Page 20 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

We passed the row of waterfront rentals where the twelve-year-old versions of ourselves once TP’d and almost got arrested. A little further on, the road curved past the marina where we built a bonfire out of driftwood and Dawson gave me my promise ring on my sixteenth birthday. Every landmark felt like a wound, and the truck’s tires rolled right over them, one after another.

I tried not to watch his hands too closely on the wheel, but each turnoff or swerve onto a gravel road lit up some dormant circuit in me. I’d always loved his hands. They were so large, so strong, so manly, even as a preteen. Those hands were now man-hands, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how good they would feel on my body.

In an attempt to bring myself back to the present, I stared out the window. I watched as we drove past the boardwalk and was forced to march through a landfill of memories. I was bracing for it, but that only seemed to amplify the effect.

My phone vibrated. I glanced down and saw it was Peter. There was no way I was going to speak to him right now. I silenced it.

“You can take that if you need to,” Dawson mentioned offhandedly, but I could hear the tension in his voice.

“No, it’s fine.” I put the phone away.

“What’s it like—” I started to ask

“How is it being—” he spoke at the same time.

We looked over at each other and started laughing. It was something that we always used to do. We would be quiet for so long, and then both start talking at the exact same second. It was the strangest phenomenon I’d never experienced with anyone else.

He grinned. “Go ahead.”

“I was just going to ask what it’s like having Deacon in your life, not just as an abstract concept.”

Dawson had always taken so much pride in being the oldest brother, and even though he still was technically the oldest Lockhart, I wondered if it bothered him at all.

“It’s good, I guess. I’m just really happy for my mom.”

I nodded. I’d figured that would be his take. When I’d known him, he always put other people’s feelings before his own.

“Do you get to see him much?” I asked.

He nodded. “He’s been coming up pretty regularly with his family. They’re actually going to be spending some time over the summer because Deacon’s business headquarters is in Seattle, and Blake is going to intern.”

I nodded, wishing I had more to say. I couldn’t think of anything. My mind was blank. Well, not blank. I did have thoughts, and unfortunately, apparently, no filter.

“I thought you would have had kids by now.” I wasn’t sure why I said it. Maybe I shouldn’t have, maybe it wasn’t my place to.

His jaw tensed as his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I saw the whites of his knuckles. I instantly regretted making the comment and wished I could take it back.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said⁠—”

“No, that’s okay, yeah, life hasn’t really turned out…how I thought.”

“Right.” Part of me wanted to ask why. Why hadn’t it turned out how he thought? All he talked about when we were together was having a family. At the time, truth be told, it freaked me out a little because I was never sure I even wanted one and even at thirteen, fourteen years old he knew he wanted to be a dad.

He was so sure of everything. He was so sure about us. About us getting married. About us working on his family’s farm together. About us starting our own family and having three kids, our first by our mid-twenties. About the house we would live in. The house was the only thing I’d been one hundred percent on board about. It was the one piece of the life puzzle that I’d bought into wholeheartedly, with zero reservations.

From the time I could remember, driving around Cupid’s Cove, I’d always loved the white farmhouse with the black trim and wraparound porch. I nicknamed it Seashell Cottage because I always found the best seashells on the beach that was essentially its backyard. The house was my contribution to our dream life, the rest all mapped out by Dawson before we could even legally drive. So the fact that we were thirty and Dawson was not only single, he was childless, shocked me.

Dawson’s phone was open on the dash, and notifications rattled through, but he ignored them: a missed call from Gio, a text from Angie, a calendar alert about an upcoming farm expo. He seemed determined to be present, or at least to perform the gesture of presence for my benefit. I found myself wanting to ask him—really ask—how he was, if he ever thought about that night, if he did think about it, what he thought.

“Do you ever miss it?”

I glanced over at him. My heart pounded wildly. Was he asking if I missed him, missed us?

“Valentine Bay?” he clarified.

“Oh, um, yeah…” I swallowed and looked out the window at the pines going by. “But sometimes it’s like missing a place that never existed. Or like missing yourself when you were a different person.”

My phone vibrated again with a call. It was Peter. Again. I sent him to voicemail.