Yay.
But the possibilities bring me no real joy.
After I rub the lotion onto my legs post-shower, I trudge back into the main room of the cottage. The lonely cottage. One more night here; then, when the crew leaves, I can return to my house. I’m counting down.
Hudson perks up, then shakes into a stand from his spot on the floor, trotting my way to lick my leg. “Of course, you lotion hound,” I say, petting his head.
Dogs are so weird. Why do they like to lick lotion? I should look it up. It’ll keep my mind off other things.
Like, oh say, heartache.
I head to the sliding glass doors, yank them open, and sit down on the Adirondack chair on the deck in my sleep shorts, my dog at my side. I look up at the inky-black sky, stars shimmering light-years away, then down at the lavender fields stretching before me into the maze with its fairy lights.
Next week, a tour group will wander through that maze. Next weekend, a couple booked it for an engagement. The week after that, we’ll have more picnics than I can count. The shop will reopen, deliveries will continue, and business will increase.
Somehow, in spite of all the madness, everything’s worked out.
Nearly everything.
My bad-romance track record remains intact, but other than that, I didn’t distract from the shoot, I didn’t pull focus from the town, and I didn’t worry my sister.
I draw a deep breath, inhaling lavender and calmness, wishing one more thing had worked out. I look up at the sky again, looking for a shooting star.
But finding none.
Oh well. It’s for the best anyway.
I’m the practical one. The independent one. The fix-it one. And yet, my heart still hurts, and I keep wondering.
And wishing.
And stupidly hoping.
Best to go inside. Tomorrow I’ll need to work on moving on. That’ll be easier once I’m back in my regular space. “C’mon, boy,” I say to Hudson, and he heads inside with me once again.
As I shut the door, my phone beeps with Haven’s ringtone. I grab it from the table and swipe to answer. “Hey, cutie. Do you miss me already?”
“Obviously,” she says. In the background, glasses clink, and music plays at the wrap party. “So much so that I want to come over and hang out. You and me. Does that work for you?”
“Of course.”
Some things never change. Her and me—the way we depend on each other, need each other, rely on each other.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. We can have a midnight picnic.” Like we did when we used to sneak out of the house after our parents were asleep and play in the field.
“That sounds perfect.” I’m genuinely excited to see her. “I’ll get everything ready.”
“What did you say?” Haven asks, but from her lowered volume, she’s not talking to me. Faintly, I hear Chris Carlisle’s familiar voice, but I can’t make out the words.
When Haven returns to me, she says, “See you soon.”
We end the call, and I change out of sleep shorts and into leggings and a T-shirt. I slide on sandals, twist my hair into a bun, then head to the door, expecting Hudson to follow. But he flops down on the carpet with a beleaguered sigh. “Fine, fine. I get it. It’s past your bedtime.”
He rolls to his side, obliging me to bestow belly rubs onto his soft fur and good-night kisses on his black-and-white head. When I’m done, I head to the kitchen in the house, grabbing olives and cheese from the fridge, then nectarines from the fruit basket.
Grandma sails in as I’m setting things on the counter next to a cutting board.
“Did I wake you?” I ask.
