Page 7 of Quiver

She managed a half-smile. “I’m not here to argue anymore, but you’ve never been a waste for me, Fletch. If nothing else, it’s good to see you’re doing well.”

“I could say the same, but anyone with a TV or computer knows how you’ve done for yourself.”

“Then maybe I’m better at my job than I thought.” Kylie caught herself and took a steadying breath before going on with a little more mirth in her rich voice. “You told me once you were the only person in the audience who could tell which smiles I was faking. I guess some things do change after all.”

Then without waiting for a response, Kylie turned and walked away.

Fletcher let her go. She’d decided a long time ago she’d never chase a woman who didn’t want her enough to stay of her own accord, but the fortitude that came from knowing she was right didn’t always balance the sting of wishing she were wrong.

Kylie didn’t look in the rearview mirror. She knew better than to hope Fletcher would change her mind, or, God forbid, reach out to her. She’d known it for years, save for a few minutes in a studio a world away.

She shook her head. There was no need to be dramatic. There was no world between New York and Vermont, merely a few hours’ worth of interstates. The trip hadn’t even taken her half a day, and yet she would’ve gladly traded it for the shorter drive to her parents’ house. Fletcher lived exactly 2.8 miles from the two-story colonial on the edge of town where Kylie had spent the entirety of her idyllic childhood. She could still pinpoint exactly which split-rail fence post marked the halfway point between their front doors. Back when they were living on a mix of hope and young lust, meeting each other in the middle felt so sensible.

Now as she pulled onto the county road that used to be her pathway home, she couldn’t even bring herself to glance at the small grove of sugar maples where they’d spent endless afternoons.

Why had she ever believed she could come back here after all these years? Of course she’d visited a time or two, but only for short, surgical strikes, in and out except for the one time right after she’d moved from LA to New York. She shivered at the memory and the images it had seared into her mind. The scene played like a movie reel, unbidden and unedited through her brain, some woman with her arm curled around Fletcher’s, lips pressed close to her ear, the echo of laughter that haunted her dreams ever since.

Hurt, shame, grief and so many emotions she’d never dared to label threatened to overtake her once more, but she shook her head. That trip had been a mistake, too, but she clearly hadn’t learned her lesson. Maybe she never would.

It had been stupid to come here. The desperation had driven her, but even in her most frenzied moments she hadn’t really expected Fletcher to respond any other way. They’d been through too much, both together and separately, for her to expect anything other than a cold shoulder. She only wished she could find comfort in the consistency of their shared icy resolve.

As she pulled into the village halfway down a mountain road, she wondered if Fletcher took any satisfaction in rejecting her. The chill in her voice didn’t suggest pleasure, even if the set of her jaw betrayed the indifference she tried to project. They knew each other’s tells too well to convey apathy convincingly. No, she still got under Fletcher’s skin simply by showing up, but the prospect didn’t thrill her the way it once had. Nothing had thrilled her in too long to remember.

With that entirely maudlin thought, she pulled into her parents’ driveway and barely had time to kill the engine before they both spilled out to greet her. So much for taking a moment to collect herself.

“You made it.” Her mom practically squealed as she hugged her.

“You made good time, too, stranger.” Her dad piled on, wrapping his arms around both of them.

She didn’t tell them the ETA she’d sent before leaving this morning factored in what she’d hoped would be a longer stop at Fletcher’s … or that she’d planned to stop there at all.

“Come on in. It’s cold.” Her dad nudged her toward the door.

“Let me get my stuff.”

“We’ll help.” Her mom bustled ahead and opened the trunk of her car. “Wow, did you pack your whole apartment?”

“Sort of. Some of it’s Christmas presents.”

Her dad tugged a large suitcase toward the house. “I must’ve been good this year. What’s in here? I hope it’s a Porsche.”

“Sorry, this one’s all mine. The presents are in the backseat.”

“All yours? How long are you staying?”

She’d expected the question, but she thought maybe she’d make it across the threshold first. “My plans are in flux at the moment.”

“I’m glad they fluxed in our direction.” Her mom grabbed a duffle bag and nodded for her to go on ahead.

She stepped into the warmth of her parents’ home without much nostalgia until the scent of lasagna and baking bread took hold of her senses, and her stomach growled. “Did you cook my favorite?”

“Of course.” Her mom shrugged as if the question were silly, but she smiled like it pleased her. “My baby girl’s home for the first time in two years. You didn’t think I’d serve liver and onions.”

“Ew, thanks.”

“Do you want me to put my Porsche under the tree?” Her dad wheeled the big suitcase into the living room.

“I told you, that one’s mine. I’ll handle the gifts.” She scooted past him, snagging the bag her mother set down, but as she spotted the tall Douglas fir set proudly in the center of the large picture window, a pang of nostalgia cut through the dark hovering over her since arriving at Fletcher’s.