Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

“This will have to do,” I mutter, picking up a flat of blueberries.

“I thought you were allergic to blueberries.” The man’s tone behind me has a huskiness to it, like he hasn’t been awake long. I jump, not because I don’t recognize it but because I do.

My heart twists right along with my torso as I see Dane standing behind me. He’s fresh from a morning shower. A blue-and-black flannel, top button undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, should not look this good.

He shouldn’t smell this good either. Dear Lord Almighty.

I must look like an idiot with my mouth agape because he takes a step back. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on his heels like he might turn and go. The thought forces words from my mouth too quickly.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shoving the cart between us like some kind of shield.

“Um, getting groceries.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I don’t know what else to say or if I should say anything at all. We just look at each other like two people who once knew each other so intimately and are now as much strangers as people can get. Two people who know the depths of love and pain too great to ignore.

He holds a hand to his chest in a move I’m not sure he realizes he makes. My heart tugs as I look at the spot where my head used to lie while we snuggled on the couch and watched movies.

Stop. It. Neely.

“So, blueberries?” He nods toward my cart.

“Not my favorite, but there aren’t any strawberries that look edible.”

“But I thought you were allergic?” He nods to the container again. “Don’t you blow up like that little girl on Willy Wonka when you eat those things?”

Laughing despite my insides collapsing that he remembered, I shrug. “How did you remember that?”

“Matt teased you about it for years.” He chuckles. “How could I not?”

“Well, Matt will be happy to know I outgrew that allergy and no longer plump up like a, well, a berry when I eat them.”

My laughter fades, but the smile remains. It doesn’t vanish even when my brain tells it to. Before I know it, his smile pulls mine right along with it.

“I didn’t know you could outgrow a fruit allergy,” he says.

“Guess you can. Or maybe it wasn’t the blueberries after all. I don’t know.”

“Did you wake up one day and decide to risk it? Seems pretty ballsy, if you ask me.”

“Actually,” I tell him, “I ordered a muffin at this little shop in New York that I love. I didn’t know it had blueberries in it until after I ate the whole thing, and I didn’t get sick.”

“But you still could’ve,” he counters. “Maybe that one muffin was an anomaly.”

“Maybe. But I’ve had blueberries about a million times since then, and . . . nothing.”

“You always were a gambler.” He winks.

“Were a gambler. Were. Past tense. Trust me,” I say. “Gambling is for the young and dumb, and I am not either anymore.”

He tosses me a soft, genuine smile that makes my insides melt. “I never would’ve called you dumb.”

I put the berries in my cart and consider how dumb I am right now to be talking to him like this. As I turn the corner, my phone buzzes in my bag. I don’t have to look to know it’s seven thirty and the call is from Grace. She’s walking to work, probably venting about the sidewalks being closed and how slow people are walking. Instead of being in the office, laughing at her antics, I’m . . . here.

I look at Dane. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Passing a swallow down my throat, I sigh. “I’m certainly not young anymore.”

“You’re not even thirty, Neely.”

“True. But when you’re close enough to thirty to say you’re ‘not even thirty,’ that means you’re basically thirty.”

“It’s just an age.”

“True, I guess,” I say. “But I’m old enough to need to be a little more sure-footed in things. I don’t have my twenties in front of me to take risks and recoup quickly.” I take in his somber expression and hear the buzz of my voice mail chirp in my purse. “I have to stop putting all my hopes on the line without some safety net. It’s too big of a gamble. I’ve fallen too hard, too many times.”

His chin drops and he looks away. My insides squeeze as if they’re chastising me for causing this reaction. Ignoring the tightening in my gut, I eke out a breath.

“You probably think I meant that about you—” I rush, but he cuts me off.

“Yeah, and you’re right. If you don’t pay attention, life gets all messed up. I’m not fucked up about it.”

The air is heavier than it was a few seconds ago, riding on our shoulders as we crawl past salad dressings. The force presses my sandals into the cheap linoleum floor, and I have to make an effort to pick them up and move them forward.