Say It's Not Fake

When I saw that it was going up for auction, I decided to try and buy it. Josie had thought I was crazy.

“It’s a complete pit, Web. Why would you take that on? Why not buy one of the houses they’re building over on Chancery Lane. Chelsea says they’re really nice. She and Adam are looking at maybe buying one.” Of course, Josie was interested in whatever Chelsea told her to be interested in. Josie’s lop-sided friendship with Adam’s now ex-wife had been a source of tension between us from the very beginning. I had never liked Chelsea. Had never understood why Adam was so into her–except for her looks, she didn’t have much else to offer anyone. And Josie had been her minion since high school. But once away from Chelsea, Josie seemed different, which was why I fell into things with her initially. I liked the person she was when all the other people weren’t influencing her in her life.

Regardless of Josie’s feelings on the “pit” of a house, I could see the sturdy bones beneath the mess, so I bought it. For cheap too. And spent the next year and a half slowly fixing it up myself. Josie hadn’t done much except tell me that the color I chose for the living room was all wrong. And why wouldn’t I put a walk-in closet in the master bedroom?

But I loved the place. Every inch was covered in my blood, sweat, and hopes for the future. I had gone for an open floor plan downstairs mostly because the walls had been so full of dry rot, I had no choice but to rip them down. But once I had, I realized I liked the open space. So, the living room, dining room, and kitchen now bled into each other. Per my mom’s suggestion, I had decided to use leafy plants as a means of separating spaces. The foliage mixed with overstuffed furniture, most of which I bought on sale at the local furniture store.

I left most of the decorating to Adam’s sister, Lena, and my mom. I had no idea what colors looked right together and what fabric the sofa should be. What they came up with was a comfortable space that I enjoyed being in.

I was a pretty tidy guy, but since having Katie, the large space had become littered with toys, random shoes, and sippy cups. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I filled a mug with coffee and quietly went out the front door, sitting down on the front stoop, sipping the hot beverage, and appreciating the quiet.

I tried not to think about Josie and her disruptive phone call and instead focused on the day ahead. I ran through the list of things I had coming up. I had an order of bushes and shrubs due mid-day, plus another truckload of mulch. I was mentally coordinating the different tasks when a quiet voice broke through.

“Hey.”

I looked up from my mug to find Whitney Galloway, dressed in tight-fitting leggings and a workout shirt that molded to her fantastic breasts in a way that would make any man salivate. Me included. I forced my eyes to lift from her boobs to take in her face.

Bad move.

Her cheeks were flushed from her early morning run, chest heaving. She was sweaty and hot and had never looked more beautiful.

I had seen her so rarely since she had returned to Southport that for a moment, it felt like I was hallucinating. As if my subconscious had pulled her out of the locked away box where I kept her and manifested her to decimate my still too vulnerable heart.

“Hey,” I echoed, hoping I sounded nonchalant, thinking I had succeeded. I had worked hard to harden myself against the likes of Whitney Galloway. She had given me no choice. Not after the way things went down between us.

Fuck. Now was definitely not the time to think about that weekend all those years ago. The things we did. The taste of her in my mouth …

Whitney fidgeted, bouncing from one foot to the other while wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know this was your house.” She looked up at my two-story brick colonial. “It’s really nice.”

I glanced over my shoulder—it was easier than looking at her. “Yeah, it’s home sweet home. Katie and I are happy here.”

Then silence.

Awkward, awkward silence.

It was the same tension I had felt when I saw her at Sweet Lila’s on Friday evening. Running into her was inevitable, talking to her unavoidable, given how our circles intersected all over the place. Watching Sally Thompson and Laura Randolph throw their bitchiness her way had ignited a protectiveness that she had always brought out in me. Not that she was the sort of woman that needed protecting—she seemed to have done a good job over the years all by herself. But a huge part of me still wanted to be that guy for her. No matter how decisively she had destroyed me.