My heart clenched, half with guilt and half with anger about feelingguiltyin the first place.
For a moment, I thought he might push further—bring up my mom, or the years he’s missed, or how this whole town wasn’t big enough to ignore each other. But then the pilot waved from beside the balloon, calling his name, and Andrew smiled that practiced smile again.
“Think about grabbing lunch sometime,” he said, already half-turned away. “No pressure.”
“Sure,” I fibbed. “I’ll check my schedule.”
I watched him go, heart pounding, the balloon still looming above us like some cruel, overly cheerful monument to failed fatherhood.
A handful of minutes later, I ended up back at the cafe, because my drink was cold and I needed some latte art to stare at while I contemplated the series of misfortunes highlighting my October. The place was packed with chatter about the balloon—how beautiful it was, how generous Andrew Wade was, how “it’s just what the Fallfest needed.”
Rachel pushed a cappuccino into my line of sight. I’d been sulking at the bar, having completely forgotten to order.
“A hot air balloon,” she began. The question was implied.
“Yep.”
“I take it there’s more to the story?”
Glancing up at her, I cupped the mug between my hands for warmth. Rachel arrived in Bluebell Cove when I was fifteen. By that time, the gossip about my father had already passed.
I took a drink and shrugged. “You could say that.”
She gave me a smile that said she wanted to hug me, but seemed to think better of it. The free cappuccino sufficed.
When my mom came in ten minutes later, her apron still tied around her waist, I might as well have pinched myself to make sure I was still conscious.
“There you are,” she said, sliding into a chair beside me.
Blinking, I replied, “What are you doing here?”
“What?” She pretended to look around, a teasing smile on her lips. “I live and work a few shops away. Did you seriously think I’ve never come here?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My entire childhood, she never ventured far from the diner. Most holidays and festivals were spent working and catering to everyone seeking a hot meal or a Coke float. She lived and breathed the Cove, and played her part to a T.
The part ofmotherusually eluded her.
“I don’t know,” I muttered instead.
The week was becoming more and more odd by the hour.
Rachel swept by offering a mug of drip coffee, to which my mother politely declined—she preferred her caffeine to taste like charred dirt. “Did you see it?” she asked me once we were alone again.
I groaned. “If there’s a way I could miss it, please tell me.”
We were silent for a stretch, the stool creaking beneath me as I shifted. My mother studied her cuticles, looking about as uncomfortable as I was—quality time had never really been ourthing.
“When’s he leaving?” I asked once the tension grew unbearable.
“After Fallfest.”
I cleared the sudden lump in my throat. “Good.”
“You could try meetin’ him halfway,” she said, lowering her voice as a couple sat at the table behind us. “I mean, would it kill you?”
“It might,” I grumbled.
Her look morphed into something between exasperation and amusement. “You’re so stubborn.”
