race?”
I took a deep breath. “It was...okay...” gearing up to tell her about my ankle.
But she cut me off with a cheerful laugh. “You know, Jameson and I were there at the finish line cheering for you!’
“Uh...”
“I know, we totally missed you and I didn’t have your number programmed into my phone. I’m so sorry about that. Malcolm got stung by a bee and then pitched a fit about a balloon from one of the vendors. We must have missed you in the chaos, I’m so sorry.”
“Um,” I repeated, utterly dumbstruck. “You were there?”
“We were late, of course,” Charlie sighed. “It’s impossible to get out of the house on time with children in tow, I swear. So yeah, we missed the starting gun, so we just made a right for the finish line so we could get our places early.”
“You really came,” I echoed.
“Of course we did!” Charlie declares emphatically. “You’ve been working your ass off! I’m so proud of you!”
I blink for a second and have to swallow several times before I can speak. “Thanks,” I exhale. “But I never finished.”
“What?”
“I wiped out,” I tell her through gritted teeth. “On the bike leg.”
“Oh Gina! Oh no!”
Charlie’s sympathy has the perverse effect of making me cry even harder. “It’s okay,” I tell her in a strangled whisper.
“Are you okay?” Charlie demands. “Did you get hurt?”
“My ankle. That’s why I was calling. I’m not going to be able to do my shift tomorrow. It’s too swollen.”
Charlie gasps. “Oh Jesus, have you been to the doctor?
“Well,” I hedge.
“Regina! You need to have it looked at! You might have broken something!”
“I’m okay.”
“Regina, please,” Charlie laughs. “You’re one of my best servers. If you end up going lame because of some badly healed injury, I’m completely fucked. Please, do me a favor and go get it looked at.”
“Okay.”
“Are you going to do it?’
“Yes.”
“No you aren’t.” Charlie’s kids are still tiny, but I can hear the mother in her voice. “You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not!” I protest, although I clearly am because how the hell am I going to get to the doctor?
“Regina.”
“What?”
“Do I need to come over there and drag you to the doctor’s myself?” I hear the jingling of car keys and her muffled voice calling out to someone that Mama will be back.
“Charlie, no. “You have kids.”
She laughs. “Oh, believe me, I am well aware. They’re driving me nuts today. I could use the break. How about that, Gina? Wanna give me an excuse to get out of here for a few hours? You’d be my best friend....”
My cheeks are on fire and I feel inexplicably shy. “Okay,” I finally relent. “Do you know where I live?”
“Sure do, down on Mill Street, right? Is the door open? I can help you get down the stairs.”
I glance at the door that Adam closed behind him. “Yeah, it is.”
“Cool. I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes, okay? Just let me peel these kids off me.”
“Charlie, hey wait,” I say, glancing out at the driveway. “My car’s not in my driveway. Uh, just in case you were looking for it.”
“Oh? Where’s your car?”
“Still down at the waterfront,” I sigh.
“Awesome!” Charlie trills. “That gives me even more time out of the house.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry, I’m calling my friend Bee from the bakery next door. If you don’t mind someone else driving your car, she can meet us.”
I blink. “I don’t mind.”
“Great!” She shouts a farewell and I hear her husband’s voice rumbling something that makes her giggle. “Okay,” she says, coming back on the line. “Your personal ambulance will be there real soon, okay? Just sit tight.”
“Okay,” I reply, utterly dumbfounded.
31
Adam
The moment I walk in the door at the Reese’s Pub, I know it’s a fucking mistake. What is my plan, even? Get drunk in this bar and then crawl back to Reggie’s house, where my rental car is still sitting in the driveway, and—
And what? Knock on the door and watch her lip curl in disgust when she sees me coming back again? Make some stupid joke to try and make her smile? I can already feel my gut going cold at the thought of her glare. No. None of this is a good idea. I’m just going to get the hell out of town, is what I’m going to do.
I give the bartender an absent nod—he looks vaguely familiar but he’s not looking at me, anyway—and head back out to the sidewalk.
I don’t feel like running anymore. I feel drained of all that sharp energy, and what’s left is a dull, aching void. There’s a headache in the mix, too, and I didn’t even get a drink at the bar. The skin on the back of my neck pricks like someone is watching, but there’s nobody else on the sidewalk.
Not until I get to Reggie’s house, at least.
I see the unfamiliar car parked right next to mine in the driveway from the other end of the block and freeze. I’m not scared of people. I’ve become a powerful man in the city, and the people I associate with are on the same level as I am. But I still find myself shrinking back next to a hedge, my heart pounding. Whose car is that? I want to know so desperately that I can’t move.
I also can’t stand here forever, hiding in the bushes. If I’m going to get the rental car and go back to the city, I have to go get into the driver’s seat.
That’s not entirely true, I remind myself. If I really wanted to, I could have an assistant drive out and take the car from Reggie’s driveway so that I never have to step foot there again. I could call my driver and have him pick me up. He’s on my payroll. He’s not going to say no.
But the thought of doing that is so damn cowardly that I’m ashamed I even considered it.
I’ve just willed myself into moving forward again when a peal of laughter rings down the street, followed by the slam of a door. A few moments later they shuffle into sight—Reggie, red-eyed and stoic but smiling, with her arm thrown around the neck of a woman with curly blonde hair. She looks vaguely familiar—someone who was at the reunion, maybe?—but she’s radiating a kind of joy that makes me want to be friends with her. Even Reggie isn’t immune.
“Fuck, this hurts,” shouts Reggie as they make their way across the driveway to the car.
“Sweetheart, your language,” jokes the woman, and they both laugh. I hear the strain in Reggie’s voice, but just barely over the rushing of my own pulse in my ears. “Try not to be so vulgar at the clinic.” Reggie sticks her tongue out. “Actually, never mind. Don’t hide how much it hurts.” Now the woman’s tone has turned a little serious. “Promise me you won’t.”
Reggie rolls her eyes. My heart pounds.
I want to be the one helping her out to the car. I want to be the one with my arm around her waist. I should be that person, only she didn’t want me there anymore. And this is all because I want to sell a house that’s nothing but a weight around my neck.
Is it?
It’s a thought that comes unbidden to my mind. I’m so used to thinking of my father’s house as a symbol of what an asshole he was that I’ve shoved aside all the memories I had with Reggie there.
How can I sell those?
How can I keep them, when she never wants to see me again?
I’m choking back a bitter laugh when the woman gets Reggie situated in the passenger seat of the car and climbs in the driver’s seat. A few moments later she backs the car carefully out of the driveway and heads off in the opposite direction.
My chest aches.
I don’t wait any longer. I walk across the rest of the block and get in the car, taking the opposite direction out of Reckless Falls.
32
Regina
I’ve forgotten how to be still, but it’s my only option right now. My ankle is resting on a throne of pillows, a bag of frozen peas slowly melting on top of it. I’m supposed to ice it six times a day, twenty minutes a time. It’s the only way I’m not going to end up with a permanent injury, but it feels so strange to just…sit.
I’ve been going at full tilt for so long that being suddenly—almost violently—forced to slow down, has me feeling completely off-kilter.
Yesterday, after Charlie dropped me back off again—after multiple reassurances that I was going to take it easy and take care of myself—she went back out again and came back with two grocery bags full of frozen dinners and stuffed them into my fridge. “I’d make you a casserole or something,” she’d said. “But the funny thing is, I’m actually a terrible cook. Jameson only eats well because of where you and I work.” Then she’d laughed at my dumbfounded face, hugged me gently, and carefully locked the door behind her. Right after that, she had sent me a text to let me know that she had my number now, so she’d be checking in, and to let her know if I needed anything.