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Her advice had been simple.“You have to decide which is more important, your friendship or a potential relationship. But know that one can destroy the other without meaning to.”
She had been right, of course. Though not in the way either of us had predicted.
“There’s not any news to tell you, Mom considering we just spoke two days ago.” I took a bite of the ham and cheese sandwich she put down in front of me. She poured herself a glass of iced tea and sat down beside me, watching me like a hawk as I ate. Always the worrywart.
“What about the man you were dating a while ago? What was his name? Brad? You haven’t mentioned him for some time.”
I finished half of my sandwich and took a drink of water before answering her. “You mean Brent? Oh, it never progressed beyond a couple of dates. Nice guy, just not for me.” I didn’t look at her, knowing I’d see the disappointment that she would be trying to hide.
“Oh, that’s too bad. He sounded nice.”
Yes, Brent had been nice. And that was it. Damien had set us up thinking we’d have a lot in common. Brent was an art dealer and me being a struggling artist, my well-meaning friend insisted it would be a match made in heaven. Unfortunately, there was no chemistry, which became painfully obvious after our one and the only make-out session when our teeth had banged together and he swallowed my gum.
One would think that at twenty-eight, I’d have the dating thing down. I was an independent woman living on my own in New York City. I had gone out into the world to chase my dreams, and for a time, I had realized them. Yet, here I was barreling my way through adulthood without a clue as to what it took to have a lasting relationship.
But I was fine with that; I didn’t need a man to complete me. I was perfectly content with my singledom. In my experience, men were more trouble than they were worth.
That didn’t mean my mother didn’t try to marry me off at every opportunity.
Mom patted my hand reassuringly. “If it wasn’t meant to be, then it wasn’t much of a loss.”
“We only went out three times, Mom,” I pointed out with a laugh.
“You’re still young. There’s time to give me grandchildren yet.” Mom winked, and I had to stifle a groan. “Now why don’t we get your things up to your room.”
I put my plate in the dishwasher, taking a moment to let everything sink in.
I was home.
Why did that feel so ominous?
Chapter 4
Meghan
I stood in the middle of my childhood bedroom, taking it in. Like the rest of the house, it served as a snapshot of another time. A better time.
My double bed was still covered in neon throw pillows and ratty stuffed animals. I picked up the stuffed pig that was missing an ear and smiled. I remembered my dad bringing it home for me. He had picked it up on a weekend away with his golfing buddies.
“His name is Bacon. Look after him, okay?” he had said solemnly, putting the pink stuffed toy in my seven-year-old arms.
“Bacon’s a stupid name,” I had protested, holding the pig tightly to my tiny chest.
Dad had regarded me seriously, nodding slowly. “Yes, I think you’re right. What do you want to call him?”
I had thought about it for a long time before deciding on Mortimer.
“Mortimer the pig, it is,” Dad announced with a grin that lit up my heart.
I carefully placed Mortimer back on the bed before making my way around the rest of the room. I smiled at framed pictures of Skylar and me in high school; I dressed in boy shorts and a baseball shirt, Skylar in a black lace dress, and fingerless gloves. On paper, we never should have been friends, yet somehow, we made it work.
The only bright spot in moving back to Southport would be seeing Skylar on a more regular basis. She lived forty-five minutes away just outside of Pittsburgh with her fiancé, Mac. I wasn’t great at staying in touch with people, but Skylar wouldn’t allow me to lose touch. She was prickly and moody, but steadfastly loyal to the people she cared about. I was lucky to be one of them.
I noticed one of the posters had fallen off the wall. I leaned down to pick it up, and when I straightened, I noticed what it had been covering up.
A series of multicolored lines arranged in two rows. The ones at the top were wobbly and clearly drawn by childish hands. The ones towards the bottom were neat and straight. I felt myself smiling despite myself.
The lines spanned ten years. It kept a running tally of hands of rummy played. Adam and I had always been fiercely competitive. I remembered the entire weekends spent shuffling and dealing cards. Counting up the marks, it seemed I was in the lead the last time we played.
