“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Me too,” I breathed back.
And with a kiss on my forehead, he was gone.
I watched him stalk back to his truck, his shoulders low and head down. Our gazes caught and held for a long moment. My hand rose in a small wave, and he offered one back, before driving away.
My cheeks were cool where rivulets of tears had run, clinging to my jaw before falling away. I climbed up the ladder of the treehouse and sat inside against the thick trunk, the musty smell of timeworn wood a testament to the years since I’d been here. Last time, I’d lost someone else, the boy I loved, the one I was supposed to marry. This time was only different in that Keaton was alive and well and loved me—he loved me, he said he loved me—but I couldn’t have him.
So I sat in the treehouse, watching branches sway and leaves tremble in the wind from the small windows, and thought of nothing else.
Only him.
26
PIE FIXES EVERYTHING
DAISY
A long and terrible week passed with impressive slowness.
My family was properly and understandably shocked, armed with questions that I dodged as best I could. I gave them a version of the truth—Keaton and I just didn’t work out, and he had to scale back business to pay for his repairs. Eventually, they accepted it. And fortunately, I was a master of secrets. The rest of my family were not. They said whatever they thought, whenever they thought it. I preferred to only give the emotions that I’d already processed and packaged, thus training me for situations like this.
I hated everything about it.
Alone in my sadness, I spent my days smiling and my nights crying. The construction site had been deserted, the materials left haphazardly stacked, the community center only half finished. The spot where the temporary office had been left a bleached rectangle on the slab, nothing more than a ghost.
Mercifully, Poppy had taken over the task of finding another construction company, and I’d been moved to assist her rather than oversee the work, my family correctly assuming that I wasn’t ready to keep on keeping on. And so, we carried on that way for a week that felt like a year, doing our level best to get back on track.
Grant had offered Keaton more money for the project, but he’d respectfully declined, citing larger financial troubles that one contract couldn’t make up for.
I hadn’t left our property much, though I’d spent quite a bit of time away from the house, volunteering for anything and everything that would keep me isolated. Because pretending I was fine exhausted me to lengths I didn’t know were possible. I kept hoping if I faked it long enough, I’d make it.
So far, that had not proved to be true.
This morning, I’d been sent out by my family to pick up an order of pastries from Bettie’s. We’d been burning through a pie every two days—every night after dinner, someone would inevitably shove a piece of pie in my face, likely in the hopes that it would cheer me up. They, of course, wouldn’t leave me to eat pie alone, and as such, everyone’s pants were a little tight. Except for Grant, who had the metabolism of a sixteen-year-old, the bastard.
I walked into Bettie’s to the ding of the bell and Brenda Lee playing from the jukebox, a little bit lighter for being in public. As much as I hadn’t wanted to see anyone, it was nice to pretend for a minute that things were normal and my heart was still in my chest instead of stomped to death under my childhood treehouse.
“Daisy!”
When I heard my name from a little girl’s mouth, I froze dead and turned, hoping I wouldn’t find Sophie. But there she was, in all her raven-haired glory, charging me like she hadn’t seen me in a year.
And behind her was Keaton, tall and dark and utterly devastating.
Emotion clamped my throat shut, and I swallowed hard, opening it enough to greet Sophie. I was even able to plaster on a smile for her sake, kneeling to catch her. She wrapped her little arms around my neck and squeezed.
“I miss you,” she said in my ear.
“I miss you too,” I answered.
“So does Uncle Keaton,” she whispered.
I closed my eyes and squeezed her. “I miss him more.”
When she let me go, it was to launch into a story about dance class. I did my best to listen, but Keaton had approached, stopping close enough that I could smell the earthy scent that had once driven me crazy. Now it just made me miserable.
“Sophie,” Keaton started—Jesus, even his voice triggered a chain reaction through me, “I’m sure Daisy is busy and needs to get on with her day.”
Sophie pouted. Keaton extended his hand.
“Come on, squirt. Let’s—”
“Sophie Meyer,” Bettie called from behind the pastry case with a know-it-all look on her face, “come here and get yourself a cookie.”
Sophie glanced at Keaton for approval, and on his nod, she bolted for the case, planting both palms on the glass in an effort to maximize her inspection of Bettie’s wares.
We were almost alone, if not for the restaurant’s patrons, and without Sophie as a buffer, we were silent.
I broke the quiet with a smile and a tried and true, “How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” he said with an undercurrent of misery. “You?”
“Same,” I answered, hoping he knew I was miserable too. “Thank you for the referrals, by the way. I think Poppy’s got it narrowed down.”
“Good.” It didn’t sound like he thought it was good at all, proving what a terrible liar he was.
For a moment we shared a stretch of awkward silence, taking me back to the time before, when possibility hung between us instead of heartache.
“How’s business?” I asked, genuinely curious as to whether or not it was worth it.
“Better.” He started to say something, and my heart lurched in his direction. But he caught himself.
Tears stung my nose, and I looked toward Sophie so I wouldn’t have to face him.
“Daisy, I—”
His pain was thick in his voice, heavy on his face when I met his eyes. But before he could finish, Sophie came running up with two cookies in a bag under one arm and one in her free hand, a perfect crescent bitten off the edge.
Keaton sighed, smiling sadly at her. “Three? Really?”
Sophie shrugged. “I couldn’t decide, so Bettie let me have all of them.”
Bettie waved from behind the counter, just a twiddle of her fingers in the air.
Keaton raised a big, square hand of his own before extending it to Sophie. “You ready?”
She nodded, and rather than take his hand, she slapped the bag of extra cookies into it. “Bye, Daisy,” she said, then waved emphatically at Bettie.
Keaton still wore a sad smile, nodding at me once before shepherding Sophie out of the diner. I forced myself to turn around and head toward the counter rather than watch them walk away. I couldn’t hide how I felt in front of all those people.
Bettie waited patiently behind the register, her apple-red lips smiling. “Hey, Daisy. Three pies, ready to eat.”
She retrieved a bag from beneath the counter and set it between us before punching buttons on the register. “I’ve never seen worse puppy dogs in my whole life than you two.”