I rub a hand down my face. “Look, the GPS stopped at the entrance of the cul-de-sac, and I didn’t see house numbers. And you all use those fancy mailboxes that are in a big block at the same place, so I had nothing to go off.”
“I can actually see how you mixed it up,” she admits. “I just find it hysterical.”
“It’s only hysterical because it ended well.”
“I wouldn’t be laughing if it hadn’t.” She pauses, getting herself together. “Only you, Jaxi. Only you.”
I plop on the couch again. “Only me.”
“You’re lucky it was Boone’s house and not the Keaton’s on the other side of us. They aren’t as …”
Handsome. Funny. Forgiving.
“Helpful.” Her tone is laced with amusement. “Boone sent me a text and said that he got a locksmith to open my door for you.”
“He did. I told him I wanted to pay him back, but the guy was working for his brother. Building a recording studio,” I say, the detail coming back to me. “Who are these people, Lib? Who needs a recording studio?”
Libby’s laughter is full and loud. My brows tug together as I try to figure out what’s so funny about that question.
“What?” I ask. “People don’t just have recording studios at their house, do they? If that’s a thing, I’ve definitely been living the wrong life.”
“Nope. Normal people don’t have them. But Kelvin McCoy does. You know, the country music star.”
She just tosses that out there for me to catch and then goes silent. Maybe she knew I’d need a minute for that to sink in.
A barrage of information bolts through my mind.
Of course, I know who Kelvin McCoy is. He’s on half of the rag magazines next to the cash register at every store in America. I also know he’s from Savannah because Libby mentioned it when she saw him perform one summer. I never paid much attention because what do I care?
I care a little more right now.
“You’re telling me that the man who lives beside you is Kelvin McCoy’s brother?” I yelp.
She giggles.
“What are the freaking odds?” I ask, placing my palm against my forehead. “I mean, go big or go home, right? Well, I certainly went big.”
“You went the biggest, my friend.”
I laugh, but it’s more out of pity for myself than humor.
“So, yeah, don’t worry about paying him back,” she teases. “I think he can afford it.”
“Obviously, he can. But that doesn’t mean he should have to.”
A chair slides against the ground. “I’m being honest when I tell you this, okay?”
“Okay …”
“He’ll be offended if you take money over there. He’s always doing little things for us, and I used to scramble to pay him back, but I learned you can’t with him. It’s not tit-for-tat. He’s genuinely a nice person. It’s … kind of odd, almost. You’d expect someone like him to be more standoffish.”
I look across the yard again with my suspicions about Boone Mason confirmed. He is a nice person.
There’s something great about that.
“So, what do I do? Just forget it?” I ask. “Just forget that he did something nice for me because there’s never going to be anything I can do for him because I’m too poor to repay the favor? I just have to suck it up?”
“Was that an innuendo or …?”
I laugh.
“Jax,” she says carefully, “not everything someone does for you is to get something back.”
I make a face. “Eh …”
She sighs. “I’m back to the room now so I need to go. Just stop worrying about everything and relax, okay? New life, new vibe. Breathe that in.”
“Okay.”
The click of a door lock zips through the phone. “Speaking of breathing, if this man doesn’t get up and take me out …”
I smile. “He will. I bet he’s good and rested by now.”
“He better be. Talk to you later, Jaxi.”
“Bye, Lib. Thanks again for everything.”
The call ends.
I press the phone to my chest and look at Boone’s house.
I shouldn’t be surprised that this happened. This is how my life works.
At least it was a hot bachelor and not a slimy Chuck kind of dude.
With a final glance, I shrug and head to the oversized tub in the guest bathroom that’s called my name since I saw it.
I push all things Boone and Chuck and my ex-fiancé Shawn out of my mind and refocus on things that matter. For the first time in my life, I have a chance to start fresh. To carve out a life of my own. A clean—clutter-free and simple—slate.
Selling or giving away everything apart from the contents of my backpack should feel terrifying. The books I read about starting over advise you to prepare yourself for moments of fear. I haven’t had that reaction. Maybe it’s because I’ve learned something really important about myself.
I don’t need things.
A good toothbrush, a few changes of clothes, and as many books as I can carry, and I’m good. For the most part, anyway.