Chapter 2

 

The sunlight streaming in from the early June morning wasn’t as bad as the loud yelling and shaking coming from my mother’s hand.

“Get up, Abs. It’s time to start the day.” Mom’s voice was way too chipper for however early it was. I actually had no idea because I knocked my alarm clock off the nightstand at some point. I didn’t remember much after my second glass of wine and a few glasses of beer and sobbing to Dana before she drove me home.

I didn’t even like Joey that much, so I really had no reason to cry over him. I guess it was the alcohol talking. Either way, my pounding headache and dry mouth made me regret my reaction.

“Mommmm,” I whined like a little girl.

“Come on, Abs. You can’t be hungover in bed all day because someone broke up with you. Get up. It’s Saturday, and it’s a beautiful day,” Mom said way-too-enthusiastically, tilting me so I was forced to look up and focus on the laugh lines around her eyes instead of the bright sunlight in the window behind her.

“I don’t work today, and I’m not going downstairs to see Dave in those thin sweatpants. He really needs to invest in some new ones or some tighty whities or something. No one wants to see that,” I groaned, putting my arm over my eyes.

“We can discuss you looking at Dave’s sweatpants another time. We’re going to an estate sale.”

I moved my arm down. “Are you serious right now? I’m hungover and tired, and you want me to go look through people’s wares so you can find another kitchen table or something?”

Mom rolled her eyes. “No. It’s a porch swing. The one I’ve been eyeing at the Keller place for years.”

“Mommmmm,” I groaned.

“I’ll swing by town and get you coffee and a breakfast burrito,” she sang.

I raised an eyebrow. “Add hash browns, and we have a deal.”

 

***

If someone saw my mom in her picking overalls driving her old minivan, they would probably never guess she was one of the top worker’s comp consultants in the Dallas area. They would probably just think she was the crazy lady with the long French braid trying to get that extra nickel off their pottery.

When Mom and I pulled up to the gravel drive of the old farmhouse, people were already piled on the lawn, searching through Miss Keller’s wares.

“Vagabonds, they’d better not be eyeing my porch swing,” Mom huffed and then hopped out of the minivan.

Before I could even respond, she was already marching over to the front porch and pointing at the swing. I could have just stayed in the car and waited for Mom to finish her picking, but there was something about looking through an old house that I couldn’t resist. And maybe help my hangover.

I’d been into photography since I was a little girl and always carried around a camera. Either my old Polaroid or the Nikon I finally got myself for a birthday gift was ever present around my neck. Today, even though I was hungover and now feeling like I might puke from an overdose of hash browns, I carried the Polaroid. I loved meandering through these old homes and snapping pictures of the intricate woodwork. Even the creepy old dolls people always seemed to have in their attics were more interesting than taking school pictures of the same kids who stared at me like I was going to punch them in the face.

“Now, ma’am, I think that is a fair price for that swing.” A middle-aged man wearing a Rangers baseball cap held up his hands at my mother.

They both faced the porch swing with their backs to me as I stepped onto the rickety porch. I knew better than to get in the middle of Mom’s haggling and made my way inside. I was surprised to be hit with central air; a lot of these old homes either didn’t have or didn’t turn it on for estate sales, so I was always dripping with sweat.

The hardwood floors creaked under my Converse. Mom would be happy once she saw the old wood was preserved, but seeing the condition of a house at an estate sale never really told you anything about the owner.

Sure, you could see who updated their kitchen appliances and who had outdated carpet, but other than that, all their household treasures were piled in every room with price tags for people to purchase. Their whole lives reduced to dollar signs.

The first floor looked like most of the houses we went to with outdated furniture and boxes, and the second floor was no different, just sectioned off into bedrooms. Nothing cool for photos and my headache was still looming. Damn, why did I need that last glass of wine?

I looked up to check for another floor or an attic, and bingo, a string hung down from the ceiling near the master bedroom. Some would say since it wasn’t open, I shouldn’t go up there, but at an estate sale, anything was fair game.

I pulled the string, and the door popped open. When the wooden ladder slid down, I secured the ladder on the floor and pushed down on the bottom rung with my foot. Sturdy enough for me to climb—at least, I hoped. I was six-foot and pretty lanky but a good size. The tallest girl in my class, or anywhere I went, I was always ready to duck. If I didn’t bend out of the way, I’d break my fair share of furniture or lamps from hitting my head on them—which I had.

Slowly, I made my way up the ladder, only to be greeted by a large haze of dust. I waved my hand in the air until the dust cleared before I pulled myself up the rest of the way.

I still had some clearance above my head once I stood. The light seeped in through one nautical window near the arched front of the space but still lit up the whole room. I should have brought some sunglasses because this light was killer. When the dust finally cleared, I saw stacks of boxes, and a particular one labeled “photographs” grabbed my attention.

Aside from taking photos, I loved looking at old photography. Something was magical and mysterious, albeit also slightly intrusive, about looking at people’s old memories.

Slowly, I made my way over to the large box as if it would disappear if I got too close. Plus, I didn’t know if there were mice or other critters in the attic. I might have been tall, but I wasn’t a fighter or the least bit intimidating to anything. I screamed like a girl if anything with multiple legs ran by me.

Running my fingers over the dusty top of the box, I slowly opened it. A waft of dust flew in my face, and I coughed, fanning the dusty air with my hand until I could see inside. Gasping, I opened an old leather camera bag and then pulled back the packing paper to find a Pentax K1000. I’d been eyeing these on eBay for years but couldn’t afford it with the portrait studio salary or my part-time bakery job. It’s what my photography and graphics teacher used in high school. The thing that made me want to do photography. Next to that was another antique British field camera that I’d only seen online but looked to be in perfect condition. Holding the heavy metal in my hands, I thought about the shots I could take with these cameras. I’d also finally get to develop my own film, using the techniques I’d learned about in high school but never got to practice since everything was digital.

I heard a creaking and knew someone else must have found the attic as well.

“The cameras are sold, so don’t even bother asking!” I yelled. I didn’t even want to think about what price they would ask. They could be connoisseurs and know they probably had a grand of cameras at least, or I could haggle and offer fifty for the box, and they’d just want to get rid of it.

“I was just checking to see if anyone was up here,” a deep male voice said.

A voice that sounded so familiar ...

I looked up and standing there was my ex-boyfriend, Jordan Webber. Maybe ex-boyfriend wasn’t the right word. Maybe the boy who I dated for almost two years before he graduated early and left for art school in New York. He wanted me to come with him, but what future did I have in New York? My parents weren’t paying for me to go to school unless it was a state school with a real degree, and all I ever wanted was to do photography. So the portrait studio worked for the time being until I realized I really needed to get out of the house and took the part-time job at the bakery. Between my parents’ divorce, work, and trying to get over my breakup, I was basically a hot mess the first two years after high school. Joey came in at the right time as a distraction and then so did the job at the bakery. But I still never forgot about the one who got away.

I hadn’t seen Jordan in over four years, and there he was, standing with a hand on one of the boxes and his blue eyes wide open like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Abbey Dillinger?” he asked; it wasn’t so much of a question as it was a breathless statement.

I hated him for leaving me. He could have gone to art school in Dallas. He could have stayed if he really did love me. I should have hated him. But seeing him, standing in front of me, I couldn’t hate him. The past four years had been very good to him.

Back then, I was attracted to him because he was one of the only guys taller than I was. But now? The man in front of me had grown into his body very well. His biceps stretched his thin white t-shirt. Instead of the shaggy hair, he had an undercut and modern pompadour, aka “steal your girl” hair. But I fell in love with him because of his blue eyes—the same color as the ocean in summertime—and they were locked right on me.

And now, I was acutely aware that I pretty much looked like shit with my long brown hair tossed in a messy bun and dust all over my tank top and shorts. I didn’t even shower or put on makeup and probably reeked like stale beer and breakfast burrito. Not exactly how I wanted to run into my ex.

“Uh, yeah, you may not have recognized me since last time I saw you was when you were getting ready to leave forever.” Instead of my longing side, I chose the angry side.

He ran his hands along the box top and stepped forward until the only thing separating us was a few boxes.

“That, or I just didn’t expect to see you in my grandma’s attic, clinging to a box.” He flashed a cockeyed grin that used to make me melt, but not this time.

“Well, since this is your grandma’s stuff, I should probably get a ‘my ex-boyfriend’s an asshole’ discount,” I spat.

He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. Last time I saw him, his hair was always falling in his eyes, and I hated it. But I would not admit that his new haircut brought out his eyes and was incredibly sexy.

“Abbey, look …” He slid his hand over the desk and placed it on mine. His mere touch sparked a fire in me that went from my fingers to all the way below my belly button.

“What I did was shitty, and I’m sorry about that. I should have fought harder for you to come with me. You know you’d love New York. There are so many places to photograph. And where I live in Brooklyn, man, it’s full of so much culture and vibrancy.”

“But you knew I wasn’t going to leave, and you had no desire to stay.” I snatched my hand away from his and folded my arms across my chest.

“Abbey, I’m sorry. I was young and stupid. I should have done more, but instead, I just ran. I just wanted to get out of Texas and didn’t think about anyone around me. Especially you. But I’m here for the summer now, so we can catch up,” he said, taking the few steps around the box until he was right beside me.

“It’s too late to explain or catch up or whatever. I’ve moved on, you know. I didn’t just sit here waiting around for you to come back,” I said, trying not to gulp at the way his shirt clung to his abs. Damn, did he have an eight pack? Joey who again?

Actually, I did sit around and wait for him. For the past four years, every time an unknown number popped up on my phone or I got a new Facebook friend request, I had hoped it was him. But every time, I was disappointed.

“I wasn’t expecting to run into you today, but I’m glad I did.”

I tried to glare at him, but it was hard to when he had that lopsided grin painted on his face. Instead, I just had a half scowl.

“And why is that? I’m not just going to drop everything for you. Obviously, you couldn’t do that for me. You had your own dreams, and you followed them. Good for you. Good for freaking you. Now what? You’re a big star in New York with your own gallery?”

He winced. “Well, not quite, but I am doing some mixed media. It’s really cool if you want me to show you some of my work. I’ve been showcasing it at the Brooklyn Flea and some coffee shops,” he said, pulling out his phone from his back pocket.

“Abbey? Abbey? Where are you?” I heard my mother’s voice ringing from down below. Saved by the mom. If she didn’t call for me, I would have stayed. I would have inhaled all of him, looked at his artwork, and tried to pretend the past four years didn’t happen. But they did. While he was off doing mixed media or whatever, I stayed in Friendship. My parents went through a nasty divorce, and I ended up being the one to pick up the pieces with no one to pick me up. That was how I ended up falling into Joey Bianchi’s arms, and bed, as an escape. And now, I just had a really bad hangover and a portfolio full of kids’ school portraits and a handful of newborn and senior sessions. Yes, Jordan was the past, and I’d moved on. That was what I had to keep telling myself.

“I have to go,” I stammered, pushing past Jordan. But as I pushed past him, I grazed the sides of his arm, and the spark turned into an all-out explosion. The last time my body was that close to his was four years ago right before he left at Christmas. And there weren’t any clothes between us. I had to shake the thoughts from my head as I hurried down the ladder to the second floor where my mother was waiting.

“Oh, you found an attic!” Her eyes lit up. “Anything good?”

“Nothing but stuff that will just disappoint you,” I muttered, pulling her toward the stairs to the first floor.

“Hey, Abbey, you forgot your box!”

I winced as I slowly turned around to see Jordan climbing down the ladder.

“Is that Jordan Webber? Your old boyfriend?” Mom whispered as he made his way down the ladder and turned to us with a grin.

“In the flesh,” I muttered.

“If you still want that box of photographs, I can get it down for you,” he said, taking a few steps toward us.

“Well, isn’t that nice of you, Jordan. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” Mom said in the same polite tone she used with my teachers when I was sent to the office.

“Yeah. I graduated early and moved to New York for art school. Graduated last May and have been working in Brooklyn ever since, but I couldn’t pass up the chance to help fix up the farmhouse to sell,” Jordan said, flashing that lopsided grin.

“Gee, that’s great, Jordan, but we have to get going. But you’re pretty familiar with that concept.” I smirked and turned, running down the stairs and out the front door before he could say anything else that would make me stay.