Ari says, “Well, apparently, during the pandemic, he didn’t just get a dog. He also came back to Songbird Ridge to check on you and make sure you were safe.”
I stare, agog, into the middle distance.
“Why didn’t he reach out? He could have texted. Called. Sent a passenger pigeon.”
“Those are extinct,” Riley points out.
“My god, this man is the most stubborn…”
“Or he didn’t want to get in your way. You split up because you wanted different things. He wanted to go into the Army because there were no jobs for him here. You wanted to join the arts guild and teach piano full-time,” Ari reminds me.
Boy, did that flop in the worst way. I’d been told by the guild that while I can become a member, I didn’t qualify for the base salary to allow me to teach music full-time. That level of membership is hard to get into. I’d tried to advocate for a change to the rules, but there were several major sticking points. I had to have a proven record of success in my art, not just as an art teacher. Unless I was getting invited to perform concerts up and down the Eastern seaboard, I couldn’t be an earning member of the guild.
My dream squashed, I went to work at my dad’s shop and taught piano on the side.
But I couldn’t seem to make anything happen that was more than that.
Deep down, I always wondered if Ewan was right to leave town, to do something that was a guaranteed paycheck.
Maybe everything I wanted was a pipe dream until now.
No, that’s not true. It’s not silly to chase whatever dream I have at the moment.
It’s not wrong to love love. Even if I don’t know what love is for myself.
Just then, Riley’s phone pings. She picks it up and looks at the screen. Her eyes go wide.
“What’s going on?”
Riley clears her throat. “About that little detail of him not telling you where he’s staying?”
“Yeah?” I say.
Ari leans forward.
Iris looks around. “Should I be here for this?”
Riley bites her lip and says, “Rowdy just texted me. There’s something you need to know.”
Chapter
Eleven
Ewan
Rowdy and I take our lunches from the Bluejay Cafe to go. Wise move, seeing as how many heads turned my way when we walked into the restaurant. Every local in the place knows who I am, and they all have questions rolling around in their heads.
We take our lunch down to the park to watch the parade entries prepare for tonight’s Saint Patrick’s Night parade. People are rushing around in a panic. Others are putting finishing touches on their floats. The high school marching band practices its song.
To honor the day, we’ve ordered a huge takeaway box of shepherd’s pie and are stuffing our faces. We follow that with a pint of Guinness from Magpie, the favored local bar and fine dining restaurant up near the lodges. For today, Magpie has set up a mobile truck to serve drinks and small bites for the parade and the night bazaar that follows.
“I missed this,” Rowdy says.
“Me too.”
After a long pause, he says, “You shouldn’t have stayed away so long. That was shitty.”
I take a swig of my beer and nod my head. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
