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I’m perfectly calm over the whole thing. And maybe, just maybe, that’s a good thing.
I can call it an experiment. I can even talk about it in my next episode.
“Practical Over Romantic: The Research and the Development.”
Who knows? Maybe Chad Rober will be the one to finally take me off the market.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Owen
The day after the DeLucca’s incident, I get a text from Mack.
Mack
Hey, can you come fix a door for me?
Owen
What’s wrong with it?
Mack
It sticks. Old house.
Owen
Be over in a little bit.
On the way to Mack’s house, I swing through Book Smart for coffee, but Emmy’s not there. I try to ignore my disappointment, but it’s there, plain as day.
I even hang around for a few minutes after I get my drink, thinking maybe she’ll show up. . .
These new feelings for Emmy might need to be put in check.
I leave, feeling like I showed up early at the amusement park only to find out it doesn’t open for another hour, and head to Mack’s.
Mack lives in a small craftsman that’s not that different from Emmy’s, all triangular roofs and exposed rafters. It’s old though, and old houses need upkeep. I used to wonder why my sister chooses to live here rather than in Asheville, or Knoxville, or any other big city, but I think I’ve figured it out.
Mack has this strong, independent, tough exterior, but inside she’s a softie.
And the most important thing in her life is her people.
Even when I was away, she tried to keep in touch. It was me who put a wall up. When I left, I cut everyone off.
I had to retreat to a corner and lick my wounds, I guess.
Somehow, I convinced myself that a fresh start meant that I needed to distance myself from the people who knew me before.
An unintended consequence of that is it included people who actually cared.
Mack doesn’t talk about it really, but I know it hurt her. A lot. I’ve noticed the chip on her shoulder since I got back.
I park in my sister’s driveway, walk up onto the front porch, and raise my hand to knock when the door opens. She’s standing there in gray sweatpants and a gray hoodie, blond hair piled in a bun on top of her head and no makeup on.
“You look great,” I tease. “I bet that look brings all the boys to your yard.”
“Shut up,” she snarks back. “It’s my day off.”
