Yardley

“Really, Bry? A date on a Tuesday night?” I lie on my sister’s bed in the spare room I’ve so generously rented out to her for the last six months. Dex, my seven-year-old golden retriever, curls up against me, occasionally licking my hand. He must smell the leftover remnants of my chunky peanut butter and apple jelly sandwich. “Is this the same guy from Saturday?”

“Nope.” She smacks her lips, emphasizing the ‘p,’ and then she uncaps a tube of her signature shocking pink lipstick while leaning toward to her dresser mirror. Bryony is the biggest attention whore I know, and I say this with nothing but love.

“Same guy as Friday?” I ask.

“Uh, no. Not him either.” Her painted mouth twists into a smirk.

“Where are you finding all these eligible bachelors?” I squint at her. “Last I checked, the good ones got the hell out of Lambs Grove, and the only ones left peaked in high school and have since married and divorced their high school sweethearts.”

“You act like it’s so hard to put yourself out there. There are apps for these things, you know. That’s what modern people do in this modern age. They use their phones and they find people and they have fun and they don’t just sit at home watching Netflix and curling up with their dog.”

“I refuse to use a dating app.” And Dex is a million times better company than any of the other douches in this town.

“Then you’re going to die an old spinster.” Bry grabs a deluxe sample bottle of Tocca perfume and dabs it on her pulse points. All her perfumes are samples, since her cut of The Sew Shop’s earnings doesn’t cover little luxuries like fine boutique perfumes. Every week she smells like someone else. And she never wears the same fragrance around different guys. She says it’s bad luck. I say she’s a weirdo.

“Nothing wrong with being single,” I say. “Let me remind you I’m neither waiting around or settling. That’s more than a lot of people can say.”

I tried dating over the years, but I couldn’t find anyone who gave me that same flutter in my chest and somersault in my middle. I’d go on a date and go to bed, falling asleep without so much as a single thought about my new potential suitor.

I always took that as a sign that they weren’t worth my time.

Life’s too short to waste it on people who don’t make us feel like a million bucks.

The last person to make me feel that way was Nevada.

“You haven’t really been with anyone since Griff,” she reminds me, as if I’ve simply forgotten Griffin Gaines and the hurricane that unfolded when he asked me for a favor I couldn’t turn down. “And you haven’t moved on from Nev. Are you just going to wallow in depressing sadness the rest of your life? Because I’m pretty sure he’s out there, waiting to find you, and that’s never going to happen if you’re hiding away from the world for ninety-two percent of your life.”

“Ninety-two? Why ninety-two?”

She rolls her ocean-blue gaze. “The other eight percent accounts for the time you spend walking Dex, driving to and from work, hanging out with your bestie, Greta, and the occasional coffee or office supply run where you’re forced to interact with the general public.”

“You make it sound like I have no life.” I sit up. “And I have more friends besides Greta.”

“That you only hang out with when you feel like it.”

“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.