Craft (The Gibson Boys 2)

“Glad I could help you.”

He tips a beat-up Dodgers cap, before moseying out of the library. I round my desk and try the lock. It snaps with the crispness of not having been used before.

It breaks my heart.

I just stare at the brass latch, like somehow if I look at it long enough, everything will be different.

I won’t get on the app. I won’t humor Lance when he comes in here every afternoon. I won’t cry.

I lie to myself over and over again, making promises I know I’m going to turn around and break.

The sun hovers at the horizon, rays of orange sunshine spraying up from the tree line across the soccer fields. All night I lay in my bed and wondered how I’d feel when the sun came up. Daylight has a way of making prospects look different. Somehow it didn’t seem like the sun, moon, or stars would make the words Lance spoke last night seem any better.

Tears dot the corners of my eyes as I look at the corner of my desk. The absence of baked goods just drives home the certainty that my life isn’t the same. The pang in my chest is a guarantee that I will never rebound. Not fully.

I dated Eric for years. I thought I would marry the guy. He ended up marrying my sister, which was the most painful experience I’ve ever been through and it doesn’t hold a candle to this.

Eric said he loved me and that felt good. It was nice having a companion, someone to build something with. I would tell him I loved him all the time, so much so that it would annoy him. I thought it was a habit back then, but now I think maybe I needed to hear it out loud. I needed to remind myself, which is how I know I didn’t really love him.

I’ve never said out loud that I’m in love with Lance. I never needed to. He’s my first thought when I wake up and what I’m smiling about when my eyes shut at night. He’s who I consider when I’m baking brownies and the person I want to tell when my sister decides to finally call me. It’s Lance I wait for at lunchtime and who I’m reminded of when I hear a song on the radio.

I never knew this definition of love. It’s not a thing, a word, a piece of paper, or a joint bank account. It’s not a last name or a mortgage.

It’s a tingly feeling in the pit of your stomach when you hear their name. It’s a grin stretched so hard across your face when you get a whiff of their cologne. It’s the touch of his hand when you need it most, a silly laugh when you’re ready to cry. It’s standing up for you when you feel weak and letting you fall when you can no longer be strong.

You don’t love because you’re required to, like my mother does with me. You don’t love out of guilt, like Chrissy. You don’t love because it’s the right thing to do and what’s expected of you, like Eric. Love is a choice. It’s a connection with someone else that can’t be explained, a relationship with someone who both helps you feel your best and reciprocates the good you have to give.

I love Lance Gibson and locking him out of my heart will be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There’s a vacancy in my chest, an ache that hurts just as much mentally as it does physically. How he managed to dig his way in my psyche despite my best efforts to keep him out, I’ll never know. Why I was stupid enough to let my guard down—I’ll never know that either.

Taking my seat, I sort through emails from the staff. The list of books they requested is enough to distract me for a few minutes, at least until there’s a knock on the door.

My heart beats me to the doorway and falls as spectacularly as my spirits when it’s Tish who’s looking back at me.

“Don’t look so happy to see me,” she chirps, sauntering in. “Why you here so early?”

“Lots of emails,” I say, nodding towards my computer. “What about you?”

“Science projects.” She makes a face. “I’ve seen every possible experiment in my teaching career. I get that it’s not about me, it’s about the kids, but is it wrong for me to just give them all the solutions and take a field trip instead?”

I try to smile. I really, truly do.

“Did you run over a puppy this morning?” she asks.

“No. Why would you ask me that?”

“Because the look on your face is the one I’d wear if I had.”

“Yeah. About that …”

“What happened? And why are there no browniessss …” Her eyes go wide. “Oh.”