I’ve never told a soul what actually happened on the day I was supposed to propose to her and start my life with her.
I’ve done a good job of keeping it all in the past. It took a while, but I eventually dug myself out of the grief and started to feel, to live again. I fixed up the house and still live there. Bought this business from Old Man Hanson, and I’ve done quite well with it.
I don’t date. I’ll never be in a committed relationship again.
I do, however, fuck. Usually tourists.
Although, sincesomeonemoved back to town, I’ve been in a dry spell. Because I can’t stand the thought of touching someone else when she’sright here.
And that’s stupid as fuck because she hasn’t been mine in more than fifteen motherfucking years. A lifetime. I don’t even know her anymore.
But I can’t bring myself to want anyone else, and that’s what really pisses me off.
I see her everywhere, and the pull is still there. For the first six months or so that she was back, I never saw her. I don’t know how, but I never ran into her at all.
It was fucking bliss.
Now, my wildfire seems to be everywhere I fucking turn.
Jesus, she was even at my brother’s engagement party because she and Harper have become friends.
I see her coming out of the grocery store. This morning, she was across the street when I exited the coffee shop.
Everywhere.
Am I being punished for something? And if so, what? Because I did everything right by that woman. I was faithful. I was going to marry her, provide for her, and have a family with her. Fuck, I loved her more than anything.
So why am I being ambushed by hernow?
I send a text to my customer and let him know that he can pick his truck up tomorrow morning, then I wash my hands and close the shop for the day. I take a quick shower in my shop bathroom. Installing this shower was the best thing I ever did. I don’t have to go home covered in grime and grease.
Then I decide to grab dinner at Kay’s Diner by myself.
After a short drive across town, I park my truck and walk inside, wave at the server, and take a seat at the bar.
Kay’s is an old-fashioned 1950s-style diner. The booths and seats are covered in red vinyl, the floors are black-and-white tile, and old rock-and-roll paraphernalia hangs all over the walls. The jukebox in the corner is pumping out an old Fleetwood Mac tune.
It’s a great spot.
“Hey, there,” Shirley, one of the servers, says. “Your usual?”
“Please.”
I don’t have to see the menu. I get the same thing every time. Mushroom burger with fries and a Coke.
“You must be a regular.”
I turn to my left and find a pretty little redhead smiling up at me. She’s a tiny thing with deep dimples in her cheeks and bright blue eyes.
She’s beautiful.
And not at all what I want.
“Might be,” I reply.
“I’m Layla,” she says.
I just nod and pull my phone out of my pocket to check my email.
