Nevada

“Oh, hey, on your way across town, could you stop into The Sew Shop and pick up those quilts?” Mom asks me when I’m halfway out the door. “Rosamund called and said they were ready last week. I don’t want them taking up room on her shelf. Plus she worked so hard to get them done. Don’t want to be rude.”

I say nothing, my hand resting on the door knob to the garage entrance.

“I’d do it, but I’m taking the girls for their checkups in Hallwood Creek, and that’s a ninety-minute drive in the opposite direction,” she says, sensing my hesitation. “Would sure save me a step.”

God, I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to step a single foot inside that shop. It’d give the wrong impression—she might actually think I’m there for her.

But it’s not like I can tell my mother “no” after everything she’s done for me lately, watching the girls, cooking meals, doing our laundry … making sure I don’t fall apart.

“Nev?” she asks, brows raised.

Exhaling, I say, “Yeah. Sure.”

It’s been two weeks since I saw Yardley at The Leaderboard. And for two straight weeks, I’ve had that same dream with Estella and the dove almost every night. Estella was never one to nag, but I can’t help but feel like she’s shoving me in a direction against my will.

For fourteen days, I’ve dug my heels into the ground and gone out of my way to avoid interacting with anyone around here on the off chance I might run into her. Most days I head to the house, get shit done, sometimes stop at the hardware shop for a tool or whatever, and then I head home, shower, and spend the evenings with my family.

Heading into town, I stop at The Sew Shop first. Might as well get it over with.

The bells on the door jingle when I walk in, bouncing against the glass, and I wipe my work boots on the black rug.

“Can I help you?” Bryony says before glancing up. Her expression falls when she sees it’s me, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Nevada. Hey.”

“Just here to pick up those blankets.” I shove my hands in my jeans, keeping back.

It feels odd being here. On the Devereauxs’ turf. I feel like I’m infringing, like I don’t belong. I haven’t quite decided if I made an ass of myself with Yardley that night or not. It’s taken everything I’ve had not to analyze that entire situation to death. It’s human nature to attach meaning to things, but part of me thinks it’s easier to blame it on the beer.

“Two secs.” Bryony disappears behind a back wall, and I glance down the hallway, spotting a well-lit office. A moment later, a woman takes a seat in a desk chair, and when she glances up, I realize it’s Yardley.

Her hair is pulled back, her lips painted pink. And when she spots me, she freezes like a deer in headlights.

“Hi,” I say, my voice loud enough to carry to the back of the store. Over the past couple of weeks, I made the executive decision that if I did run into her again, I’d at least be civil and take the high road no matter how hard it might be.

Her eyes widen, as if she’s shocked by my candor. And she rises from her seat, heading toward the doorway.

Only once she gets there, she stops, gives a quick wave, and closes the door.

She’s shutting me out.

“Okay, here you go.” Bryony returns with three bags filled with patchwork fabric, and for a moment, I find myself struggling to breathe at the sight of Estella’s clothes shredded and sewn. I’m not sure why my mom thought this would be a good idea. I think it’s morose, macabre almost.

“Thank you.” I take the bags. “Tell your mother thanks, too.”

“Will do.” Bryony stares at me for a second, like she has something to say, but I turn my attention toward the closed office door behind her. She follows my gaze and then laughs. “She froze you out, huh?”

I scratch my temple, brows lifting. “Yeah. All I did was say hi.”

“I swear you two need your own reality show.”

I peer down my nose. “Why’s that?”

“This is the most screwed up, drama-filled reunion I’ve ever seen.”

“I’d hardly call it a reunion.”

“Isn’t it though?” Bryony’s head tilts. “You moved back to your hometown where your first love still lives and you bought the house you promised her, then you gave her shit when another guy was hitting on her. I’m sorry, but you still love her, and a part of you came back here for her. You just don’t see it yet.”

“Jesus.” I shake my head. She has no fucking clue what she’s talking about.

“You need to figure your shit out,” she says. “But don’t do the whole hot-and-cold thing with my sister. She’s already been through more than you could possibly imagine.”

The last ten years of Yardley’s life is a blank for me, one giant question mark. If she’s been through some shit other than losing her father and screwing up what we had, it’s lost on me and frankly, it’s none of my damn concern.

But Bryony’s right.

I do need to figure my shit out.

And Mom was right, too. I made the decision to move back here, now I need to try to make it work.

“The quilts turned out beautifully, by the way.” Bryony’s voice softens. “And I’m sorry for your loss.”

I take the quilts and go, and by the time I start my engine, I can’t quite bring myself to back out of that parking lot just yet.

I don’t like this—the constant running into each other, the constant tension. These past few weeks have been living proof that this town clearly isn’t big enough for the both of us, so that leaves me with little choice but to talk to her in hopes that we can find some kind of common ground and agree to be civil with each other.

Reaching across my console, I pop the glove box and fish around for a receipt and a pen. Scribbling my number, I climb out of my SUV and head inside.

The bells on the door jingle and Bryony’s eyes widen when she sees me striding across the little shop.

“Have her call me,” I say.

And then I’m gone.