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She lifts her gaze. “You didn’t fight me on it.”
“I did what you asked me to do.”
Her head tips backward in a hearty laugh. “Who does that?”
“You told me not to take myself too seriously, to slow down and accept a few things in life that were less than perfect. And you told me I’d die before I reached thirty if I didn’t get more sleep and drink less coffee. Sometimes, I send my mom cards with handwritten notes ‘just because,’ per your sage advice. And you told me that letting go shows more love than holding on.”
Scottie’s lips part. “I-I can’t believe you remember all of that.”
I shrug, glancing out the window just over her shoulder. “My point is … I took my cues from you. Maybe I was the overachiever getting good grades, but you were the more emotionally intelligent one in our relationship. So I listened toyou. I trusted you. And I wanted to love you how you deserved to be loved, so I let you go, too.” When I return my gaze to her, she blots the corner of her eye.
“Jesus, Price, that’s not fair. I knew nothing. I was a nineteen-year-old girl with too many feelings about you and life. So I wrapped them in false confidence and tried to Yoda you.”
“Yoda me?” I chuckle.
“I feigned wisdom and maturity so you didn’t get stuck with a girl who had no idea what she wanted to do with her life.”
I wait for her to look at me because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her this vulnerable. “Yes, you did,” I say. “You knew you wanted toliveit. And you knew I wanted to conquer it. I would have stolen the essence of what made you so extraordinary. And you would have …” I find the hint of a sad smile. I can only imagine what she would have done for me, but I don’t want to say it.
“We would have ended badly,” she says, resting her hand on my knee. “Your dreams were too big, and mine were too small.”
I shake my head. “Mine weren’t dreams. They were goals. I’m not sure I’ve ever really dreamed—not consciously.”
“Well,” she removes her hand from my leg and pops a tomato into her mouth, chewing it around her smile, “it’s never too late.”
My lips part to refute that, but I press them together and opt for a slow nod. What would happen if I let myself dream? What would my dream be? I can’t imagine. Not now.
After eating and enjoying the live music, I set my napkin on my plate. “Thank you for having dinner with me.”
She curls her hair behind her ear, staring at the half-eaten cake on her plate. “Give me your phone. I’ll share my contact information. We need to do this again.”
“I uh … don’t have a phone.”
She laughs, but it quickly dies. “Are you serious?”
“Serious. But I know where to find you. And I can give you my address. If you’re ever in my neighborhood, we could take a walk or sit on the sofa together.”
She pulls her phone from her purse, giving me an incredulous expression. “Sit together?” After bringing up a new contact and adding my name, she hands me her phone. “Sure.” She chuckles. “I’d love that.”
CHAPTER THREE
IF YOU WAIT LONG ENOUGH, YOU’LL FORGET WHAT YOU’RE WAITING FOR.
Scottie
I don’t havePrice’s phone number, just like I don’t have Herb’s grandson’s number. If Herb comes in tomorrow morning, I’ll ask him to cancel my date with his grandson. When I said yes, I never imagined Price Milloy sliding back into my life. I never imagined he’d ask me to dinner and say things that made my heart skip a few beats.
He’s just as handsome as I remember. Men age well, not that thirty-four is old. However, most people put on a little weight as they age, but Price’s cheeks are a little more hollow, and his pants hang looser than I remember. He’s always had wavy brown hair, but it’s a little longer, and his velvet brown eyes don’t hold as much glimmer. His aura makes me uneasy.
“Let me know if I can help you with anything,” I say to the gentleman entering the store in a red baseball hat and a black zip-up hoodie. My gaze follows the clinking sound of the dog with jingly tags behind him—an adorable white Fox Terrier with a black patch on its back, a tan mask, and button ears.
The man scratches his scruffy jaw and nods, offering me the quickest of glances before heading toward the back of the store with the dog right behind him.
Every time the door has chimed today, I’ve secretly hoped for Price. I glance at my watch. The store closes in ten minutes. The guy didn’t grab a cart or basket, so he shouldn’t be here long. While I wipe down the counter and finish sweeping the floor in front of the bulk bins, the man in the red hat strolls down each aisle with his hands in his jacket pockets, occasionally stealing a glance in my direction with his blue eyes that are almost too blue to trust and full lips pressed into a hard line.
Why does he keep looking at me?
And why does it look like there’s something in his pocket? A gun. It has to be a gun, but it’s not in a holster.
