I can’t blame her.
I glance around the room. Earl is here too, thankfully dressed in khakis and a sweater instead of his usual mowing attire. He’s seated beside Betty, who’s talking a mile a minute, her hands moving animatedly. He’s nodding along, holding on to her every word, completely smitten. Like most of the men in her orbit. Then something catches my eye. She’s running her fingernail down his forearm.
Holy shizzle. Is she… flirting with him?
Oh, Jeez. I think her crown must be slipping. Turning away quickly before she catches me staring, my eyes land on an empty chair.
Dave’s chair.
Ellie catches my eye from across the room, her deep frown a knowing one. I force a smile and look down at my plate, stabbing a green bean like it’s personally responsible for my emotional upheaval. My stomach begins to churn. And I know it’s not because of the incredible food.
Suddenly, it intensifies, and I start to really feel sick. “I’ll be right back,” I mumble to no one in particular, pushing back from the table before anyone can ask.
The restroom smells faintly of lemon cleaner and pumpkin pie. It’s not a combination I’d recommend Bath & Body Works consider in their future. I lean over the sink, gripping the cool porcelain as my stomach twists. It has to be stress. Or maybe hormones. My period’s due any day now. That explains the bloating, the nausea, the tears that come out of nowhere.
But then I do the math. I can’t remember my last period. A chill slides down my spine, sharper than the mountain wind outside.
Shit. No, no, no!
By the time I return to the dining room, the clamor has risen to a comfortable roar again. Brecken’s across from me, piling his plate with another helping of mashed potatoes. He grins between mouthfuls. “Man, Dave is sure missing out,” he says, shaking his head. “He’d love this. The old lug.”
I stare at him, my fork hovering midair. Brecken’s continued ribbing of Dave has nearly pushed him over the edge. Yet, from the tone of this conversation, I’d bet money Brecken idolizes Dave.
And why wouldn’t he? By all appearances, he’s a stand-up guy. The only reason I walked away was the betrayal of looking into my personal affairs when I was clear that was a no-go. Well, that and the need to prevent any innocent bystanders from getting caught in thecrossfire of my past. Yet, I’m almost certain Dave was telling the truth when he said he was only worried about me.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice barely above the chatter. “He would.”
By the time dinner winds down, the restaurant has taken on that post-feast quiet. Half the crowd has slipped into a food coma, the other half linger over pecan and pumpkin pie or Ellie’s famous coconut cake with the single maraschino cherry perched on top.
Brecken’s helping stack plates in the kitchen when he steps up beside me, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “You know he’s in love with you, right?”
I freeze, a spoon clattering into the sink. His timing is impeccable.Or cruel.I swallow hard, blinking back tears that feel far too close to the surface. “I have to go,” I mutter before making a beeline to my car so I can return to Matt and Ellie’s guest room for a long cry in the shower.
How could we have been so careless? What on earth will I do if I’m pregnant? And how the hell do I get a test without it ending up on the front page of the Sycamore Mountain Times?
The following morning,while most of Sycamore Mountain is diving headfirst into Christmas decorating and Black Friday shopping, I drive to the neighboring town to obtain a pregnancy test.Or six.
I barely made it to the adjacent gas station bathroom before taking one of the tests: negative. I stand there blinking at the white stick with one red line, waiting for the relief to arrive. The last thing I need right now is a baby in the middle of this mess. I can barely hold myself together.
So, why am I feeling heartbroken?
Because for one fleeting moment, I’d imagined there would be two red lines. Imagined the idea of my child growing up alongside Ellie’s twins. The chance to consider motherhood when it seemed tobe an impossible dream. I mean, the universe had forced my hand. I had to make it work, right?
But instead, the tiny white stick in the trash mocks me. It feels like another door closing. Now I’m left with the void of what could’ve been. Like so many otherwhat if’sin my life.
A week later,my phone buzzes just after sunset.
Dave: Hi. I don’t want to bother you. Feel free to block me as soon as you write my number down somewhere, if that will make you more comfortable. I just wanted you to know I’m here if you ever need anything.
For a moment, I can’t remember how to breathe. I’d completely forgotten we’d exchanged numbers before our one and only date. My cage is a little too rattled to reply. Even if seeing his message is doing something crazy to my heart. Something that feels dangerously like hope.
A few minutes later, another text lights up the screen.
Dave: Hope you had a happy Thanksgiving.
That does it. The tears come fast, blurring the glow of the phone screen. My head drops into my hands. It’s ridiculous. Crying because a man text me two sentences. Yet, it’s been so long since anyone reached for me without wanting something in return. And the very notion he could be in love with me is doing a real number on my heart.
Initially, I decide not to reply. Not yet. I need to be smart about this. I can’t tumble back into him just because I miss the sound of his laugh or the way he made me feel safe without even trying. Butit isThanksgiving.
