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The giant sweetgum tree comes into view as soon as I turn down the short private drive that leads to my childhood home. The iconic tree’s spiny gumballs hang down from the branches like prickly cherries. When we were kids, Parker and I would collect the gumballs that fell to the ground and hit them like baseballs with his favorite Louisville Slugger.
A cool breeze whips through the open driver’s side window and flutters my hair around my face as I pull in behind my best friend Adeleine’s daisy yellow Volkswagen Beetle. Once parked and the engine turned off, I just sit and stare at the house I haven’t seen in four years.
It looks exactly the same with the exception of the new flower beds Dad must have added. Tall purple irises that have just started to bloom stand in front of fragrant gardenia bushes. My eyes flutter shut as I breathe in the sweet-scented air that reminds me of my mother’s favorite perfume, trying hard to keep the image of her crystal clear in my mind—her smile, her laugh, the way she’d push a strand of her hair behind her ear when she was lost in thought—a habit I seem to have inherited. As each year passes since we lost her to ovarian cancer, those tiny details get blurrier and blurrier. The same is happening with Parker. The details of his face aren’t as crisp in my mind as they used to be. And I’m terrified of the day when they both will become shadows who only visit me in my dreams.
Getting out of the car to retrieve my suitcase, I stop when I see Adeleine sitting on the front porch bench swing, a huge smile on her face. It doesn’t matter that I just saw her last week at graduation, it doesn’t lessen the effulgent happiness that explodes inside my chest.
“Welcome home!” she shouts and bounds down the front steps, her dark curly ponytail flapping behind her as she runs toward me.
We crash into each other in the middle of the driveway, all hugs and tears and watery laughter. This girl has been my rock since I was six years old.
“Dad here?” I ask when our manic welcome-home embrace ends.
“Inside fixing you a homecoming supper. Fried chicken and biscuits.”
My stomach twists with a mixture of hunger and guilt. After we lost Mom and then Parker, Dad and I kind of lost each other, too. Our relationship hasn’t been the best over the years. Occasional, awkward phone calls, a few emails and texts. He never came to visit me while I was at CU, but he did show up to my graduation. Holidays and school breaks were spent at my grandparents’ place in Missouri because Dad didn’t want to be home where he’d be surrounded by the painful absence of Mom and Parker. I often wondered why he never sold the house. Why would he want to live alone in an empty home that would only remind him of the two most important people in his life that were no longer there? I think he kept the house for me because he knew I’d return one day.
Adeleine’s honey-brown eyes study me for a lingering minute.
“You good?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“My offer to crash at my place until you find somewhere else to live is still open.”
Our hands find each other’s, and our fingers tangle.
“I know.” But I want to stay here with Dad. It’ll give us a chance to reconnect.
“I may have heard that a certain brooding mechanic will be at The Fields tonight.”
I know exactly who she heard it from. She and Tate’s younger brother, Pax, started hooking up a year ago. Fuck buddies, she calls whatever their relationship is, but I know my friend. I hear the subtle inflections in her voice whenever she talks about him. She’s in love with the blond Lothario but is too afraid to ask for more. Pax has a reputation. A deserved one. But the fact that they’re still sleeping together after a year speaks volumes. I’m pretty sure he feels the same way. Since I’m back, I may have to bust out my Jane Austen knowledge about matchmaking and pull an Emma.
“Have you seen him today?” I ask, knowing today will be as hard on Tate as it is for me.
Adeleine knows whichhimI’m referring to. She never voluntarily tells me about Tate unless I directly ask. If there’s one thing about my best friend, Adeleine knows how to hold a grudge. She’s still pissed at what he did after Parker died. Tate has become her Voldemort, the man whose name shall never be spoken.
“No, but Pax did.”
“And?” I inquire as we walk hand in hand up the front walkway to the porch.
“And I don’t understand why you’re still so hung up on that guy. There are so many other men out there who would trip over themselves for a chance to date you.” She taps her bottom lip in thought with a perfectly French-manicured nail. “Marcus is available.”
My bark of laughter startles a cardinal perched in the sweetgum tree.
“Marcus is my new boss’s oldest son. I don’t skinny dip in the company pool.”
No matter how gorgeous Marcus Cutton is, my heart only wants one man. And starting Monday, when I begin my new job as Ryder Cutton’s new Public Relations Manager for the Motocross team he’s building, I’m going to put myself in Tate Kingston’s line of sight every freaking chance I get.
“Don’t you mean, ‘don’t dip your pen in company ink?’”
I hip-bump her. “I like my version better.”
The cherry-red front door opens, and moss-green eyes that are mirror images of mine settle on me with wariness. I hate that our relationship has become this strained thing.
“Hey, Dad.”
He opens the door wider with one hand, a kitchen towel held in the other.
