“They’re beautiful,” I say to Doreen. Essie’s arms extend in my direction and she leans forward, nearly causing Doreen to lose her hold.
“Oh, my. She must want you to hold her. She never does that.” Doreen chuckles, handing over Nev’s baby daughter before I have a chance to protest.
Bryony’s stare is heavy as hell and I can only imagine all the things running through her mind right now, but I take baby Essie in my arms and try not to cry when she cups my cheeks. Her body is warm and her little dress is soft and her skin smells baby sweet.
She’s still smiling.
And my heart hurts … only not for me this time.
For her. For both of them. For Estella. For Nev.
But I know him. I know he’s an amazing father. And I know he’s going to do everything he can to give these girls everything they could ever need in their sweet little lives.
As much as it pains me, I hand her back to her grandmother. “It was nice seeing you, Doreen.”
“Likewise.” She wraps her arms around Essie, kissing her round face as the older girl dances around her, singing Ring Around the Rosy. I’d give anything to have one ounce of that carefree attitude. “You really should come by sometime. I bet Nev would love to see you.”
It’s difficult for me to look her in the eyes, but I do, and I manage a, “Sure. Maybe I’ll take you up on that sometime.”
And then I leave. I walk away before anything more can be said. I’m sure she’ll go home later today and tell Nev she ran into me. If I’m lucky, he won’t tell her about the spectacle I made last night and he won’t tell her in plain English just how he feels about me. If I know him, and I think I still kind of do, he’ll grunt a few words and change the subject.
Fingers crossed that part of him has remained unchanged over the years.
I don’t think I could handle another self-inflicted bout of humiliation.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Just This Once
Nevada
My mom and the girls walk in a quarter past noon, just as I’m hanging up with a pool contractor out of St. Louis. Turns out the pool in the back of the Conrad mansion, in all its unused glory, is going to need a hell of a lot of work before it’ll run properly, and even then, they can’t guarantee it’ll work at all. I might end up replacing the entire thing when it’s all said and done, but I’ll do what I have to do to make sure it’s safe and sanitary.
“Nev, we got your favorite!” Mom singsongs, placing Essie in my arms and dropping a couple overflowing white paper bags on the counter. “Abel’s Tacos!”
I haven’t had Abel’s since … well, before, the days when Mom was too busy working to make a home-cooked meal. We’d eat it at least once a week, and while it’s pure grease and fat, it always hits the spot.
“Guess who I ran into?” she asks, pulling out food as I bounce my daughter on my knee.
She places her hands on my face, grinning. Essie’s smile reminds me so much of her mother’s despite the fact that she’s my twin from head to toe. She’s my little ray of sunshine, and my biggest wish is that she’ll always be this contented.
“No clue,” I say to Mom, taking a drink of my iced tea.
“Yardley Devereaux,” she says, ambling toward a cabinet to grab a plate. She says her name like it’s no big deal. “Had to drop some things off at The Sew Shop.”
I almost choke on my drink. “What were you doing there?”
“Now, don’t hate me …” she says, which sends a sick shock to my stomach. It’s never a good thing when anyone says that, especially not my mother and especially not after she just ran into my ex. If she tells me she invited her over, I’m going to fucking lose it.
“What’d you do?” My voice is low, monotone.
“You had those bags of Estella’s old clothes,” she says, “and you kept saying you were just going to donate them …”
“… yeah? And?”
“One of my friends had a memory quilt made when her husband passed a few years ago,” she says. “I thought maybe it’d be nice to have some quilts made for you and the girls, out of Estella’s old clothes.”
“That’s kind of morbid, isn’t it?” I ask. “Covering up with a dead person’s old clothes?”
She swats my notion away. “Not at all. It’s comforting. And if you don’t want yours, you can just shove it in a linen closet somewhere. At least let your girls have theirs.”
Glancing at Lennon, who has helped herself to a stepstool and is feasting her eyes on the buffet of tacos and fried tater tots before her, I know Mom has a point. It’d be nice for the girls to have something of Estella’s, and they’re too young for her jewelry and anything of value.
“Fine,” I say, though I must admit, the idea of Estella’s old clothes sitting in a bag at Yardley’s shop is kind of strange. I’m not sure what to make of that just yet. The Devereauxs touching her things. Those are two worlds I never wanted to mix in any capacity, but looking at my sweet girls, I decide to allow it.
Just this once.
And just for them.
“Have you thought about reconnecting with that Devereaux girl at all?” Mom asks, bringing a plate stacked with no less than half a dozen tacos and a heaping pile of tots and placing it in front of me.
“Nope.” I stand, placing Essie in her high chair before heading to the pantry to grab some baby food.
“Maybe you should?” she asks. “Not in a dating capacity. I know you’re not ready for that. But maybe you could start out as friends? See if there’s anything left?”
My jaw clenches. Thank God she can’t see my face right now.
“Anyway, just a thought,” she says. I’m sure my silence tells her everything she needs to know—at least on the outside. I have no desire to fill her in on any of the details, past or present. It’s not worth my energy, my breath, or my time.
“Bryony says they’re making the quilts for free. Isn’t that kind of them?” she asks.
Is she ever going to fucking drop the Devereauxs?
“Yep,” I say, taking a bite of my food before pulling a chair up before Essie. She bounces in her seat when she sees the green and orange Gerber containers in my left hand.
“Yardley’s just as sweet and pretty as I remember her to be,” Mom muses, sighing. “Some girls, you know they leave high school and they just let themselves go. Not her. It’s like she’s barely changed. At least from what I remember. Never did get to know her that well. I only know how crazy you guys were before you went off to school. God, you two were inseparable. It was sweet really. And sad how things don’t work out. High school relationships rarely do. You two were probably doomed from the start.”
My lips press and I force myself to remain quiet, unaffected. Scooping a spoonful of pureed green beans, I focus on feeding Essie as my mother prattles on. I know she just wants to see me happy. She wants me to “get back on that horse,” but finding someone new is the least of my priorities, and once I do put myself back out there, I sure as hell won’t be sidling up to Yardley.
I find myself slightly winded when I think back to the moment Shawn Peters texted me on Valentine’s Day—my birthday—my freshman year at Grove State. He was offering his condolences, saying if Yardley and I couldn’t make it, everyone else was doomed. I asked him what the fuck he was talking about, and he proceeded to inform me he’d just spotted my Yardley with her supposed “best friend” Griffin sharing a romantic, candlelit dinner at Catalina’s.
He presented her with a ring.
And when they left, their arms were around each other and Yardley had tears in her eyes.
It was all I needed to hear.
And it was the end of us. The end of life as I knew it. Until Estella. And even then, everything, all the good things, came with a heaping side of bittersweet.
I should’ve known better than to trust that slimy fuck, Griffin Gaines. When he tried to kiss her at homecoming, I almost had half a mind to slap a plane ticket on my credit card and fly hom
e just so I could clock his stupid face. But Yardley insisted she’d handled it and she begged me to let it go, insisting it meant nothing and that it’ll never happen again because she made him well aware of how much it upset her.
I trusted her then.
But I never trusted him.
And when I came home for a short weekend during Christmas break, I saw the way he looked at her. I saw the way he looked at us. He wanted what I had. And the fucking opportunist took it.
The day after Shawn’s text, Yardley called and texted me dozens of times, which told me she knew I knew. She knew word had traveled back to me already. And for her to call that much, begging me to let her explain, only told me she was feeling guilty.
But I wasn’t interested in explanations. And explanations and apologies wouldn’t give me back what I once had with her.
So I turned my back.
I ripped off the Band-Aid.
And I moved on with my life.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Regrets
Yardley
“Hi, Greta,” I say softly, showing myself into her tiny apartment at the Park Woods Center for Independent Living. She’s seated in her pink recliner, chin tucked against her chest. The TV plays The Price is Right on full blast but she’s snoring away. I figured she’d be sleeping.
Moving closer, I hunch down, running my palm along her arm until her eyes flutter. She’s shocked at first but when she realizes who it is, her face lights and she places her hand over mine.
“Yardley,” she says. “So good to see you.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve called,” I say. Normally I visit her after work or on weekends. She’s not used to me dropping by mid-morning.
“No, no, it’s fine,” she says, rising and reaching for her cane. “Let me fix you something to eat. You hungry?”
I chuckle. “No, Greta. It’s only ten a.m.”
And I managed to choke down an orange juice and an egg McMuffin on the way over, though I’m not sure I tasted any of it.
Greta sits back down, wrinkled eyes sparkling. “It’s so good to see you, my dear. But is everything all right? You never stop by like this in the middle of the day.”
“Just wanted to see you, that’s all,” I say. Visiting Greta is like visiting a grandma, and both of mine are long gone. I never met my father’s mother. She passed before I was born. But my mother’s mother was a frequent staple in our Del Mar home. When we moved to Lambs Grove, she only came out a couple of times per year.
I love my bond with Greta. She’s the grandmother I never had.
“Was going to see if you wanted to get lunch today? The Bamboo Garden is having their buffet special. I know how much you love Chinese …” I say with a wink.
“Oh, sweetie …” There’s an apologetic squint in her clear blue gaze.
And then I notice something.
Her white hair is freshly permed and her glasses hang from a pearl chain around her neck. The cardigan of her pink twinset sweater is buttoned at the top. On top of that, her nails are freshly painted.
Greta Gaines is dressed to the nines.
“Greta …” I wear a smirk. “Do you … do you have a date today?”
She lifts a crinkled hand to her lips and fights a smile. “Yes. I suppose you could say that.”
“Okay, tell me his name. Tell me everything about him.”
Greta swats her hand, chuckling, and she’s radiant, sporting a youthful glow I haven’t seen on her in forever.
“His name is Wilfred,” she says. “He’s seventy-four. A retired farmer.”
“How’d you meet?”
She pulls in a deep breath, fingers tapping on the arms of her chair. Just talking about him makes her giddy, I can tell.
God, I miss that.
“He’s new here,” she says. “Just moved in a couple weeks ago. We met playing Cribbage in the community room. Never thought I’d meet anyone who loved Cribbage as much as me! It’s getting harder and harder to place those little pegs in the holes, you know? And he sat next to me. Helping me. He’s got a steady hand, that Wilfred. And nice lips.”
I playfully brush my hand along her arm. This is too freaking adorable.
“When’s your date?” I ask. “And where is he taking you?”
“We’re having lunch at some little café on the square. I don’t know what it’s called, but he chose it. He also sent flowers to my room yesterday.” She points to a vase of pink roses sitting on the little oak table in her dinette. “Aren’t they gorgeous? Anyway, he’s picking me up in about an hour and we’re taking a cab.”
“Are you nervous? Excited?” I ask.
“Everything.” She laughs, and her right hand lifts to her chest. “Almost feel young again, and that’s something I haven’t felt in almost forever. But enough about Wilfred.” Greta rolls her eyes. “I want to know what’s going on with you? And I don’t believe for one second that you stopped by here this morning for no reason. You never take time off work. What’s going on?”
I sink back into her floral sofa, crossing my legs and resting my chin against my fist.
“There’s someone from my past who recently came back into my life,” I begin. “And not by his choice.”
She lifts a sparse brow, sitting up.
“And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Mainly about regrets,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want to word vomit my life story the way I did with Bryony last night. There’s no point. And Greta doesn’t know half of what happened before …
“Oh, please.” She chuckles. “You’re twenty-eight. What regrets could you possibly have at this point in your life? As someone who’s three times your age, I can tell you, regrets are a good thing. How else are we supposed to learn from our mistakes? We live, we learn, and we do things that shape us and make us into better people. End of story.”
“Do you have regrets?” I ask.
Her thin lips twist at the sides as she stares to her left, contemplating. “I used to think I did. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve given myself credit for some of the more brazen things I did in my younger years. There were a few times I put my foot in my mouth or spoke up when maybe I shouldn’t have, and at the time I thought I’d made a fool out of myself, but in retrospect … no regrets.”
I wish I could say Greta’s words soothed my ego, but no dice. Maybe someday, when I’m in my seventies, looking back on everything, I’ll be able to give myself credit too, but right now that feels like lightyears away, and right now my ego is a mottled shade of bruised purple.
“So tell me, sweet Yardley. What are these regrets you’re talking about?” she asks.
I purse my lips and shake my head. “It’s complicated.”
“Do you regret marrying Griffin?” she asks, referring to her grandson.
My gaze lifts onto hers.
I don’t know how to answer her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jealousy
Nevada
One-hundred percent of me has no desire to spend my Friday night at The Leaderboard on Lambs Groves’ town square, but after my mother’s constant nagging and pleading with me to “reconnect with old friends,” I figured one night out couldn’t hurt anything.
Plus, I wanted a beer. And drinking at home alone on a Friday night seemed a little pathetic the more I thought about it.
Standing around a high-top table, I shoot the shit with some old buddies I knew in my former life. Tate Hofstetter’s been standing way too fucking close for comfort, like he thinks we’re going to pick up where we left off and become instant best friends now that I’m back in town, but I try not to let it bother me.
The whole gang is here though.
And it’s nice to laugh and forget about life for a while with some old, familiar faces.
Across from Tate is Nick Haverford, another old friend, who is now a married father of two who runs his own insurance agency. Beside him is Brett Conner, who took over his dad’s Ford dealership, and last
but not least is Spencer Mains, who turned out to be the video game-addicted, basement-dwelling pothead we all expected him to be.
He was even unofficially voted least likely to succeed our senior year, which he thought was fucking hilarious. But I guess when you’re constantly stoned, everything is hilarious.
Finishing off the remainder of my Rolling Rock, I eye the bar.
“This place always so packed?” I ask Tate. Everyone’s standing shoulder to shoulder, and every time I glance around, I catch people averting their eyes, like they’re trying not to make it obvious that they’re staring at me.
Good thing I’m used to that.
“Nope,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “People found out you were here tonight. Word spreads quickly. I’m guessing the place is almost at capacity.”
Glancing outside the front picture window of the bar, I spot a group of girls being turned away by the bouncer, several of them placing their faces up to the glass to try to see inside.
“Yep,” Tate says. “We’re at capacity.”
“I’m going to grab another. Everyone good?” I ask, pointing to the guys. They exchange looks and nod, and I push my way through the dense crowd until I reach the bar.
I’m waiting in line for my drink when I watch a sizeable group of people leave, though it does nothing to make this place feel any less packed.
We’re all a bunch of fucking sardines.
By the time I get my beer and head back to the high top, I scan the room in search of any other familiar faces.
“Nevada?” A fresh-faced twenty-something with bleach blonde pigtails and a neon orange crop top steps in front of me, her phone in her hand. “Sorry to bother you, but would you take a picture with me?”
I offer a gracious smile before nodding, and she sidles up to me, draping my arm over her shoulder as she extends hers. Crouching down so we’re both in the shot, I smile and endure the temporary blindness that comes with the flash of the camera.
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