“I help Mom around the house.”
“When? That woman never asks for help.” Bryony’s brows meet.
“I’m going to start taking graphic design classes at the Grandwoods extension campus,” I say.
“You’ve been looking into their night program for years.” She strides to her closet and retrieves a pair of strappy wedge sandals, rising on her toes as she steps into them. “Pretty sure that catalog on your desk is from the 2012-13 school year. It’s probably not even relevant anymore.”
“It’s not that old.” It is that old. “You’re making me sound lame, and I’m perfectly content with my quiet little life.”
Truth be told, I’m not even sure if I am—at least not one hundred percent. I just tell myself that because it’s easier than drenching myself in a rainstorm of regret. That said, Lambs Grove isn’t that bad. Sure, it’s slower paced than most cities and it’s way past its prime, but it’s quiet here. The people are friendly for the most part. And my friends and family are here.
Besides, I have hobbies.
I read books.
I run.
I do hot yoga.
I draw.
I’ve dabbled in gourmet cooking and jewelry making.
I tried knitting once.
Just because I’m not painting the town like my sister or living some larger-than-life existence doesn’t mean I’m wasting my twenties away.
“You are lame. But I still love you.” Bryony’s phone pings, and she swipes it off her nightstand. “He’s already there. What time is it?”
“Seven fifteen.”
“Shit. I’m late.” Her thumbs tap out a quick message on her glass screen and she frowns. “I don’t want him to think I stood him up and then he bails. God, I’d be so pissed if I wasted an Uber on him.”
She transfers her wallet and phone and keys into a small clutch and asks me how she looks before she leaves the room.
“Like a girl about to go on her third date in less than a week,” I say, monotone.
“Hey! I have an idea,” she says. “What if you go and pretend to be me?”
I lift a brow. “You’re not serious.”
Bry laughs. I think she might be …
“No.” I hook my arm around my dog, like he’s the anchor keeping me in the safe and sane confines of my townhome. “Absolutely not.”
“Wouldn’t that be hilarious though?” She twirls in front of the full-length mirror hanging from the back of her door, checking out her ass in the little summery romper she’s wearing tonight. “You could pretend to be me for a change. Might be fun to step out of your skin for a hot minute. Would take the pressure off too. You could just have fun.”
“What makes you think I’m not having fun?”
My sister’s playful expression fades, and her gaze rests in my direction. “I love you, Yardley, but sometimes you frustrate the ever-loving shit out of me.”
“I’m sor—”
“—I’m not done. Let me finish.” She moves closer, resting one hand on her left hip. Her playful mood has taken a darker turn. “I’m done tiptoeing around your feelings. Someone needs to tell you the truth. Might as well be me. You need to get back out there, and whether or not you want to is irrelevant. You can’t sit around mourning something you don’t have anymore. Nev moved on. Years ago. You should too.”
My response catches in my throat before completely disintegrating. She’s right. And a week ago, I’d have agreed.
But Nevada moving back changes things.
Nevada becoming single again—as tragic as it is—changes things too.
The longing I’d been trying to suffocate all these years is reigniting faster than I have time to process it. It burns inside me sometimes, hot as fire and too intense to deny let alone ignore. Couple that with the fact that he’s back in town, and I’m a mess of a million different kinds of emotions.
Believe me, I wish I could sweep him under the rug like some once upon a time boyfriend, but he’s so much more than that. No amount of trying to convince myself otherwise could possibly change that.
“Nev came back to Lambs Grove …” I say. “And he bought the house he said he’d buy for me someday … that has to mean something.”
Bryony exhales, looking at me like I’m some kind of lost cause. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
Too late.
Chapter Twenty-Five
First Red Flag
Nevada
My footsteps echo against wood-trimmed walls and stale dust fills my lungs.
All these years sitting empty and void of life has done a number on this house… which is why I got it for a steal. The sellers were asking two mil and the house had been on the market for eight years. I offered them less than a third of that—all cash, twenty-four-hour close—and they accepted within the hour.
Maybe that should’ve been my first red flag.
Nobody wants this house.
Nobody wants to be tied to Lambs Grove and its devastated past. This once-robust, picturesque little city went from thriving to eyesore before anyone could do a damn thing to stop it.
Passing the dining hall with its two-story ceiling and candelabra chandeliers and marble fireplace, I imagine my girls giggling, Lennon twirling in her favorite purple dress as her sister watches, wide-eyed. Moving toward the back of the house, toward the slider going out to the pool, I imagine wet footprints, the scent of chlorine, and warm, sunbaked towels. Upstairs, I designate the girls’ respective bedrooms, side by side and across from mine.
I want us all to be together, always.
This is way too much house for the three of us, but Lambs Grove’s real estate listings were slim pickings and this was the only one equipped with a security system and eight-foot brick fence around the perimeter, surrounded by mature trees.
Heading into the master suite, I make a note on my phone about picking up a few outlet covers, a caulking gun, and some nails and a hammer. Most of the issues in this house are cosmetic or minor. A good, thorough cleaning and a few minor repairs and we should be able to officially call this place home.
The floor-to-ceiling window on the south side of the master bedroom overlooks the pool, which is filled with leaves and twigs and fast food wrappers that have gone airborne and landed in the back yard.
It isn’t pretty yet, but it will be. Just needs a little TLC.
There’s something about being in Lambs Grove that makes those old, buried memories come back harder, more vibrant. Some nights, I lie in bed, my mind flooded with random things—moments mostly—things that in retrospect seem completely trivial and insignificant. The smell of my old truck, like leather air freshener and country road dust. The weight of my favorite jacket and how the sleeves were a half inch too short. Pulling my brother out of a ditch one year when he thought doing donuts in his rear-wheel drive Firebird after an ice storm was a smart move.
And then I remember her.
The one I’ve spent a decade forgetting.
My memories with her are the strongest, and I can’t turn them off. We must have driven every side street in this town, every highway at least a hundred times. The Muskrat Café, Conrad Park, the Hilltop drive-in, Lambs Grove High … she’s all of those places and then some.
This town is haunted by a past I’d do anything to disremember.
I’m not sure if she’s still here or if she’s long gone—I’ve kept myself intentionally out of the loop all these years—but none of it matters because I still feel her here and it’s all the same.
Whether she’s around or not, the ghost of what we once had still lingers.
It wasn’t until this morning that I remembered driving past the Conrad mansion with her one aimless afternoon a lifetime ago. We pulled over, seeing if we could scale the brick fences out back enough to see into the back yard. When we were done, I promised her I’d buy her this house someday, that we’d fill it with babies and throw parties and live out the rest of our days in this palatial estate fit
for a king and queen.
I’d forgotten all about that.
But back then we made all kinds of promises to each other, and none of them ended up meaning a damn fucking thing.
Still feels like yesterday that her father was offering to pay my way through community college and slide me into an upper management position at his factory. James Devereaux only ever wanted his daughter to have everything her heart desired, and if that meant keeping me around and giving me a way to provide for her, he was happy to do it.
Only she wouldn’t allow it.
The day I got my full-ride scholarship in the mail, she told me I had to go, that she couldn’t live with herself if she robbed me of a bright future. But as far as I was concerned, she was my future. I may have been a basketball prodigy, but basketball wasn’t my everything.
She was.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Do You Know Who That Is?
Yardley
“Here.” Bryony hands me a blue Post-It note filled with a shopping list. “Those are all the supplies we need.”
“I’ll go tomorrow.” I peel the note from the back of my fingers and stick it to the corner of my computer screen.
“We need pins, like, yesterday,” she says. “And I’m almost out of paperclips.”
“I just bought you a pack last week …”
“Anyway, it’s three o’clock. Just call it a day and go,” she says, bottom lip jutting forward as she shrugs. “We haven’t had a customer since eleven. I promise you’re not going to miss anything.”
My sister leans across my desk, saving the spreadsheet on my computer before shutting it down.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
She smirks. “Yeah, I did. You haven’t left the shop all day. You didn’t even take lunch. I’m doing you a favor.”
Rising, I grab my bag and my car keys and my empty coffee cup, and my sister escorts me to the front of the shop.
“Have fun …” Bryony gives me a finger wave before answering the phone and turning away.
Ten minutes later, I pull into a parking spot at the local Shoppe Smart, Lambs Grove’s answer to Wal-Mart, and make my way across the grease-covered, junk-littered parking lot to grab a cart from a corral.
Much to my dismay but not to my surprise, I can’t find a single cart without a wobbly or squeaky wheel.
Inside, the store is mostly void of customers, and the stench of rotting meat fills my nostrils as a team of a half a dozen workers rifle through the steak display in search of the source of the smell.
This is why I don’t buy my groceries here.
Making my way to the back of the store where they keep the push pins and thread, I turn left to cut through the sock aisle, only to find it jammed with shoppers and carts.
Is there a sale on Hanes low cut socks?
These people go nuts for buy-one-get-ones or the little packs with seven pairs instead of five. I saw some Black Friday level stuff go down over a clearance on boxer briefs once, and it wasn’t pretty.
“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat.
I’m ignored.
“Excuse me.” I speak louder this time.
“Go around,” some ass wipe says, as if I’m the rude one in this situation.
Exhaling, I back my cart out of the cluster fuck traffic jam and search for a different route to the sewing section. It’d be really great if my mom could prepare for these kinds of shortages in advance. I guess they know I’m always on standby to run a quick errand when the need arises.
A solid ten minutes pass by the time I cross the last item off my list and head to the front of the store to find a register that hopefully isn’t manned by full-timer Betty Cleary.
Sweetest woman.
Slowest checker.
Will talk your ear off if you let her … which is why I try to avoid her lane at all costs.
Passing the sock aisle on my way, I find it empty. All those people … gone. Like I imagined them. Shrugging, I push past and manage to snag the fourth spot in lane two, which is staffed by a freckle-faced teenage boy who doesn’t mess around and possesses the kind of quick and nimble qualities I look for in a Shoppe Smart checker.
The line moves quickly, but I snag an Us Weekly to tide me over until my turn.
I’m halfway through a riveting exposé about Brad Pitt’s sobriety when the curly-haired woman in front of me jabs her elbow into my arm three times. Glancing up, I lift my brows to see why I’m being summoned by a perfect stranger.
“Do you know who that is?” Her voice is low and soft, as one hand covers the side of her face and the other points to the man standing in front of her.
I shake my head. It looks like a guy. A tall guy. In a white t-shirt, faded ball cap, and ripped jeans, hands shoved into his pockets.
“That’s Nevada Kane,” she whispers, eyes wild and hands fluttering.
My stomach drops as my gaze drifts to the tall drink of water whose back is currently to me and the rest of the Shoppe Smart world.
The back of my throat tightens. I couldn’t utter a single syllable if I tried right now.
The woman grins in his direction before turning back to me and leaning close. “I want to ask him for his autograph for my grandson. Should I?”
Before I get a chance to tell her she’s asking the wrong person, Nevada turns around. He must have heard the fuss this woman was making.
Glancing his way, heart whooshing in my ears and mouth running dry, I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my left ear and smile. My chest is full with the weight of nostalgia and the kind of tickling giddiness that used to flood me every time I’d see him.
Nevada notices me. We’re mere feet apart. Suddenly a decade of separation has morphed into nothing more than a woman and a cart standing between us.
But he doesn’t look at me.
He was a mirage. And then he was real, standing so close I could practically touch him. But when he looked right through me, I knew …
The rumors are true.
The cashier spouts out a total before cracking his knuckles against his navy vest, and Nevada slaps a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
Keeping back, I watch the woman in front of me fawn over him, fish around in her purse for something he can sign, and then turn back toward me gushing on and on about how excited her grandson will be when she gives him this.
While she rattles on about how gracious and nice Nevada is for being a “celebrity,” I watch him disappear out the automatic doors, his stride elongated, swift.
Not once does he turn back. He keeps on going, his back to me.
Like I don’t matter …
Like I don’t exist …
Like I’m dead to him …
Now I know the rumors are true: Nevada Kane hates me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
A Soulless Shell
Nevada
“Everyone leave you alone at the store?” Mom asks when I carry in a few grocery bags and place them on her counter.
“Nope.” God forbid I try to buy a bag of fucking socks without being surrounded by a horde of locals.
She laughs. “How many autographs did you have to sign this time?”
“Too many.” Way too goddamn many.
“These people will get used to you being back in town sooner or later,” she says, passing behind me and rubbing my upper back. “Eventually you’ll be another permanent fixture, just a part of Lambs Grove. Like that mermaid fountain.”
“Did you just compare me to the mermaid fountain?”
“You know what I mean. Like the town’s kind of known for that fountain.” She emphasizes with her hands. “Eventually we’ll be known as that town where that basketball player retired and people will drive by on the interstate and mention it for a half second and move on with their lives.”
“You’re digging yourself deeper and deeper,” I say.
Mom clucks her tongue. “Nevada, you know what I’m trying to say!”
I smirk
for a fraction of a second. “I know. Just messing.”
She punches me on the arm before digging around in one of the sacks. I told her I was running to the store to grab a few things for the new house, and she asked me to pick up some fresh tarragon and an eight pack of paper towels while I was out. I figured it’d be good for me to do normal people things as I acclimate to this normal person existence.
“Run into anyone you know?” Mom asks.
Pulling in a ragged breath, I contemplate my answer. “No.”
Thought I saw someone I knew for a split second … then I realized she was just a soulless shell standing where an empty promise once was.
“You know … I don’t know if you knew this, but that Devereaux girl you dated is still around here,” Mom says, voice low, though I’m not sure why. “Yardley, was it?”
Growing up, I never brought anyone home because home was a leaky trailer that smelled like cat piss and cigarette smoke. Home was where I shared a saggy full-sized bed in a ten by ten bedroom with my nose-picking kid brother while my sister took the couch, keeping her clothes in the coat closet by the door. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place I liked to take anyone, so my mom only ever saw my friends on special occasions … prom or homecoming or basketball games. I’m surprised she even remembers anyone’s name.
“Such a shame what happened to the Devereauxs,” Mom says under her breath, head tilted as she turns toward me. “Heartbreaking, really.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, and I prefer to keep it that way.
“You heard about them, didn’t you?” she asks. “About what happened?”
“Nope.” I tried to avoid any kind of Lambs Grove-related gossip over the years. At all costs. For the last decade, this was just a place on a map that no longer existed.
Mom leans against the counter, folding her arms across her chest and exhaling. “Well, Devereaux Wool and Cotton went bankrupt … maybe seven or eight years ago? Half the town lost their jobs, of course. And shortly after that, James Devereaux died. Suffered a massive heart attack in his sleep.”
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