“Has he seen a picture of me?”
“He has,” Kristen says with knowing smile.
I hurl a fist in the air. “And he didn’t cancel. Winning.”
The truth is, I haven’t dated much the past few years. And thesuper secrettruth is, no matter how hard I try not to, I compare every romantic prospect to a certain handsome soldier from way back when. It’s ridiculous and illogical and entirely unfair to these poor unsuspecting men, but my brain—and my eyeballs—can’t seem to get the message.
But tonight, I’m going to try. I’mreallygoing to try.
My phone pings again, and I slow my pace to type out a response.
Kristen pipes up next to me. “I’m gonna run in for a latte. You want?”
I shake my head. “I’ll wait out here.”
Chin to my chest, eyes intent on my keyboard, I mindlessly stroll a few doors down and back, wearing a path into the paved-brick sidewalk. Just as I hit send, my phone rings. I blow out an exhausted breath, accept the call from my assistant, turn around, and begin the loop again.
“Hey, Olive.”
“Mrs. Upton with Up Cosmetics is on the line. Do you want me to tell her you’re out or should I patch the call through?”
My neck cracks from side to side. “Go ahead and patch her through.”
I paste a placid smile on my face and fill my lungs with air. The line clicks. “Mrs. Upton, what can I do for you?”
7
one. two. three.
Rowan
Once upon a time,my list of fixes for Pops’ house was manageable. Ridiculously extensive, but manageable with the time frame I have to work with. Before I knew it, a test of the sprinkler system revealed a busted water spicket, a peek in the attic nearly ended with me falling through the ceiling when I uncovered a recent infestation of squirrels. And so it’s gone, over and over again.
Mylistnow resembles something akin to the twenty-seven page menu at The Cheesecake Factory.
Separating Pops and Nana’s personal effects from the things to be tossed or donated has proven to be much more challenging than I ever anticipated. It’s not just the sheer volume of boxes ripe with keepsakes from their relationship that spanned almost sixty years, it’s the memories—the grief that floods in with every faded picture and memento I find.
Then there’s the guilt. The ever-present, soul-crushing ache of knowing I could have done more. Pops lost the love of his life and I wasn’t here. I left him to grieve alone while I was wherever the hell the Army sent me. Even if he had reached out to say he needed me, I never could have made it back in less than two days.
I was half a world away when I got the call about Mom’s accidentfour months ago, too. There wasn’t enough time to process the full effect of that catastrophic event before the next blow came. Another call, another gut punch, another thousand-mile journey to get where I needed to be much too late.
The wall of door knobs at the hardware store taunts me as I scan the options for a replacement to go on the back door of the house—because that’s broken, too.
Needing a distraction, I decide to check in with Bri. I find her contact and make the call while I tuck myself in a quiet corner of the shop.
“Hey, Ro,” she says.
“Hey, just wanted to see how Mom’s PT went this morning.”
She sighs. “So so. Her nerve pain was flaring up pretty bad but she’s resting now. You wanna talk to her?”
“If she’s awake, yeah.”
The line shuffles for a minute before Mom’s voice comes through. “Hey, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”
“Oh you know, a little tired but okay. I got a few steps on the parallel bars today.”