Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

I was right. I know where he’s going with this, and I’m not about to let him get there without a few attempts at redirection.

“Consistent pussy means a consistent headache,” I say.

Penn shrugs. “I don’t know what either of you are talking about. If there’s one thing in my life that’s consistent, it’s women.”

Matt’s head swings side to side. “You know what I’m getting at.”

“Do we?” I raise a brow. It’s more of a warning than a question.

“I do, and I think Matt better tread lightly.” Penn points a finger his way. “If he kills you, I’m helping bury your body.”

Matt and I have a standoff—him trying to make a point and me trying to deflect it. I have no clue why he thinks today of all days is the day to go there, but I refuse. He doesn’t agree.

“Seriously. Do you ever wonder what might’ve been?” Matt asks, ignoring my glare.

I twist so we’re face-to-face. I don’t want anything getting lost in translation. “No,” I state. “I don’t. If you have to wonder why I don’t, you better walk your ass away before I knock you upside the head.”

Matt slumps as my point sinks in.

“What might have been wasn’t for a damn good reason. It wasn’t and it won’t. How pretty she is or how long we dated or how many fucking sparks flew this morning doesn’t make any difference.” I look at my brother and then at my friend. “Get it?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” Matt says, his eyes falling to his boots.

“I figured you might be.” Glancing up the path, I succumb to the realization that if I stay here with these two, all we’re going to do is rehash the past. I can’t do that until I sort it out in my head. I need to go now. “I’m going to town. I’ll be back.”

“Got ya.” Penn tosses his empty bottle in the back of my truck. “Sorry we’re assholes.”

“I know.” Making my way to the driver’s side, I pop open the door. “I’ll go by Mucker’s and bring us back some lunch.”

“Excellent peace offering,” Matt says. “I’ll make sure I get the front done today just to be nice.”

“Whatever.” I climb inside the cab as they back away from the bed.

I sit, engine off, watching my friends make their way back to the jobsite, and I kind of regret biting their heads off. It was them just being them. They’re always jackasses, but at the end of the day, I can’t blame them.

Everyone was devastated when things between Neely and me ended. We were as much a part of Dogwood Lane as the train tracks through the middle of town. Baseball captain and elite gymnast. The all-American couple who would have a slew of babies if anything were right and fair in the world. Turns out, there’s nothing right or fair about the world at all.

For reasons both good and bad, Neely changed who I am in every capacity. I don’t think about her every day anymore. But when I see a ditch full of tiger lilies on a country road in the summer or find myself arguing to some unknowing soul that cheerleading is a sport, I think of her. Then let it go. It’s all I can do. I had to let her go for her own good. I had to let her memory go for mine.

I start the engine, and as the makeshift ice packet falls to the floor, I slam my truck in reverse and back out of the driveway.

CHAPTER FOUR

NEELY

She goes into this half-hour-long dissertation about how adorable her granddaughter looks in her flamingo outfit,” Mom says, relaying a part of her day. “I don’t understand why people do that. It’s not like I’m going to agree her family is the prettiest bunch of girls on the planet when I happened to birth the actual one myself.” She looks over her shoulder and smiles. “Maybe next time I’ll whip out pictures of you.”

“Um, I’m not in a onesie anymore.” I laugh. “I don’t think it’s a direct comparison.”

“I bet I have some of those around here somewhere . . .”

“Oh, I bet you do. About fifty million.”

She chuckles, going back to the chicken pasta dish she’s stirring on the stove. The kitchen is flooded with the warmth of a home-cooked meal. My mouth waters, ready to eat more than my share to cap off a long-but-not-altogether-unbearable day. I might go as far as to say today was halfway enjoyable.

After the Dogwood Café incident with Dane, I slid into the bank to see Mom and ended up spending an hour chatting with her and her coworkers. They reminded me how I used to call Mom at work at three thirty when I got home from school and proceeded to keep calling to ask a million questions every few minutes until she got off an hour later. Apparently, I was quite the handful as a child. The term they used was “distracting.” They don’t know what distracting is.