“Wanda deserves a medal,” I say without looking away. “But let’s be honest: you’d be here regardless.”
She grins, a spark of sunlight catching in her eyes. “You saying fate would’ve led me into your bed one way or another?”
“Not in those exact words…”
Her smile deepens, eyes glinting beneath her lashes. “Guess we’ll have to see what else fate has planned.”
Needing a shift, I clear my throat. “You nervous? I mean, about meeting the three people who practically raised me.”
“Never met anyone’s family before, not counting friends.” She twists a lock of hair around her finger. “So yeah, a little nervous.”
Even though I keep my expression neutral, it hits hard. The asshole who wrecked her never once brought her home. Figures.
I pause, letting that sink in. What it means. What she’s giving me. What I’m giving her.
“They’re going to love you, Bubble Girl.” I glance over, half smiling. “Probably even more than they do me.”
“Hope so. And I’m looking forward to seeing where you grew up.”
“Well, brace yourself.” I shift my grip on the wheel, focusing back on the winding road ahead. “Putney Hollow’s tiny. Too many trees, not enough takeout, and more apple festivals than any sane town needs.”
She laughs, brows arched in surprise. “Apple festivals?”
“Every fall,” I brag. “Hayrides, pie contests, cider tastings, awkward folk dancing. Grandma makes a killing on her famous apple butter.”
The road curves past clapboard houses and low stone walls, commuter traffic thinning as strip malls give way to stretches of scrubby pine. In the side mirror, the last glint of water fades to green.
“My grandparents have an orchard out back,” I add. “Just a few rows, but Grandpa swears they grow the best Macs in all of Windham County. Every September, I’d pick until my arms ached, bees droning low over bruised fruit, the air sharp with sugar, the crunch clean in my teeth.”
Cami tilts her head, a grin blooming on her face. “Wow. You’ve got layers,Cat Whisperer.Every time I think I’m catching up, you hand me another piece.” She shifts in her seat. “Where does Crystal Cove fit in?”
“Summer escape.” A smile curves my lips. “Every year until college.”
Her gaze lingers, curious. “And college was…?”
“New York. Columbia.”
She doesn’t push, but the silence between us stretches.
“Master’s in Finance and Economics. Sound familiar?” I offer a wink. “And…where I met my ex-wife.”
The GPS flickers: two hours to go. Trees blur past, tall, green, and familiar in a way I didn’t realize I’d missed.
“Columbia was supposed to be my ticket out of small-town predictability and people who’d known me since birth,” I say.
We pass a timeworn farmhouse with peeling shutters, half-hidden behind overgrown weeds. The road narrows between low stone walls and wildflowers bowing in the late-summer breeze.
“Jenna liked that I could talk investments over wine and calculate ROI in my sleep. But she edited out the parts of me that didn’t fit her idea of us. Vermont. Crystal Cove. My grandparents. Sunday check-ins. None of it was glossy enough for the image she wanted.” My grip tightens on the wheel. “When we got married, I traded maple syrup and apple skins for high-rise views and city glare. Somewhere in the swap, I lost myself.”
With an exhale, I flick a glance at Cami, and she’s watching me, that familiar focus in her eyes, listening as if my words matter.
“I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d rewritten to appease her”—my eyes flick back to the road, trees flashing past in green blurs—“until after she cheated. Until after the marriage ended. Until I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the guy staring back.”
“And…” she says, squeezing my hand, “who do you see now?”
I steady my attention forward but feel her gaze trace my skin like sunlight. “Someone you’ve helped me remember.”
“Handsome, grumpy, and secretly a cat whisperer?” she teases.
