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IloveSweet Cherry Cove. And I love Dalton Meadows.
I’ve always loved Dalton Meadows. Always will.
We’ve both made mistakes—but we’re both here, too, sucked back into each other’s orbit like it’s fate. If I walk away from this chance, I’ll regret it to my grave. I’m sure of that.
“Alba?” Dalton prompts.
Oh yeah. I should say these things out loud. “Will you stay a while longer?” I blurt instead.Coward, coward, coward.
Dalton peers at me like he’s checking for stroke symptoms, but then he strolls to a squashy armchair in the corner of the room. “Sure.”
I don’t notice the guitar case near his feet until he flips it open. He was playing when I got here yesterday, right? The case is old leather, scratched and worn, the inside lining covered in ancient, peeling stickers.
“Oh my god.” Seeing that case, suddenly I’m sixteen again, sitting cross-legged on Dalton’s bed and flipping through a magazine, pretending to read while he writes a new song. Blushing whenever the lyrics are about love, and hoping against hope that I’m his muse. “You still have the same case?”
“And the same guitar.” Dalton settles into the armchair, cradling the instrument like a lover. His fingers trail over the strings, and I shiver. “Good memories, right?”
“Yeah.” My voice is scratchy. “The best.”
And as the soft pluck of strings fills the room, it’s like a dam has broken inside me. Guess I can speak when it’s not into tense silence. And everything rushes out in a garbled mess: how much I loved him back then, how hard it was when he left, how heartbroken I felt. How over time, each letter felt more and more like a jibe. An extra kick from the universe:see what you had? See what you lost?
“You didn’t lose me.” Dalton keeps playing, but he looks wrecked. His chest heaves under his t-shirt, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “I’ve always been yours, Alba. Always. Even when I was a boneheaded idiot and left.”
And he confesses too, in the safety of the music. About how badly he wanted me, even back when we were gawky teenagers. About how unworthy he felt, and how he’d only ever known conditional love, and how he set off to make his fortune and win the day. Guess it made sense at the time. Our brains weren’t even fully formed back then.
“I don’t care about money, Dalton.”
His mouth crooks in a sad smile. “I know.”
“Or fame.”
“I know.”
“Or your awards. Though Iamreally proud.”
Dalton’s gaze is so fond. “I know, sugar. But I was nothing back then. I had to do something or I figured I’d lose you.”
“You were not nothing!” He waseverything, my whole freaking world, and he still is. Not because he’s famous or talented or rich or whatever, but because of the things that haven’t changed.
The stickers on his old case. The way he leans against every wall. How we split our dinners mix and match, and how he lost his mind over my bikini, and the scorching heat between us when we kissed in that plunge pool.
I’m surprised the water didn’t turn to steam. Surprised I had enough brain cells left to overthink.
I’m not overthinking now. Not letting fear drive the car. For once in my freaking life, I’m listening to my gut, and my gut says:Dalton, Dalton, Dalton.
I came here, didn’t I? I RSVP’d.
My sandals thump against the rug as I kick them off. The rock star plays on, watching me with so much love he could be glowing.
He sits up straighter as I approach, but his eyes don’t go wide until I drop to my knees in front of the armchair. “Alba,” he chokes out, but he lets me push his legs wider to make room.
“Keep playing,” I say softly.
Dalton curses, but his fingers dance over the strings. It’s a sweet song, lilting and mellow.
His belt buckle is stiff. These jeans are well made—the fabric is thick and fitted, the stitches neat and secure. My clothes budget could never.
The denim rasps beneath my fingernails as I scratch gently from hip to knee.
