Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

“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.”