“The day after Labor Day. Sadie has three weeks to find someone to help her with the stores.” I lean on the headrest and close my eyes.
This feels like leaving my mother and heading off to have my own life. It’s painful but fulfilling. She keeps saying that she’s okay, but I don’t want to leave her hanging like that.
“What if she doesn’t find anyone?” he asks.
I groan. “I’ll pitch in again, which as much as I love her and Kade, I can’t. It’ll interfere with my furniture-making time.”
He laughs. “You should move to Luna Harbor and set up a shop with handmade furniture.”
“Not a coffee shop with a juice bar?” I joke. “You always tell me I’m great at it.”
“There’s never coffee at your place.”
“There’s always tea and juice.”
He looks at me and asks sarcastically, “How can I forget the juice?”
“Why did I let you drive?”
“I don’t know. For a moment, I thought you were going to make me park and get into your Jeep.”
“I was going to do it but somehow I got distracted. As usual, you’re paying more attention to me than the road,” I complain, searching for a place where he can park because I have to take over the wheel. “You’re still a shitty driver.”
“I am not. You just keep distracting me,” he argues, as he turns into a long driveway, and I let out a breath.
The opulent house is behind a tall, black gate. He drives almost a mile until we come to a roundabout with a fountain at the center. I remember this place from my dreams. If my memory is correct, Mom and I drew with chalk during those evenings when the sun was out. Other times I’d be outside with my tricycle. I look up beyond the asphalt that reminds me of long-lost dreams or memories I buried long ago.
There’s a Mediterranean-style home with a stucco exterior, covered with a tile rooftop, and oriented around a central courtyard. It’s surrounded by trees that seem to hide the place. When we moved to one of the properties I owned, Kaden said something about this house being the perfect hiding spot. Now I understand why. It blends so well between nature that only a few might know it exists.
“Are you going to tell Hannah that you’re almost neighbors?” Ethan pulls me away from my memories.
I turn my attention from the magnanimous house to him. “What are you talking about?”
“Her house is a mile away from here.” He points toward the left. “I bet if you walk through those trees, you’ll get to her backyard.”
Why didn’t I notice that? Am I so distracted by his scent, his mighty hand moving the stick shift, and the hole in my stomach that I don’t know where I’m at?
Probably.
I adore Hannah and Alex. Spending time with them almost every evening is great, but living next to them…that’s a hard no.
“Well, we’re not going to tell her, are we?”
He laughs. “Afraid she’ll make you move next door to her?”
I nod a couple of times. “Terrified.”
He squeezes my hand and says, “I’m here for you.”
We walk toward the main entrance. The grass is manicured, the flowers are blooming, and the whole place looks clean and cared for. I hand the set of keys to Ethan because I’m not ready to open it myself.
He places the key in the lock, moves it to the left, and wiggles the handle. When he pushes the door open, all the air leaves me. He takes a few steps inside without saying a word. A second later, he turns around and extends his hand. “Let’s go inside. Together.”
The house is cold. The foyer has two benches. One of them is small, as if it was specially placed there for a child. When I walk closer to it, I smile as I see the big four letters on the surface. Zeke. There are a pair of rubber boots right next to it. They’re small.
“I bet you looked cute wearing those red boots,” Ethan says, grabbing my hand and purposely entwining our fingers. “It’s okay. We leave whenever you need to leave.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
He kisses my cheek. “I am. I can’t stand when you’re hurting, so humor me.”
We walk along the first floor. The kitchen is big but old.
“We can renovate the entire area, including the fireplace,” he states.
“Why don’t you take that project?” I ask.
He nods. “I can do that. In six months, you won’t recognize the place.”
We continue our tour. There’s a covered pool and an entertainment room that has a reel projector.
“I had no idea those still existed,” I point at it. “Do you think there are any movies around to play?”
“If not, I’ll find you a few of your favorites. I bet Star Wars is available in that format.”
“I always thought this was a hotel or just a dream,” I say out loud as some of the parts of this place begin to look familiar.
“Really?”
I nod.
“I remember two things well from this house—her art room and…possibly my bedroom.
We go toward the west wing of the house. That’s where I see it—the big room with barn doors. Ethan is the one who slides the heavy doors open.
There’s a piano, a guitar, a big table with paints and old brushes. There’s a colorful rug with pots, pans, plastic buckets with crayons, and markers in the corner.
Ethan strikes a couple of keys, and we both flinch. “We need to tune this beauty.”
I release his hand and walk toward my corner, where I spent a lot of time drawing and making crafts while Mom worked. I grab a wooden spoon and bang it against a big pot.
Ethan frowns. “Why are there pots and pans in here?”
“My first drum set,” I answer, banging it a couple more times before I stand up straight and walk towards Mom’s table.
I spot it almost immediately. The timeline she created for me. It’s a lot different than I imagined. Still, it has her hand and mine. It describes my future from going to first grade to finishing high school, college, and meeting a nice girl or a guy. Go to law school, or study for a master’s degree. Get married and have a family.”
“She was okay if you fell in love with a guy?”
I shrug. “I don’t remember.”
His smile brightens the entire place and erases the sadness lingering in my heart. He’s staring at the sketches of me when I was young. “You were cute.” He grabs them. “I should frame them and hang them in my house.”
“Or not,” I suggest.
“You could sell a few of these pieces,” he suggests. “Her work sells for a lot.”
“How do you know?”
“I have a few pieces.”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “I thought they were important.”
I swallow hard, unsure if the knot forming in my throat is because of this visit or because he has some of my mom’s pieces of art.
“These are the last ones Mom made. Why would I sell them?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know why I said that. I would probably be the one buying them anyway.”
“Why would you do that?”
He turns to look at me, and that glint of desire and love sucker-punch me, leaving me breathless. “You don’t want me to answer that question.”