Tumble (Dogwood Lane 1)

“Honey,” she says, getting to her feet. “He might’ve hurt you, but hurting him back isn’t going to sort anything. Because you’re the one feeling bad right now, and if I were to guess, you hurt a lot worse than him.”

“This is so not fair. Why do I have to be a good person?” I pout.

Mom laughs. “Because I raised you to be one. Now, I’m not going to tell you what to do because you’re a grown woman and you know what you said and didn’t say. But I’m going to give you some advice.”

“Please do.”

She faces me. “The last time you left here in a fight with Dane, it wore on you for years. I could hear it in your voice. I saw it in your pictures. Your gymnastics even lacked a certain umph you had before.”

“Gee, thanks,” I say, feeling worse.

“You’re going to leave here in a few days. That’s what you say, anyway.”

I shift in the bed, unable to sit still. “What’s your point?”

“Don’t leave like that again. If you have to suck it up and apologize, do that. Be the bigger person. Then you can leave and go back to your life without any extra weight.” She gives me a small smile, then disappears into the hallway. “That half a cheesecake missing from the fridge isn’t going to help either!”

“Hush,” I yell back at her. My laughter softens just as the snap of the door closing floats down the hall. I settle back against the pillows, mulling over her words.

I can certainly survive in New York without apologizing to him. Saying I was wrong after everything that’s happened between us doesn’t sound appetizing.

Glancing down at the unfinished email on my computer, I realize she’s right. If this interview goes well, I could be gone by next weekend. It would be really nice to start fresh with a new job and a new hobby, if I can get back into teaching gymnastics, and without any old burdens I don’t need to carry.

I hit “Save” on the draft, close my computer, and find my shoes.

I watch the house from the safety of my car like some kind of weirdo. There’s a single light on in the front. Through the shadows of the curtains, I’m guessing it’s a lamp.

Surely he’s not in bed already.

Shivering despite the balmy outside temperature and lack of air conditioner inside the car, I kill the ignition. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. It just ups the awkwardness as I climb out of the car, as if I’m being filmed for some made-for-TV movie.

“I’ll knock,” I tell myself. “I won’t ring the bell in case they’re asleep. If they don’t hear the knock, then I can rest assured I tried to apologize. The universe can’t hold that against me.”

The sidewalk is clean, the little rows between sections free from errant weeds or mud. There are neatly trimmed bushes along the front of the blue-gray-sided house with crisp white shutters. There aren’t any gnomes or little flags like many homes on this street have, but the mulch is black and looks new. As I take the three little steps onto the wooden porch, I remember what I told my mother about a tidy lawn and laugh.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I rap on the door. There’s no dog barking. No feet falling. Nobody on the other side announcing they’ll get it. Just silence. I wait a few moments before tapping again.

Just as I turn to head back to the car, relief filling my veins, the door opens.

Standing only a few feet away is a just-out-of-the-shower Dane. His cheeks are smooth and freshly shaven, a pair of red gym shorts showing off a set of toned calves. The gray T-shirt is unnecessary, but I do appreciate the slight clinginess of the fabric to the lines of his body.

His brows are raised, clearly in surprise, as he reaches above his head and grabs the top of the door. There’s no tilt of his lips, no outward expression that he’s happy to see me.

Talk fast. Get it over with.

“Hey,” I say, fidgeting with the hem of my tank top. “I hope you don’t mind me coming by so late, but I didn’t want to say this over the phone. Not that I had your number but . . .” I look down. “I’m rambling.”

I wait a few moments for him to say something. Nothing comes. Holding my breath, I look back up at him. He’s almost grinning.

“You’ve always been kind of cute when you ramble.” His shoulders rise and fall. “Might be your saving grace tonight.”

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

He blanches. “That beer couldn’t have been that expired,” he mutters.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He steps onto the porch and pulls the door closed behind him. There are two rocking chairs to my right, and he heads that way. “You want to apologize, huh?” he asks, sinking into one of the chairs. “I better sit down for this.”