Page 61 of Run to Me

I smile at his baffled expression. “Can’t help it, Trev. It’s a beautiful day.”

He shakes his head on his way inside the house and calls out, “Want a beer?”

“Nah. I’m good,” I say, adding more details to the picture on the page.

“Is that a dragon?” Parker yells directly in my ear while leaning over my shoulder. The six-year-old, smaller version of Trevor has one volume: loud. “Dragons are cool!”

Tilting my head away from the line of deafening fire, I study my drawing from his point of view, not seeing a dragon. “It’s a dog with his tongue hanging out.”

His excitement deflates. “Dogs are boring.”

“Parker, go wash up for lunch,” Trevor says when he reappears.

“Okay,” he whines before running off without further complaint. He’s a good kid.

Trevor drops into the lawn chair next to mine. “What are you working on?”

“A vision board.”

He peers over my arm for a better look. “With hand-drawn illustrations?”

“More like visual aids.” I pause my sketching as an idea pops into my head. “Maybe I should add a few graphs. Or a pie chart.”

“Is this for work? You haven’t mentioned plans to change anything at the bar.”

“Not for work. But it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Thirteen years, but who’s counting?

The good news is Maisy reactivated the countdown clock, each tick bringing us one second closer to reconciliation. I’ll finally get to apologize for hurting her and say—or show—everything I held back that day on the porch. The bad news? I don’t know when the countdown ends. Other than the text message about her makeup gig, I haven’t heard from her all week. I’m respecting her space, giving her no reason to run. However, the waiting game tests my patience, and I have little patience left in my tank when it comes to her. At this point, I’m running on fumes.

“Not to burst your bubble, but your artistic skills suck. What is that?” He points to the drawing at the bottom corner of the page.

“A rose bush.”

Maisy loves roses. She wanted to plant a rose garden when she was in middle school, but Vera told her they couldn’t afford a higher water bill. I’ll make space in my backyard for Maisy to plant all the roses her heart desires—bills, droughts, and water restrictions be damned.

“It’s some kind of bush,” he mutters.

“You’re a prick.” I flip the notebook shut and tuck the pencil behind my ear. “It’s called concept art.”

“Art is clearly a concept you haven’t mastered. Parker draws better than you, and he’s in kindergarten.” Trevor has the uncanny ability to smirk without moving a single facial muscle, a skill he executes while bringing the beer bottle to his lips.

Gina appears just in time to save her husband from the daggers in my glare. “Lunchtime, guys,” she announces, setting a tray of food on the patio table.

The couple’s two-year-old daughter, Eloise, toddles behind her. Like Gina, Eloise has dark red hair and brown eyes, but the little angel has Trevor’s calm temperament.

I spring to my feet and toss the notebook into my vacated chair. “Need some help?”

“Sure,” she says. “Grab the plates and napkins from inside?”

“On it.”

We settle around the table for lunch and friendly conversation while Parker plays battleships with his pizza rolls and Eloise pokes at her food with one finger, careful not to get the others messy. The lighthearted conversation takes a nosedive when Gina attempts to push one of her single friends on me.

“Megan Reynolds. She got divorced a couple of years ago and has a son Parker’s age. You may not remember her from high school since she was a grade below us and left Walford right after graduation. She’s back now and living with her parents until she gets her own place.”

“I remember her,” I say, only halfway paying attention while constructing a second sandwich. “But I’m not interested in dating.”

My comment floats right past Gina as she exclaims, “Oh! And guess who else moved back to town. Maisy Donovan.”