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Finally, a text from Oliver:I’m sorry, Sophie. Something came up. I can’t come.
Me:Is everything okay?
Oliver:Yes. I’ll explain later.
A dull thud starts behind my eyes. My stomach burns.
He’s not coming.
I scoot my chair back so I can rest my head in my palms. I always figured this day would come, that our annual meet-up would end. But that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.
The only thing left to do now is go home and cuddle with Wilford, my Bernese Mountain Dog.
And you know what? I’ll buy myself my own dang shake, thank you very much. I stand, and even with the denim jacket over my new, belted floral tank dress, the wind cuts through me.
I reach the counter and plop down my card. “Can I get a black licorice peanut butter cup shake, please?” I ask the kid. “Large.”
He scowls in disbelief. “Really?” he asks.
My voice is calm, but there’s a torrential sea boiling inside of me. “I know it’s off the menu, but can you do it anyway?” Geez. He must be new or something.
I glance around the old walk-up building. A dash of disappointment and fear seasons my resolve. I take a big breath—I need to stop this game we have. I need to move on with my life.
Goodbye, Oliver Tate.
Chapter 2
Oliver
Eight Months Later
I press my foot harder on the gas pedal, waiting for my brother, Alec, to stop talking already and take a breath. Veins in his neck are popping out. His nervous energy has me speeding up, which is never a good idea in this town. I’ve been pulled over on Lakeside Road a few too many times.
We take the last bend before passing the “Welcome to Longdale, population 2,514” sign.
“Oliver,” Alec says. “Everyone thinks the new quarterback, a twenty-one-year-old baby, fresh out of college is gonna turn the franchise around.” He sighs and scowls—which is pretty typical for him ever since his NFL career-ending knee injury the year before. “They’re delusional,” he complains.
I better slow down because if I get clocked going the speed my S-class Mercedes was born to do, I’ll get pulled over for sure. Or, at the very least, we’d get an online complaint on the Tate International Resorts’ virtual comment card page from some of the residents here in town.
It wouldn’t be the first time Longdalers complained about our personal lives on the internet. And their complaints had nothing to do with the softness of the towels or the thickness of the mattress toppers because we haven’t even opened yet.
And just to be clear, the softness and thickness of Tate International’s amenities are unmatched in the industry.
I slow even more as I approach the first stop light inside city limits. I figure there are fewer than ten stoplights in the entire town. Sleepy couldn’t even begin to describe Longdale, which was one reason the whole state of Colorado had been abuzz over us, the Tate family, building one of our five-star resorts here.
We arrive at Alec’s destination, a small eatery where he’s meeting with a couple of former teammates from the San Antonio Wolves. I’m glad they came into town, even for just a quick trip. Alec’s been bored and grumpy since he had to quit football.
“Thanks, man,” he says. He flashes me an apologetic look. He doesn’t exactly have a driver’s license right now. Let’s just say he had a rough time after his injury last fall.
“It’s not a prob—” I stop short and sit up in my seat.
Is that who I think it is? Several yards in front of us, across the eatery parking lot and past an empty patch of weeds, I see a woman crouching on the pavement. She’s hiding behind the mobile library, a brightly painted, old school bus. She’s wearing a skirt that doesn’t come close to covering her knees and she looks a whole lot like Sophie Lawson, one of my few friends in Longdale.
She used to be one of my best friends. After I didn’t make it to our standing, annual thing…it’s not a date…I’m not sure she’d still call me that.
I grunt out a laugh and chew my mint gum harder as the scene unfolds before me. It’s Sophie, alright. I know Alec is still talking, but I’m hearing nothing, because…it’s Sophie.
Her head peers around the corner of the bus before zipping back around, like she doesn’t want to be seen. She puffs out a quick, short breath to try to move the hair out of her face, her right hand steadying herself against the back of the mobile library as her left hand tries, unsuccessfully, to tug her tight, black skirt down.
