“We only went out three times, Mom,” I pointed out with a laugh.
“You’re still young. There’s time to give me grandchildren yet.” Mom winked, and I had to stifle a groan. “Now why don’t we get your things up to your room.”
I put my plate in the dishwasher, taking a moment to let everything sink in.
I was home.
Why did that feel so ominous?
Chapter 4
Meghan
I stood in the middle of my childhood bedroom, taking it in. Like the rest of the house, it served as a snapshot of another time. A better time.
My double bed was still covered in neon throw pillows and ratty stuffed animals. I picked up the stuffed pig that was missing an ear and smiled. I remembered my dad bringing it home for me. He had picked it up on a weekend away with his golfing buddies.
“His name is Bacon. Look after him, okay?” he had said solemnly, putting the pink stuffed toy in my seven-year-old arms.
“Bacon’s a stupid name,” I had protested, holding the pig tightly to my tiny chest.
Dad had regarded me seriously, nodding slowly. “Yes, I think you’re right. What do you want to call him?”
I had thought about it for a long time before deciding on Mortimer.
“Mortimer the pig, it is,” Dad announced with a grin that lit up my heart.
I carefully placed Mortimer back on the bed before making my way around the rest of the room. I smiled at framed pictures of Skylar and me in high school; I dressed in boy shorts and a baseball shirt, Skylar in a black lace dress, and fingerless gloves. On paper, we never should have been friends, yet somehow, we made it work.
The only bright spot in moving back to Southport would be seeing Skylar on a more regular basis. She lived forty-five minutes away just outside of Pittsburgh with her fiancé, Mac. I wasn’t great at staying in touch with people, but Skylar wouldn’t allow me to lose touch. She was prickly and moody, but steadfastly loyal to the people she cared about. I was lucky to be one of them.
I noticed one of the posters had fallen off the wall. I leaned down to pick it up, and when I straightened, I noticed what it had been covering up.
A series of multicolored lines arranged in two rows. The ones at the top were wobbly and clearly drawn by childish hands. The ones towards the bottom were neat and straight. I felt myself smiling despite myself.
The lines spanned ten years. It kept a running tally of hands of rummy played. Adam and I had always been fiercely competitive. I remembered the entire weekends spent shuffling and dealing cards. Counting up the marks, it seemed I was in the lead the last time we played.
When was that?
Oh right, just before he steamrolled over my heart like the dickhead he was.
Mom had a conniption when she saw that we had drawn on the wall, but it was nothing a well-placed poster couldn’t fix. And here it was, after all this time, a reminder of a friendship that had mattered more than anything. And a reminder of what he drop-kicked into oblivion.
I recognized the twist in the center of my chest that only Adam Ducate could cause.
My bedroom bore witness to seventeen years of laughter and jokes. Of secrets and tears. Even now, ten years since I last spoke to him, he was here in every crevice, in every corner. It was hard to stand in this space and not think of him. I had worked so hard to push him from my consciousness. Not to let my mind drift to the thousands of memories we shared.
I quickly stuck the poster back on the wall, covering the marks. I didn’t want to see them. I’d go out tomorrow and get some paint. It was time to erase Adam for good.
Kind of hard to do when he lived in the same stupid town.
I heard the doorbell ring and went to look out the window. A dark blue truck was in the driveway; Webber Landscaping was written on the side. I could hear the loud rumble of a familiar voice downstairs followed by my mother’s high-pitched tone.
I walked out into the hallway and stopped at the top of the stairs, peeking over the banister. Mom was standing in the doorway accepting a box of plants. The man that handed them to her was easily over six foot four with broad shoulders and a rugged, handsome face browned from the sun. He had aged well, wearing his thirties with a sexy confidence that suited him. He towered over my mother, but not in an intimidating way. His smile was too kind, his eyes too bright. He’d never intimidate anyone. She knew that better than most.
“Still trying to butter up the women I see. It seems some things never change, Web,” I called out as I headed down the stairs, grinning at the man I hadn’t spoken to in over a year.
Kyle looked up, his face splitting in a smile as genuine and happy as my own. “Well, look who decided to waltz back into town,” he drawled, pulling his hands out of his shorts pockets so he could envelop me in a hug that almost cracked a rib or two.
“Okay, you can let go now,” I said, my voice muffled by his chest. I could feel the rumble of his laugh, and it filled me with a warmth I hadn’t expected.
Kyle Webber released me, but not before mussing my hair. “It’s good to see ya, Galloway. It’s been way too long.”
I smoothed my wild red hair as much as possible. “I know. I suck at the whole staying in touch thing.” I felt a twinge of guilt. I wasn’t entirely telling the truth. Yeah, I had gotten lax in speaking to my old friends over the years, but that wasn’t the whole reason I had let my friendship with Kyle wither on the vine. Kyle was Adam’s best friend. Where Kyle was, Adam was close behind. You couldn’t have one without the other. And my memories of Kyle would always be intertwined with my feelings for Adam. It hurt to look at him because all I saw was the boy who had rejected me. It wasn’t fair, but it was how I felt. So, it became easier not to talk to Kyle because then I could pretend I could forget about Adam.
I could tell by the way Kyle looked at me that he understood this all too well.
“Well, now that you’re back, you don’t have any excuses,” he lectured.
“Kyle’s been helping me clear out the flower beds for the summer and get the yard tidied up before the place is listed. He brought over some hydrangeas I ordered.” Mom indicated the box of brightly colored flowers.
“Your mom’s a slave driver, though. She has a very clear idea of how she wants the garden to look, that’s for sure,” Kyle teased.
“I just know how I like things is all,” Mom tutted.
“You’re telling me. Remember that time she roped us into painting the living room?” I asked.
“Hell yeah, I do. We were only allowed one ten-minute break.” Kyle chuckled.
“Then Whit splashed you with paint, and you dipped the tips of her hair into the bucket,” I reminded him, remembering it as if it had happened yesterday.
Mom had loaded Kyle, Whitney, and me up with paint rollers and set us to work. It took much longer than it should have because we kept goofing around every time Mom left the room.
Kyle’s brown eyes gleamed. “We had some fun back then, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, we did,” I agreed, wishing I could talk about our shared past without feeling the loss that was smack dab in the middle of it all.
“So, how you been? I haven’t seen you since...” Kyle’s voice trailed off, clearly not sure how to address the uncomfortable topic.