907 For Keeps Way (Cherry Falls)

“Muy tai is right up my alley,” I say as we start up the stairs.

He whips his head to me. “Really?”

“No.”

But a mai tai would be right up my alley.

He snorts and keeps moving forward. “The weights are up here.”

“Oh, goodie.”

I get to the top of the stairs. We move through the wide selection of free weights, weight machines, and contraptions that look like torture devices.

“This is the personal training room,” he says as we enter through a doorway on the right. “When you come in for your sessions, this is where you’ll go.”

Okay, this feels more manageable.

Pieces of equipment are spaced out across the room. Ignoring them, I walk over to the windows and peer out over Cherry Falls below.

It’s such a lovely little town that it takes my breath away.

The fountain across Hope Avenue sparkles in the sunlight. The men washing the fire truck at the fire department make me smile. Watching Clementine Miller make her way into Dr. Coleman’s office on the arm of her husband, Thomas, fills my heart with so much hope.

For a moment, anyway.

Love like that doesn’t last. Not anymore.

“What are you thinking?” Dane’s voice from right next to me makes me jump. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I place a hand on my chest. “You didn’t. Much.”

“Your whole face changed when you were looking out there.” He motions toward the windows. “What were you thinking?”

We stand shoulder to shoulder and look across the town.

“I was thinking about how Thomas Miller still escorts Clementine to the doctor. And to the hairdresser every Saturday. And how he always asks for a slice of cherry pie for her when it rains because the rain makes her sad.”

A faint smile ghosts my lips.

“That reminds me of my parents,” he says.

“I don’t think I ever knew them.”

“I grew up in Kissme Bay. My parents lived there their whole life. Lost them both within six months of each other a few years back.”

My heart squeezes at the wistfulness in his voice. I look at him. “I’m sorry, Dane.”

He turns his head to mine. “They couldn’t live without each other. Isn’t that a love story, if you ever heard of one?”

“Yeah. Maybe a Shakespearean one because of the ending, but a love story anyway.”

A quiet chuckle kisses the air. “At least they didn’t poison each other.”

“True.”

I’m not sure if it’s the smaller room or the fact that we’re alone, but suddenly, he’s a smidgen less intimidating. Still distractedly good-looking and inherently alluring, but less overwhelming.

“But you know what? Maybe your parents’ love story and the Shakespearean version aren’t that different,” I say.

“How do you mean?”

“They all end tragically.”

He slips a hand in his pocket and turns to face me, interest piqued.

“I mean, think about it—marriage is a tale as old as time, and the endings that are truly happy without any sense of tragedy are the exception. Even your parents’ lovely story ends with a broken heart.”

I shrug and look out the window again.

“Interesting take on things,” he says.

“Realistic take on things.”

“So you don’t think there’s a chance at a happily ever after?”

I sigh, turning to face him.

The question annoys me—not just because it’s naïve but because it’s a lie. It’s a lie that I bought into for far too long, and the fact that society still propagates such madness is infuriating.

“No, I don’t. I think Hollywood has ruined the lives of people across the world with that bullshit.”

He flinches but doesn’t say anything.

“In the sixties, a woman got married because she needed financial support, and a man needed someone to keep the home running while he went out and did man things,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Then divorce laws laxed, and the rates have climbed ever since. That tells me no one was ever really happy in a marriage.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I disagree. Married couples are happier than single people. That fact has been proven time after time.”

I cross my arms over my chest too. “Because married couples are wealthier.”

“So, money is the key to happiness?”

“No. But it’s happier to cry into money than into your hands that are dried out from the dishwater that was too hot when you went to your second job of the day.”

His lips twitch.

I raise my eyebrows in a silent challenge not to laugh at my observation.

Finally, his arms drop to the side, and he laughs. There’s an easiness to it, a friendliness. It’s as though he’s laughing with me and not at me.

The sound cuts through the air and dispels some—most—of my annoyance from the topic at hand.

He walks over to a weight bench and sits. I move across the room and take a seat on the bench facing him.

The afternoon sunlight shines on his face. It highlights him, encasing him in a warm glow that makes my insides wobble.