My eyes stay laser-focused on my mom when the bell to the door rings, signaling Beck’s departure from my parents’ gallery.

“What the hell was he doing here? And why on earth is he getting you hot chocolate and a scone?”

My mom pats my cheek with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you too, honey. Why don’t you sit down? Would you like me to get you a warm washcloth to wipe that sneer off your face?”

Can you guess where I got my sassiness from?

“Mom, seriously, how do you know Beck?”

“Hmm, maybe I should be asking you the same thing? How do you know Beck?” My mom sits back on her chair, which only makes me feel awkward, so I take the seat across from her that Beck was just sitting in. And I swear to my right boob that the space around me still smells like Beck, like his intoxicating cologne. It’s . . . frustrating.

He’s consuming every last piece of my life, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’m hiding out in my house to avoid him, and when I’m not in my house, I see him everywhere, even walking into Victoria’s house as if he’s living there. When I tried to call her—ten times—she refused to answer. And it’s not like I’m about to knock on her door, looking for answers. With my luck, Beck will answer the door wearing an apron from cooking dinner for Lord knows who, probably all his new friends.

How can one man make himself at home this quickly? I feel like everyone knows him and everyone is talking about him—hence the reason to stay at home. I was sick of hearing all the wishful gossiping about the sexy new stranger in town.

I can’t seem to shake him, and when I thought I was retreating to a safe space, to get some writing done in my parents’ empty classroom—they only do classes in the afternoon and evening—there he is, sitting with my mom, gabbing away and offering hot chocolate and scones.

What the WHAT?

“Well . . .” My mom clears her throat, drawing my attention. “Are you going to tell me how you know Beck?”

“I asked you first,” I counter.

“Yes, but I have all day to sit around and do nothing. From the crazed look in your eyes, I’m going to guess you’re not at the same leisure as I am.”

Gah! Where’s my dad when I need him?

“Fine, Beck was the guy I met in Key West. We kind of had a thing for each other but you know how it is. Ideas got in the way, and we kind of broke it off.”

“Ah, I see. And what ideas got in the way?”

“It’s not important.” I wave her off, but instead of letting it go, she presses further.

“What kind of ideas? Because from where I’m sitting, a few weeks ago you were the happiest I’ve ever seen you, which I’m going to assume is because of Beck. Don’t lie to me and tell me it isn’t.”

“Mom,” I groan.

“Don’t Mom me. You’re the one who came into my place of work and started mouthing off to a perfectly nice man, so you better start explaining or you know where the door is.”

Ever hear of tough love? My mom has perfected it over the years. She doesn’t put up with any sass or denial when it comes to me.

I sigh and place my hand over my brow, massaging my tense forehead. “He has different ideas for the future than I do. And what’s the point of getting my hopes up about a man I know I won’t be able to . . . fully give him what he wants?”

“Kids.”

She says it so upfront, so in your face, but that’s who she is. She’s never really been one to beat around the bush. She’s always straight to the point but shows empathy while doing it.

“Yes, kids. He wants four, and you and I both know that ship has sailed.”

With a deep breath, my mom takes my hand in hers. The soft, velvet touch of her thumb fans over the back of my knuckles, a common stroke I’ve grown accustomed to over the years. It’s gentle, sweet, reassuring, but also comes with her two cents.

“Rylee, sweetie, the day you came home and told Dad and me about your cancer, and your options, I remember feeling utterly gutted. How could my child go through such a hardship? It’s the question that kept rolling around in my head, followed by the realization that you will never be able to carry a child like I carried you. But guess what?” She lifts my chin up. “None of that matters because you’re sitting here, with me, breathing in the same air as me. You’re living. You need to stop dwelling on what you can’t have and start living for what you can.”

My eyes start to burn, tears welling up at my lids.

“I love you so much, honey, but you’re stubborn as all get out. What I see in that man, when he looks at you, is true adoration. Like you’re the one who rises and falls with the moon and the sun every day. You’re the one bringing in the light, the humor, and the love in his life.” Tears begin to drip down my cheeks, and my mom wipes them away with her thumbs.

“And if he’s anything like me, which I’m almost positive he is, he’s not going to care about a big family, or the tons of kids you can’t have. All he’s going to care about is the beating heart in your chest and the air you’re able to bring into your lungs. You’re alive and you make us happy. That’s all we ask for, all we want.”

She stands and pats my cheek lovingly. “Now, it looks like he’s headed into Snow Roast with a bakery box in hand. You have two choices. You can sit here and cry, let your face get all blotchy and red, or you can go home, think about what you really want. What YOU want, and forget about everything else. You’ve been through enough for a lifetime, so it’s your turn to take what’s being offered to you.” But that’s the problem. I don’t know if the offer I want was ever on the table. He didn’t tell me he loved me. He didn’t tell me he wanted that family with me. They were his dreams. But if he’s here, what does that mean? Do I have any right to dream too?

Biting on my lower lip to keep it from trembling, I take another deep breath and ask, “Do you really think he’ll want me? Just me, broken parts and all?”

“I think he’ll do anything, and I mean anything, to have you in his life.” She squeezes my shoulder and says, “Now go on and get out of here. You don’t want him seeing you like this. Next time you run into each other, I want to make sure he sees that charming and beautiful smile of yours instead of your sorrowful tears.”

Kissing me on the head, she helps me to my feet, gives me a brief hug, and sends me out the door. Could Beck really be happy with me and me alone? Dare I hope for that?

* * *

I don’t leave the gallery and go home like my mom told me to, because why not be the girl with a splotchy face, oversized T-shirt, holey pants, and crazed hair who crouches down behind a mail box and watches for the man she loves to walk out of the coffee shop?

Who doesn’t want to be that girl?

She’s popular.

She’s in with the hip crowd.

She is by no means desperate or crazy, or nasty to poor Mrs. Braverman, who asked for privacy when putting her mail in the box.

“It’s mail for fuck’s sake,” I yelled, taking the mail from her and shoving it down the hole in one giant swoop. “It’s not like I’m looking over your shoulder in the voting booth. Now scram, I’m spying.”

Not my finest moment.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had many fine moments lately.

And I blame Beck. He’s driven me to the looney bin.

Legit, I am certifiable right now.

I realize that as I grip the mailbox, talking to it about the troubles of Beck living in this town, making friends with all the locals and barely speaking to me.

Want to send someone straight to the insane asylum? Pull a Beck Wilder.

“I mean, what is he really doing here? For so long? And where is he staying? It’s tourist season, which means the bed and breakfasts and inns are booked up.”

I stroke the mailbox with my thumb, the blue paint rubbing off the metal. “Have you heard anything around the street? You know, since you’re in the thick of things?”

I steady my breathing, half expecting the mailbox to respond to me in my state of delirium.

“Nothing? Not even a little gossip? For someone who has access to everyone’s mail in this town, I would have—”

I pause as the coffee shop door opens.

I hold my breath.

Just as Mrs. Braverman pops out holding a cup of tea.

“God damn you, Mrs. Braverman. She’s always getting in the way.” She looks both ways before crossing the street and heads toward the harbor, most likely to stare at all the tourists and “accidentally” trip them with her cane.

She’s not fooling me. I know her game.

I turn my attention back to the coffee shop just in time to see Beck step outside and hold the door open, Victoria following beside him.

What?

Beck wraps his arm around Victoria’s shoulder with the arm that’s carrying the bakery box. She smiles up at him and laughs at something as they casually walk together down the sidewalk toward the gallery.

“That harlot,” I seethe, gripping tightly onto the mailbox, watching their every move.

Why are they so chummy?

My mind mulls this over as they reach the gallery and say their goodbyes. I see Victoria say something like, “See you at home” but that seems . . .

“Gah!” I spring from my crouched position just as Victoria gets to my trusty mailbox. “You’re sleeping with him?” I point my finger accusingly, jumping in her face and causing a scene right there on the sidewalk.

“Sweet Christ!” Victoria holds her chest and pants heavily. “What in the hell are you doing hiding behind a mailbox? Have you completely lost it?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” I fold my arms over my chest. “Maybe I have lost it. Maybe I’m on the verge of a total and complete mental breakdown, because my best friend, my bosom buddy, my very own frolicsome crony is sleeping with my boyfriend. Care to explain the sexual tension you have going on with Beck?”

Adjusting the height of her turtleneck to hide the redness in her skin from embarrassment, Victoria lowers her voice and says, “I don’t believe this is a conversation to have out in the open, on the streets.”

“Oh, we’re having this conversation, right here, right now.” I point my finger to the ground, but Victoria doesn’t listen, and instead turns the corner between two buildings and whispers for me to follow her.

Rolling my eyes, I duck away with her and lean against the brick while chewing on pretend gum I don’t have, I don’t know why, probably because I’m a crazy person. With my arms crossed over my chest, I say, “Explain yourself.”

Straightening her dress, she puffs her chest and says, “First of all, last I knew, he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

“I knew it. You’re dating him, aren’t you?” I didn’t know it actually, but I’m just that crazy to conjure up such thoughts. That’s what happens when you’re a creative being. The simplest answer is never the one that comes to your head.

Victoria wouldn’t do that to me.

Oh, there you are, finally. I finally hear from the logical brain instead of the crazed brain. Since when do I have two brains? Is that normal? I thought there was only a left brain and a right—

“No, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t think so low of me to think I could date the man you’re obviously in love with.”

I’m going to blow right past the L-word comment and keep moving on. “Then what were you guys talking about? Why are you going to see him at home?”

Without blinking an eyelash, Victoria says, “Because he’s been staying with me for the past week, that’s why.”

“Judas!” I scream and throw my hands in the air.

“Oh for crying out loud.” Victoria shakes her head and starts to walk past me. “You know, Rylee, there are a lot of people who love you, who want nothing more than for you to have everything you deserve.” Facing me, she steps close, inches only separating us. “It would behoove you to treat the people who love you with a little more respect, especially since they’re the ones helping the man who is head over heels in love with you find a way to be the man you want.”

And just like that, Victoria metaphorically drops the mic and takes off down the street, making me feel like the biggest asshole in the world.

Hmm . . . maybe it’s because I am the biggest asshole in the world.

But who uses the word behoove anyway?