Charlotte
You can’t tell that through a phone speaker.
Beth
I absolutely can. I have a Beth-dar, remember? Tomorrow. Bookstore. Don’t make me go there looking for you, because I will.
I set the phone down and pressed my palms against the cool counter, breathing slowly. Beth was right. I was spiraling. I could feel it, the familiar downward pull, the way my thoughts kept circling the same dark drain.
The theories had started small. Reasonable, even.
"He's busy," I said aloud, testing the words. "He has a lot going on. His parents' estate. The house. Legal complications."
But by Wednesday, the theories had grown teeth.
He'd changed his mind. The coffee date had been a nostalgic mistake, and in the cold light of Monday morning, he'd realized I wasn't worth the complication.
He'd looked at me: thirty-five, divorced, living in a beige apartment near my mother, and seen exactly what I feared I was: mediocre. Faded. The girl from the past, but diminished.
"Or maybe," I continued, now fully committed to this conversation with myself, "he met someone else. Someone in thecity. Someone whole, without baggage, without a failed marriage and a history of?—"
My phone rang, cutting off that particular trainwreck of thoughts. I grabbed it so fast I almost dropped it.
Not Miles. My mother.
I considered not answering. But Linda Huston had a sixth sense for avoidance, and ignoring her call would only result in her showing up at my apartment with groceries and pointed questions.
"Hi, Mom."
"You sound tired," she said instead of hello. Linda had never believed in small talk.
"I'm fine."
"That word again." I could hear her frown through the phone. "You've been 'fine' for a year now. I'm starting to think you don't know what the word means."
"It means I'm handling things."
"It means you're not sleeping." A pause, weighted with maternal intuition. "Is this about the reunion? Beth mentioned you spent most of the night talking to someone."
Of course, Beth had mentioned it. Small towns had no secrets, and best friends had even fewer.
"It was nothing," I said. "Just catching up with an old friend."
"Miles Cameron isn't just an old friend, Charlotte."
I closed my eyes. "Mom?—"
"I'm not trying to interfere. I just don't want to see you get hurt again." Her voice softened with something that might have been regret. "Some patterns are hard to break, honey. That's all I'm saying."
The words landed exactly where she'd aimed them—the soft, unprotected place where my fear lived.
"I know," I managed. "I have to go. Work stuff."
"Charlotte—"
"I'll call you later, Mom. I promise."
I hung up before she could say anything else. I knew she was partly right and really wished she wasn’t.
