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It is absolutely possible to be happy for someone and still be jealous of them to the point of tears.
“You look amazing,” I whisper in her ear.
“You look hungry,” she counters. “Have you been taking care of yourself at all?”
This is the part where I say sure and hope they buy it. But lying doesn’t seem so appealing anymore. There’s something liberating about breaking apart in my momma’s old kitchen and having my loved ones help me pick up the pieces.
“I haven’t been, but I’m about to change that.”
“Well, then!” Ma claps in the background, sounding cheerful. “Speaking of food, how about some apple pie and sweet tea?”
We sit down at our small kitchen table, eat our weight in gooey pie with vanilla ice cream, and drink buckets of sweet tea. Kennedy shows me her new ballet moves, and I ooh and aah.
Dad comes home from work, hugs me, and tells me he loves me. I dissolve like butter in his arms.
Then Georgie, my baby sister, bursts into the kitchen, back from her job as a Pilates instructor. She jumps on me, trapping me in her limbs.
“My God, Georgie. You’re like a Labrador!”
“Damn straight. I’ve always been your favorite bitch!”
Once Lizzy and Kenny say their goodbyes, friends from town stop over to hug me and catch up. I grab a quick shower and slide into my pajamas, then check my phone for the first time today. I have several missed calls from Chrissy, Arya, and Rahim. None from Arsène. Guess once he got over his initial ire over finding out about Grace’s pregnancy, and how she kept his mother’s videos for herself, he moved on.
A knock on the front door snaps me out of my reverie. Ma and Dad are in bed, and Georgie just stepped into the shower. I pad barefoot to the door and fling it open.
On the other side of the door stands a man I didn’t think I’d see again.
My unfinished business. The love I left behind.
Rhys.
The man hasn’t changed at all. He still has that same triangular baby face. With his toothy smile and half-lidded puppy eyes. He’s wearing khaki Bermuda shorts and flip-flops and a burgundy Henley. He looks like the same old boy I left behind. Only I don’t know if I’m the same gal I was.
“Winnie.” His eyes light up.
“Rhys Hartnett, gosh!” I pull him into a hug. He laughs good-naturedly, hugging me back with one arm.
“Wait, hold on. There’s a pie between us. Persimmon pie, to be exact. Your favorite. When Momma heard you were in town, she insisted on making you one.”
I pull away and take the pie from his hands. “How’s Mrs. Hartnett?”
“Fantastic!” He smiles. “My brother gave her a new grandchild last month, so obviously, they’re keeping her busy.”
Apparently, I cannot avoid the subject of children and babies.
I usher him to the rocking chairs on our front porch. I slide the pie onto the table between them and take a seat. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you after you called me. Things have been really hectic.”
“Figured.” Rhys takes a seat next to me. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through. Are you okay now?”
“I’m getting there.” I smile. “How’ve you been?”
“Great,” he says, and I believe him. Men like Rhys tend to do good, be good, and feel good. “Other than that small moment of relapse when I accidentally started dating a fugitive two years ago.”
“A fugitive!” I choke on my saliva. “Spill it, Rhyssy! I want all the tea.”
“All right.” He runs his fingers over his perfect mane. “But promise not to laugh.”
“I promise to laugh. You clearly dodged a bullet. A convict, wow!”
“A fugitive!” he corrects, making me laugh harder. “It makes a world of difference. About two years ago, a woman named Jessica moved to Mulberry Creek out of the blue. She rented out the house on the corner of Main and Washington. The Bradleys’. Started attending all the festivals and town meetings. Sent her first grader to the local elementary school. She was great. Both of them, really. The kid too. People said she divorced an oil tycoon and moved here to get away from the city. That’s why she was so well off.”
“Was she, though?” I examine him, knowing there’s a twinkle in my eyes.
He shakes his head, slapping a hand over his forehead. “Elder fraud.”
We talk into the night. About Paul’s death and the months that came after it. We reminisce. About his football games and our make-out sessions and that time I lost a bet, and, after he scored a touchdown, I let him suck my toe publicly.
When the sun’s just about to peek out, Rhys stands up and dusts off his khakis. “Well, looks like I’ve taken enough of your time. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” I stand up, too, reaching for a hug. “It was great to catch up. I needed that.”
