Breaking Mr. Cane (Cane 2)

“Hopefully!” I called as he started walking backwards.

He winked and put on that bold white smile of his again. “Later, Kandy Jennings.”

I tossed him a wave and he turned almost instantly, meeting up with a group of guys who’d decided to toss a football back and forth on the lawn.

I turned just as quickly, walking as casually as possible, but deep inside my heart was racing. I couldn’t believe my body’s reaction to him.

For a split second, I didn’t think much of Cane or what had happened back at home. He had truly, without much effort, put my mind at ease. He made me live in the now…and that astounded me.

Brody was sweet and confident and smooth and so damn handsome. I couldn’t deny that. He was a beautiful guy with a great body and a nice smile. But as handsome and nice as he was, he wasn’t Cane.

I checked my phone once more as I entered my building. There was a text from Frankie. Nothing from Cane.

Maybe meeting Brody was a sign. I wasn’t in Georgia anymore. I was in Indiana, living the college life. It was expected of me to find boys attractive and to want to hang out with them. After all, Cane said I would meet someone eventually and move on from him. Perhaps it was time.

Brody seemed like he could provide an escape. His personality gave promises of a future full of fun and laughter and easy-going moments. I just hoped I’d actually see him enough to make it happen.

I knew from the start that Cane wasn’t meant for me, which meant I had to let him go. I had to start living my life for myself, not pining over a man I would probably never see again. Plus, he did say after we shared our weekend in North Carolina, that what we had would be over.

Maybe he’d promised himself that and was finally living up to his word. Sure, he would check in here and there, but it would never be the same, and that was okay, because I told him it was fine. I told him I wouldn’t ask anything else of him, and I meant that. He gave me what I wanted and risked so much for me.

It was done.

Fate always won, and if it was meant to be, we would be. We wouldn’t be hundreds of miles apart, wondering what the other was doing. We would be together, trying to figure out how to make this work.

I had to take what was right in front of me and make the best of it.

I could do that.

I could try.

PART II

MENDING THE WOUNDS

Chapter Eighteen

KANDY

Two months later…

There’s a saying that when you’re in the process of self-healing and letting go, you will lose many things from the past, but in the end, you will find yourself.

Well, it’s not a saying—more like one of the many inspirational posters my roommate has taped on the walls. I look at it every day and it’s a clear reminder to live my life, and I swear I have tried, but it’s so much easier said than done.

I hadn’t found myself. To be honest, I don’t think I was trying to. I was tied to the past, wishing to relish in it—relive the moments in the lake house or in his car, or even the innocent dinners with innocent chocolate and notebooks and pens.

To be fair, I had learned a lot about myself, like how much I loved to jog and burn off steam or stress from homework or exams. I learned that I loved nature, and that my college had the best trails when I needed to get some air. I also found out that I hated the cold. It didn’t get as cold in Georgia as it did at Notre Dame. I missed the weather back home and couldn’t wait to go back to it.

Another thing I realized was that my coach hated me. Well, Morgan thought I was just tripping out, but I really felt like she didn’t like me, or maybe I just wasn’t good enough. She didn’t encourage or push me to succeed. She constantly compared me to Sophie. She’d even made a remark once that we would never get to finals with how lousy I was throwing.

She had a good heart, but she could be a bitch. I’d ranted to my parents about it a great deal. Mom wanted to call the coach and give her some “kind” words, but Dad was against it, told me to ignore it and to keep practicing until I was “so good she’ll have no choice but to shut her damn mouth.” His words exactly.

Even though Mom called every other day, she would have to force Dad to talk to me. I’m sure he thought I didn’t notice, but I did every single time. She would say things like, “Oh, hey, here’s your father” or “your father wants to speak to you.” But if he really wanted to speak to me, he would have called me himself.