“Oh,” he says, his grin returning. “You’re sorry so you don’t feel like an ass. Not because it might’ve hurt my feelings?”
“Exactly.”
“So classy of you, Neely.”
“The last time I talked to you, I was pretty convinced you didn’t have feelings.” I laugh. “So, pardon me.”
He considers this as he plops a box of fruity cereal into his cart. “Okay. I can see where you’re coming from there, and I can’t argue it.”
“Really?”
“I’m not saying you’re right. Don’t get excited.”
“I was so close,” I say, feigning defeat.
“Let’s not get crazy, babe.”
His term of endearment has me stutter-stepping around the endcap. My shoulder hits a tower of potato chips, and the plastic rustles together, knocking one bag to the floor. I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He’s looking at me with a dose of caution.
“Sorry.” He winces. “It just slipped out.”
“Apology accepted.”
Our gazes refuse to break, although he’s trying as hard as I am to look away. He finally bends to get the dropped chips as I fan my face to quell the blush in my cheeks.
“I don’t think it’s crushed too bad,” he says, situating the bag on the rack.
“Just give it to me.” I take it off the rack again and toss it in my cart. “I’ll have a guilty conscience otherwise.”
He laughs freely but doesn’t comment. Instead, we continue down the aisle, going so slowly I could probably read every label as we pass. He points to little cakes shaped like stars with lime-green icing. Memories of those sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car when he picked me up for school make my chest ache so hard it steals my breath.
“I haven’t had one of those in forever,” I say.
“I get them sometimes.” He shrugs, the ridge of his shoulders flexing against the fabric of his shirt. “They’re smaller than I remembered, though. They’re half the size of my hand.” He holds his hand out to demonstrate.
“What did you do to your thumb?” The nail is a gnarly shade of purple, and the end is almost double the size of his other fingers.
“Hammer.” He makes a motion like he’s swinging a tool toward his thumb and makes a popping noise.
“Guess you didn’t take after your father after all,” I goad.
“That’s not nice.”
“That’s true. How many times has he hit his finger? Never. Because he’s the best.”
“You wound me.” He tries to pout but ends up laughing. “He’d like to see you, you know.”
My eyes dart to the floor. Leaving and never checking in with Nick was unfair. He was so good to me, loved me, even, and I just left. It was easy to rationalize then. He had Dane and his decisions to deal with, and I told myself having anything to do with either of them would only complicate things. That the responsible thing to do was just stay away.
That got harder as the years went on. I’d remember his birthday and want to send a card or see his favorite saltwater taffy and want to ship some his way.
I should see him. I want to, even. But the idea of being hit in the face with a family that isn’t mine sends the lump in my throat rising.
“Yeah, well,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I’m not sure I’ll have time.”
He nods, his face falling. “I get it. How long did you say you’ll be around?”
“A few days, most likely,” I say off the cuff. “Hopefully not longer than that.”
I make a turn down the bread aisle, and he follows suit. I wonder how long he’s going to follow me. I also wonder how much I’m going to buy before I have the balls to walk away.
“Why? You have something against this place?” he asks, his cart rolling to a stop. “Pretty sure Dogwood Lane is fond of you.”
A swallow passes down his throat. I wait for his lopsided smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a guarded hesitation is written across his face like he’s afraid he’s the something.
“I do have something against this place,” I say, the lump in my throat evident. You. “My heart is in New York.”
His brows pull together, and I have to look away.
Lurching my cart forward, the wheels spinning as fast as my heart, I push to the dairy case. I don’t look over my shoulder to see if he’s following because I don’t have to. His energy wallops me from behind.
As I make the longest decision between almond and coconut milk in the history of dairy decisions, he stands behind me and waits.
“If you aren’t going to be around long, Matt and Penn would love to see you,” he offers finally, breaking the silence. “And Dad. A lot of people, Neely.”
The disappointment in his tone, the slight accusatory nature, like I don’t care for anyone anymore, pricks at my heart. “I’ve missed them, you know.”
“They’d appreciate knowing that.” He starts to laugh. “Just word it carefully around Penn . . .”
A giggle escapes my lips. “Is he still so ornery?”
“Time hasn’t done Penn any favors in the growing-up department. Or Matt either, for that matter.”
“Really? Neither have settled down? I figured Matt would have a wife and Penn . . . Well, I figured Penn would have ten kids.”
“By ten women?” Dane chuckles.
“I didn’t say that. But yeah,” I add, laughing.
“Matt was almost married a few years ago to this chick he met at a bar in Nashville, but surprise, surprise. It didn’t work out. And Penn . . .”
“Same Penn?”
“Same Penn,” he admits. “Sleeping with anything that will move.”
“That’s so gross.”
He holds his hands out like he’s told him the same thing. “They’ll be at Mucker’s tomorrow night. I’m seeing them this morning if you want me to pass anything along.”
I don’t know what to pass along because I don’t know them anymore. A “hello” seems pointless and a “call me sometime” ridiculous, and I just wish this weren’t so weird.
Imagining their faces—Matt’s huge smile and Penn’s wisecracking grin—makes me want to tell Dane I’ll swing by and see them. But as soon as the words are on my tongue, I consider how awkward it might be, and I chicken out.
My cart becomes super interesting as I flip my gaze to the random contents. The air between us moves as if on the precipice of something. Like it’s waiting for us to switch into the next phase of this conversation, one I can’t identify.
“Let them know I asked about them,” I say finally.
Dane seems disappointed. “Will do.”
I realize how much time I’ve spent walking the aisles for no reason, and if it were any other man standing with me, I’d pray to God he’d ask for my number. He is insanely attractive and remembers details about me and smells so good I want to attach myself to his chest and just breathe him in.
But it’s not. It’s Dane. And with all the comfortableness that comes with being around him, so do hope and worries and assumptions, and I find myself hating I ever turned around to see him today. Even more, I hate that I came home at all, because now I can’t just hate him. Now things are messy.
A part of me will never forgive him for what he did. I may have found the pieces of my broken heart, but they’ll never fit together the way they did before that Saturday morning when he destroyed it.
We can’t be friends. I can’t be a part of his life. I can’t have that time of my life thrown in my face every time I see him or think about him.
The longer I stay here and chitchat with him, however harmless it may seem, the harder it’s going to make forgetting him again. Because that’s how our story ends. With goodbye.
I feel his gaze on my cheek, and when I look up, he’s trying to see right through me. The greens swim with the yellows in his irises, and I could lose myself there so easily. So I look away.
“Neely . . .”
“I need to go,” I say, giving him the best smile I can. “Good to see you again.”
His exhale is hasty. He reaches for my cart but stops himself short.
My hand trembles against the red plastic cart handle, my palm sliding off and dropping to my side. I hate how his eyes make me want to reach out to him. I loathe that I will now remember this feeling tonight as I’m lying in bed and attempting to sleep. Wishing things could be different. Regretting that they can’t, that I wasn’t quite enough, and that he didn’t even want to fight for me. For us.
He didn’t even try.
“Want to meet up for drinks or something?” he asks, playing with a slice along the thigh of his jeans. “Just to catch up.”
I pause, ignoring the burning sensation over the bridge of my nose and gathering myself before answering. “What do we have to talk about, Dane?”
He searches my face before speaking again.
“We don’t have anything to talk about,” he admits. “It’s just been a hell of a long time since I’ve seen you, and I’d like to know how you are. Who you are.”
It would be so easy to succumb to this. A bigger part of me than I want to admit wants to. His arms are the only ones I’ve ever felt safe in. His stories the only ones I’ve ever wanted to hear over and over. His scent is the one I think I smell on random streets in the city and find myself stopping, even now, to see where it’s coming from.
But as I feel myself break, I remind myself I’m not eighteen anymore, and he doesn’t deserve to know me. And I don’t want to know him and all that his life entails.
“I’m just somebody you used to know that’s home visiting her mom.”
He scowls, unamused by my response. “It’s that simple, huh?”
No. “Yeah. It’s that simple.” My heart drops to my sneakers, panic filling the void. I need air. I need space. I need a lobotomy for even talking to him. “It was good to see you. Take care, all right?”