Three years later and my dad was still holding tight to my imaginary football career the way he held the remote, playing and replaying it in his mind.
I cleared my throat and put on a smile.
“But hey, I have some good news. I secured the loan for another garage extension. Construction can start as soon as next month. Already have two clients lined up and two more hires to help run the rest of the shop.”
“That’s fantastic, son,” Dad said, his eyes on the game. “You’vereally taken the business way beyond anything I’d imagined for it. I’m proud of you.”
“I wish you’d be there more, Dad. Sitting around here isn’t good for you.”
“You have things in hand. You don’t need me.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s still your shop.”
“Nah, it’s yours, River. With all the additions…”
“That’s the restoration. We still need you in the garage. The customers ask for you all the time. Dropping in once or twice a week isn’t enough.”
“We’ll see.”
I sighed and cleaned up the dinner.
“I’m sure Amelia is sad to miss you,” Dad said when I returned from the kitchen. “Maybe you can come back tomorrow. Never hurts to see your ugly mug around these parts.”
“I can’t tomorrow.” I cleared my throat. “I’m going out.”
“With friends?”
“On a date. With a guy.”
Dad’s smile froze, and his gaze darted back to the screen. “Anyone I know?”
“No. Someone I met at the shop.”
My father nodded and said nothing else, and suddenly I knew how Amelia felt—lost and scattered. I wished I had Mom to talk to about a first date with someone who wasn’t Holden. My guts twisted with nerves but mostly with an ugly feeling. As if I were betraying us.
But there is no us.
After I’d left him in Paris, Holden had seemingly pulled his life together. Late last year, he’d published a book,Gods of Midnight, that was now topping bestseller lists and garnering major acclaim from every corner of the literary world. According to an article inVanity Fair, he was about to embark on a thirty-city book tour.
Book tours and interviews, but not one fucking word to me.
I’d promised Holden I’d wait for him no matter how long it took, butthe years were getting longer. With every passing day, it seemed clearer that he’d moved on. Maybe met someone else. Or lots of someone elses, while my heart was firmly locked on his.
I’d rented my own apartment to have some privacy, but every night, I came home to an empty space. Ate alone. Slept alone. Irony of ironies, I now had privacy coming out of my eyeballs.
That’s called loneliness.
So when Brad Martin, with his easy smile and nice eyes, asked to grab some dinner at the Mexican restaurant down the road from the shop, I said yes. I had to do something that wasn’t reading Holden’s book cover to cover every night until I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I’d sent his journals back to him—they were never mine to keep—and dove into the words he shared with the world. Because that was where he was.
That was all I had left of him.
I blinked out of my thoughts and patted my dad on the shoulder. “What about you, Dad? Ever think about getting back out there?”
“Oh no, no,” Dad said gravely, shaking his head. “Your mom… She was the one for me, River. She was something special.”
“Yes, she was,” I said gruffly.
Dad’s eyes on the TV turned glazed and distant. “A woman like her doesn’t come around but once in a lifetime. We were living in Alabama when we met, you know.”
