Yardley

He called me four days ago.

And when I didn’t answer, he texted me.

I miss the girls. I miss Lennon’s sweet giggle and Essie’s sparkly, golden eyes and gummy smile. I miss watching cartoons with them and tucking them into bed. And I miss how, for a small moment of time, it felt like I was peeking behind a curtain at a future that might have been if only …

But Nevada’s an ass.

And he’s impulsive and stubborn and I can’t keep going rounds with him until he finally figures out what he wants from me.

Locking up my office, I head out for lunch, walking a couple blocks to the little deli by the square. Ten minutes later, I’m enjoying a turkey on rye at my own little table-for-two by the window when the shadow of a person fills the space beside me.

“Mind if I join you?”

Glancing up, I spot the familiar face of Brendan Moffitt. Dressed in faded jeans and a tee shirt with the Harmeyer Electric logo on the front, he flashes a white smile.

“Please,” I say, motioning toward the empty chair across from me.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, eyes glued on me. “How’s it going?”

“Good. Everything’s good. Just working,” I say. “You?”

“Same.” He pops a salted chip into his mouth, his strong jaw flexing as he chews. “Was kind of hoping I’d run into you at The Leaderboard the last couple of weekends. Guess it’s not your scene, huh?”

I smile. “Yeah, not really. Not really a small-town bar kind of girl.”

“Kind of figured that by the drinks you were sipping on all night,” he says with a wink. “You’d fit right in at some fancy cocktail bar in some big city.”

“I hope that’s a good thing?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “You’ve got the kind of class and beauty that’s got no business hanging out in a place like The Leaderboard.”

He’s flattering me. I’d hardly call myself classy and beautiful. I wore jeans and heels and a blouse that night with earrings and a coat of bold pink lipstick for a pop of color. It’s not like I wandered in there with a Chanel bag and a fur stole.

I think back to what Nevada said that night—that Brendan was only wanting to hook up, and I must admit even now, the fawning is a bit over the top.

Brendan rambles on about the weather for a bit before segueing into some spiel about how he does demolition derbies in the summertime and how I should come watch him sometime. He tucks his sandy hair behind one ear, face lit as he gives me all his attention and lets his sandwich sit, barely touched.

Maybe he doesn’t have nefarious intentions, but sitting here with him … I don’t feel a thing. It’s like we’re just a couple of acquaintances having lunch—which is exactly what we are.

A minute later, my sandwich is almost finished and I check my watch.

“You in a rush?” Brendan asks, mouth frowning.

“I’m sorry.” I slide out of my seat. “I am. Have to let my dog out before I head back to work.”

“What kind of dog do you have?” He’s stalling.

“Golden retriever.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and gather my wrappers and deli basket and little paper cup of water.

“I’ve got a Great Dane. We should do a play date sometime.” He chuckles when he says that, and I think he’s half joking, half serious.

“Yeah, maybe?” I smile out of politeness before searching for the nearest trash can.

“You still have my number?” he asks.

“I do.”

“Perfect. Call me sometime, all right?” he asks.

A rush of guilt saturates my conscience for a moment. I have no intention of calling Brendan Moffitt. I don’t get an adrenaline rush when I picture him. My heart doesn’t flutter in his presence. I don’t feel nervous around him, like I want him to like me.

He’s just some guy.

Waving goodbye, I head back out to the sidewalk and stride back to the office to grab my car and head home.

By the time I pull into my driveway five minutes later, I spot a large golden envelope sticking out of my mailbox. The mailman must’ve been here earlier than usual today. Hopping out of my car, I grab the mail before showing myself in.

Dex trots up to me, tail wagging, and I grab his leash, dropping the mail on the counter, only I freeze when I see that one of the letters is from Grandwoods.

“Hang on, buddy.” I sit the leash aside and rip into the envelope.

It’s an acceptance letter. I’ll be starting classes next month.

Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me it’s finally time to move on—for real this time?

I place the letter on the fridge and use a magnet to hold it in place, smiling as I read the words over and over again.

Dex paces by the back door, waiting for me to take him out, but as I grab his leash again, my phone begins to ring, the caller ID reading, “Park Woods Administration.”

My heart plummets.

Greta.