Why haven’t I removed Preston from my contacts yet?
Cursing under my breath, I find an exit and pull off to the side at a gas station. I totally should ignore him, but Preston did see me leave with Jack, and I’m curious about what he has to say. I snap the phone up and read a series of texts from him; the first ones were sent earlier, but I missed them.
I came by your house this morning and you weren’t there.
Did you spend the night with him?
Elena. Are you crazy? He’s not a good person.
And then the latest one: Call me.
Call him? I sputter, that familiar hurt and anger rising up at the months I invested in him, in how I thought he understood me—until he didn’t. We met when he showed up at the library, decked out in a suit and tie, an engaging smile on his handsome face. Fresh out of law school to work at his uncle’s firm, he stayed for an hour talking to me, his warm-brown eyes the hottest thing I’d seen in Daisy since moving back. He left with two Stephen King audiobooks and my phone number, and we quickly became a thing in town. While the sex wasn’t off the charts, I just figured it would develop as our intimacy did.
Why does it matter?
My sister swept into town, and that was the end of that.
I change his name to Two-Timing Lawyer and get back on the road.
Taylor Swift is blaring “You Need to Calm Down” as I whip into the paved driveway that leads to my two-and-a-half-story white house on East Main. Over a hundred years old, the five-thousand-square-foot Victorian-style house was left to me by Nana when she passed away. It needs constant updates and renovations—obviously including a garage to hide my car from nosy people—but it drips in southern charm, the white wood pristine and crisp, a gingerbread-house-style turret on the right side. A small iron historical placard reading BELLE OF DAISY, ESTABLISHED 1925 sits near an azalea bush. It has been owned by three generations of my family. Stately pillars dot the broad front porch, and magnolia trees line either side of the yard. The house itself is bookended by two regal weeping willow trees. A gray-and-blue stone sidewalk leads to the porch, and I take it all in, letting the comfort of my home ease that tight feeling in my chest. On days when I feel like this small town is going to drive me bananas, coming home makes it worthwhile.
Topher opens the front door and takes the steps two at a time to reach me. Wearing white skinny jeans, an REM shirt, and ragged black Converse, he’s holding a wriggling pink Romeo, currently decked out in a red sweater I knit.
He stops in front of me. “Where have you been?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, glaring down at Romeo. “Hog from Hell chewed up the toes on a vintage pair of Chucks I have. Lime green! High-tops! Do you know how much those are worth?”
I roll my eyes. My age, with a mop of long wavy white-blond hair and a slender build, he looks like he belongs in California on the beach with a surfboard in his hand. But he’s just a good old southern boy, a little misunderstood and a whole lot of wonderful. We met at the Daisy Community Center theater program when I first moved back to Daisy. He was Peter, and I was Wendy in Neverland. He moved in soon after, when his lease ran out on his small rental. Lord knows I have enough room: six bedrooms, four baths, and acres of beautiful rolling hills behind the house.
“Didn’t you get those at the Goodwill, Topher? And are they really worth money?”
He smirks. “Doesn’t matter where or how much I paid. Lime is my color, baby girl. I look good in it. Hog from Hell needs obedience school.”
Romeo grunts and sends a glare up at him, but Topher doesn’t try to hand him over.
“Nice sweater you put him in,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s chilly.”
“Uh-huh.”
No matter what he says, he likes the tiny pink pig—a little.
“Fine. Forget the stupid shoes.” He kisses me on both cheeks, a look of concern on his normally amused countenance. “Greg texted me this morning and said he had the flu and was so out of it he didn’t get back to you last night when you said you were going to be late. He’s sad he missed you, begs forgiveness, and plans to call you, blah-blah-blah.” He pouts. “I’m sad because I just knew you two little nerds were perfect for each other.”
“Flu, huh?” He better have been sick as a dog.
“He wants to reschedule.”
“Not after last night. It’s just bad timing. I’m not ready to meet anyone right now.”