by Kendall Ryan
Well, since Lexington, to be honest.
I take a hefty sip of my frozen margarita through the pink plastic straw. Maybe if I’m lucky, I can brain freeze that sad reality away. And if not, some tequila might make it a little less painful and I’ll forget everything.
“Okay, that’s it.” Sarah Jo slams her margarita down hard enough that it splashes a bit across the table.
I flinch at her intensity, wiping a cold drop of splashed marg from my cheek. If she’s willing to waste booze like that, she must mean business. “What’s up?”
“I should be asking you that question.” She huffs, folding her arms over her chest. “You’ve been acting weird since we left your classroom. What’s going on? And don’t try telling me that nothing’s wrong. You’re clearly stewing about something.”
Defeated, I sigh. I can’t lie to my best friend. And I’m already feeling loose-lipped after a few sips of my margarita, so I might as well break the news now.
“It’s Lexington,” I say on a sigh. “He’s back.”
Sarah Jo’s palm hits her lips with the slightest smacking sound. “No freaking way. The Lexington Dane? I thought he was a city guy now, some penthouse prince living in the big apple.”
I nod, cringing slightly at hearing her call him by the nickname I’d heard him called in the local media. The day Lexington graduated from college, he booked a one-way flight to LaGuardia Airport and never looked back. Not at North Carolina, and certainly not at me, the high school girlfriend he left in the dust with a hundred questions and not one answer.
“Well, what is he doing here?” Sarah Jo asks, scooping up a heaping helping of salsa with a tortilla chip and popping it into her mouth.
“No clue. All I know is what Dak told me, that he’s back in town and he needs some kind of favor .”
I should have chosen my words more carefully, because my dirty-minded best friend hears the word favor and immediately starts wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, seemingly forgetting all about my hellish history with Lexington.
“Not that kind of favor,” I say on a groan. I’m not in the mood for her antics right now.
“Then what the hell would he want from you?”
“I wish I knew so I could practice the best way to shoot him down. If anyone should be asking for something, it should be me, asking him for an apology.”
Sarah Jo lifts her glass in agreement. “You’ve got that right. So, what are you going to do?”
“Cross my fingers that he stays as far away from me as possible?” I say. “That’s the only plan I’ve come up with so far.”
She purses her lips, holding back a snicker. “Maybe we can get you a disguise. Like those glasses with the fake nose and mustache, oh maybe even a mullet wig.”
Cue me nearly snorting frozen margarita out my nose. Leave it to Sarah Jo to make me laugh, even in the crappiest of situations.
“But, seriously,” she says, refocusing. “I have to ask this and you’ve got to give me an honest answer because that’s in the best friend code handbook. Do you still have feelings for him?”
I chew thoughtfully on my straw as I drain the last of my drink. It would have been easier if she’d asked me to explain physics to her, or come up with the meaning of life.
Do I still have feelings for Lexington Dane? I certainly feel something toward him. Anger? Regret? And a whole lot of confusion. My emotions are more blended than this frozen margarita, and I can’t tease them apart. There’s only one I can identify for certain, and that’s anger. So that’s the one I’m going with.
“The only feelings I have toward him are strong ones of wanting to jam a screwdriver into his balls.”
Sarah Jo smirks, then finishes her drink. “Well, that’s that, then.”
With our glasses empty and our stomachs full of chips and salsa, we pay the check and say our good-byes. I’m an early-night kind of gal with a one drink in public limit. That way, I can always drive home, and I’m never at risk of a parent spotting me in a less-than-flattering state. It’s one of the many important teacher rules that they don’t teach you in undergrad.
“Text me when you get home!” Sarah Jo calls across the parking lot.
I give her a thumbs-up and one last wave before we climb into our separate cars and head off—Sarah Jo toward her downtown apartment, and me to my one-bedroom condo south of the city. She’s always preferred to be in the thick of things, whereas I’m a bit more partial to the peace and quiet. That and the proximity to the beach. I wasn’t kidding when I said that my only plans this summer are to lie in the sand.
Once I’m back in the comfort of my condo, I shrug off my purse and head straight for my closet, ditching my teacher clothes for an oversized tee and fuzzy lounge shorts.
Yes, it’s early and yes, I’m already in pajamas. Sue me for thinking an eight o’clock bedtime on a Friday night sounds awfully good after the day I’ve had.
With my teeth brushed and my skin-care routine complete, I grab my phone from my purse and head straight to bed. No lesson planning, no grading spelling tests, just scrolling mindlessly through social media until I fall asleep. I freaking love summer break.
But before I can begin this evening’s mind-numbing scrolling, a notification stops me dead in my tracks. I have a missed call from an unknown number. And that zip code? I’m pretty dang sure it’s from New York. Not only that, but there’s a voice mail waiting for me.
My cheeks burn hotter than North Carolina in July as I work up the courage to hit PLAY, slowly lifting my phone to my ear. Please be a spam call, please be a spam call, please be a spam call.
That deep, familiar voice buzzes into my ear. “Hey, Corrigan, it’s Lex. Give me a call when you get a chance. It’d be great if we could talk.”
Click. Silence.
That’s it. Just fifteen seconds. No real message, no explanation of what in the world is going on. Just the request that I call him back. A request that I’m going to deny.
If only I could deny the fact that the sound of his voice sent that same electricity dancing down my spine, just like it did all those years ago.
Damn it.
4
* * *
LEXINGTON
After breakfast and the rest of our morning routine, I wrangle Grier into the car and drive to Mom’s. When I arrive, the front door is locked, so I ring the doorbell. A middle-aged woman in purple scrubs answers.
I shake her hand. “Hi, I’m Lex, Bonnie’s son.”
She smiles. “I figured. Your visit was all she could talk about since you called. I’m Gail, her home care nurse. It’s nice to meet you. And who is this cutie pie?” She gazes down at Grier, who’s clinging to my leg.
“This is my daughter. Grier, say hi.”
Grier does no such thing. She just gazes up at the woman with an uncertain look.
Gail takes us to the living room, where Mom is sitting in her recliner, her lap covered with a knitted throw blanket. My heart constricts. Her face looks so pale and drawn, and her hands resting atop the blanket are so thin, and more age-spotted than I’ve ever seen them.
Grier without any understanding of Mom’s health concerns runs over and excitedly climbs onto her lap. “Gamma! Gamma!”
Mom hugs her and peppers her face with kisses, prompting much excited squealing from my little girl. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you both.”
I kneel to squeeze her tightly, disturbed by how diminished and frail she feels in my arms. I already knew what was happening, but now that I’m seeing her in person, the reality that she’s dying hits me all over again, followed by the guilt and fear.
Six months—more like five by now. We have so few moments left together. How could I have stayed away so long? I spent my twenties building my business from the ground up, pouring all my time and devotion into it, and living the high life in New York City in a penthouse that overlooked central park. And now my business is a success, raking in millions a year, but you know what, I’d give it all up if I could go back in
time and have my mom healthy again. I’d give up everything.
“I know,” she says quietly into my shoulder. “But it’ll be all right, sweet pea. I’ve lived a good, long life. I’m ready for whatever the universe has in store for me.”
I’m not ready. I don’t know how I could ever be. But I release her anyway and try and force a smile on my face. She doesn’t need to see me frowning. “How are you feeling today?”
“Mmm . . . not the best, but well enough. Do you want anything? Some sweet tea? Gail just helped me bake some pecan snowballs yesterday.”
Grier snaps to attention. “Cookie?”
Mom smiles at her granddaughter and her whole face lights up. “You got it, little one. Off my lap first, though.”
Grier hops down, and Mom starts to pull the blanket aside.
“Stay there, Mom, I can get it,” I say, squeezing her hand gently.
“Nonsense. You’re a guest. And exercise is good for me, right, Gail?”
Gail hesitates for a second, then replies, “A little, yes.” She and I hold out our hands for Mom to grab.
With our help, Mom succeeds in pushing herself to her feet, slightly but noticeably short of breath, and starts off for the kitchen. Grier runs ahead of her with Flapflap dragging on the floor while Gail and I stay at her side. Gail takes down plates and cups, Mom distributes the cookies, and I handle the heavy jug of tea for her.
When we’re all back in the living room and seated with our snack, Mom asks Grier, “Is that your friend?”
Grier pauses from inhaling her cookie to hold up Flapflap toward Mom and shouts, “Bats eat bugs!” before erupting in giggles.
“That’s absolutely right. You know a lot about nature.” Mom looks back to me. “Oh, I almost forgot—would Grier like your old toys? They’re for boys, but I thought I’d ask.”
She still has those? “I’m sure she’d love them. She doesn’t seem to be into baby dolls and girly things. Before Flapflap, her favorite toy was an airplane.”
Mom nods in Gail’s direction who then disappears down the hall before reappearing with a large cardboard box. Grier gasps in delight and digs into the treasure trove, emerging with a G.I. Joe, which she mashes against Flapflap.
We watch her play for a few minutes before Mom asks, “So, have you thought about what I said last time we talked?”
“Which part?”
“Who’s going to watch Grier for you. She needs a woman’s influence, Lexington.” She gestures to where Grier is babbling and giggling as she dances the G.I. Joe across the floor.
I frown. Although I know it’s just because my mom’s old-fashioned, I can’t help being a little offended at the implication that my parenting is inadequate and I won’t be enough for my daughter. “So only women know how to raise children? Or is it because she likes bats and planes and action figures more than dolls?”
“You know what I mean. Her being a tomboy is fine, but you still need help.”
“I’m working on it, Mom.”
Although Corrigan hasn’t returned my call yet. All day I’ve found myself obsessing over whether I should leave her another oneor text Dak or something,
I mentally kick myself again. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. Calm down and stop acting like a damn lovesick teenager.
Look at me, a grown-ass man ready to make a fool of himself over someone who isn’t even a romantic option. I need to to remind myself that this is the same as hiring any other contractor or employee. Something I’ve done a thousand times before. I should be able to handle this in my sleep and I shouldn’t be allowing it to consume my thoughts the way it is.
But Corrigan isn’t just another contractor, and I’ve got the stomach gymnastics to prove it. Even after all this time, my heart still quickens when I think about her.
Mom perks up. “Does that mean you’ve started dating again?”
I hold back an exasperated groan. “No, Mom, I’m hiring a nanny. I don’t have the room in my life for a girlfrie—”
Grier pushes Flapflap and G.I. Joe into my knee. “Look. They’re best friends.”
Case in point. “Very cool, honey,” I reply, smiling down at my daughter.
“Are you sure?” Mom asks. “Life is short. You’re already thirty. You should really think about your future.”
I grimace. “Even if I had the time and energy, it would make me a real . . .” I glance at Grier, who has put the G.I. Joe on Flapflap’s back and is wiping them around the floor while making engine noises. “A real heel if I treated dating as a way to find free childcare services. A lot of women don’t want to sign up for that stuff by dating a single dad, and I can’t blame them for being up front about it.”
Mom sighs, looking even more tired. “A lot doesn’t mean all. You’ll never know who’s out there if you don’t look.”
Drop it, Mom. “Maybe, but there’s no way I’m getting into all that right now. It’s easier to approach this as a business transaction between professionals.”
My inappropriate inner voice whispers, Not that you’d complain if things got a little unprofessional between you and Corrigan, but I quash it. There’s too much history between us, and the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in forever is highlighting the good parts while glossing over how it all ended.
Mom sighs. “All right, all right. I know when my advice isn’t wanted. I just worry sometimes, sweet pea. You and Grier are the only chicks in my nest.”
I smile at her. “I know, Mom. We love you too.” Even if she drives me nuts sometimes.
Her answering smile turns into a huge yawn. “Whew . . . I’m so tired all of a sudden.”
“Go ahead and have a nap,” I say. “I’ll make Grier some lunch, and we’ll come back later.”
“There’s a nice park a few minutes from here,” Mom says, her eyes already drifting shut.
I gesture for Gail to follow us into the kitchen. As I assemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Grier—my appetite has quickly disappeared—I ask Gail quietly, “How is she, really?”
She presses her lips together. “Well . . . let me put it this way. Today is one of her better-than-average days.” She hastens to add, “But not by much. And compared to other patients at this stage, she’s doing excellently. She doesn’t need oxygen, and her pain and nausea are being managed very well.”
I let out a deep sigh as I hand Grier her plate. “I guess that’s all we can really hope for.”
Gail rests her hand on my shoulder briefly. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. But having her family around is already doing her so much good.”
“Thank you,” I reply, not knowing what else to say.
She leaves to go watch over Mom. While Grier eats, I pull out my phone to find the park Mom was talking about.
• • •
“Higher Daddy!” Grier yells between giggles.
I give her another push on the swing, making her kick her feet at the deep blue sky and shriek with excitement. Mom was right—this park is nice. Its playground is huge, clean, and features enough equipment to tire out even my little ball of energy.
There are other kids around for her to play with, but not so many that it’s too crowded. Nearby, a group of people are doing Pilates on the grass, and every so often, a jogger or dog walker goes by. I can easily imagine us picnicking under the towering oak trees this summer, crunching through autumn leaves and sledding down the gently rolling hills in winter.
Well, maybe not so much that last one. I chuckle to myself. Gotta remember we’re much farther south now.
After a few more minutes on the swings, Grier finally demands, “Done now. Upsies.”
I lift her out of the seat and set her down. She toddles off to the sandbox to begin digging a hole with laser focus.
I sit down on the nearest bench and enjoy the sun, letting my eyes close for a moment. That is, until I hear a voice that itches at my brain with a familiarity I’d never forget.
The woman who’s just
passed us with an exercise mat rolled up under her arm doesn’t just sound achingly familiar, she looks it too. The dark blond hair from my memories and the body from my dreams. She’s almost the spitting image of . . .
I jump to my feet. “Corrigan?”
She freezes, then slowly turns around.
I’m not just imagining this. It is her.
And holy shit, little Cori’s all grown up.
5
* * *
CORRIGAN
Allow me to be perfectly clear—I don’t like working out.
I think people who say they like working out are lying, or else they’re just certifiably insane. I’ve tried the gym, home workouts, personal trainers and even those fancy barre classes that play fun, upbeat pop tunes. But so far none of them have been my thing.
You know what else isn’t my thing? Spending nine hours tossing and turning while running through worst-case scenarios of why Lexington called me last night. I’m a worrier by nature, but after listening to his voice mail, what I experienced was a whole new level of stress. I’m talking sleepless, not even melatonin can save me now stress.
So this morning, when my favorite What’s Happening in Wilmington blog directed me to this free workout class in the park, I thought I’d give physical fitness one more shot. All in the name of endorphins and sweating out every memory of Lexington Dane so I could attempt to move on yet again.
Now, freshly sweaty from three rounds of intense intervals in the summer sun, I’m feeling a little bit better and a lot out of breath. Luckily, I still have plenty of time to head home and change before I meet Sarah Jo for brunch. As I head back to my car, I tap my smartwatch to get a read on how many calories I just burned to determine if I can justify pancakes and hash browns. As I do the mental math of calories burned vs calories about to be consumed, a familiar voice behind me brings my tennis shoes to a screeching halt.