“You can’t do it all on your own, Daisygirl.”
I search every corner of my brain for a task that won’t earn me dirty looks from her chiropractor. “How ’bout turndown service in Two? I saw them leave early to catch the sunrise and explore the park. Said they won’t be back until late.”
“You still not sleepin’?” Stacey frowns. “You should try that batch I gave you. Potent stuff.”
“You know how I am with weed.” I wish a remedy like that were enough to clear all the worry from my mind. “Makes me antsy.”
“Such a square.”
Stacey has regaled me with tales of how she walked across the United States in the ’80s, dropped acid with Elton John, and communicated with the ghost that haunted her first apartment. She’s also been growing her own marijuana for ages, long before California legalized it.
“Oh, I’d love a bottle of prosecco in there.” I sling the tool bag over my shoulder and scan the room to make sure I’m not forgetting anything for a backroads rescue. “It’s theiranniversary.” I pat Freddie goodbye, planting a kiss on his furry head. He curls into a tighter ball.
Stacey trails me to my well-loved pickup. “Hey, hon, you alright?”
“I’ll be better when the Hollises are here.” I play dumb. Unless…is she talking about something else? Did she see the caller ID from earlier? My whole body heats, ashamed at how desperately I want to listen to his message.
Her voice goes softer, and I brace myself. “It’s that time of year.”
Something pinches in my chest, like a tiny serrated knife sawing my insides. Yesterday marked two years since the accident, so the wound has reopened yet again.
“You could take a day off,” she whispers.
I settle into the driver’s side and pat her shoulder through the open window, touched by her concern. “Be back soon.”
The Mirage fades in my rearview mirror as I follow a dirt path I’ve driven and walked thousands of times before. Camino del Alma leads straight to Harlow’s main highway, and I have no trouble managing its bumps in my pickup. But I have a lot of memories on this road, so I tend to drive the smoother, roundabout route, even if it takes longer.
Cresting the small hill, I spot a boxy vehicle in the distance traveling in my direction. My nerves loosen because maybe this means they’ve worked their way out of the rut. Then the neon-orange sports car at the bottom of the gully steals my focus. The vehicle has an inch of ground clearance, and it perches precariously between two washboard ruts. That must be the Hollises.
Once I pull up and introduce myself to them, I make sure they’re okay and hand them refreshments. Mr. Hollis needs some convincing, but he allows me to inspect his car.
“Just…be careful,” he grunts, shooting me an incredulous look that tells me the warning doesn’t stem from concerns over my safety.
Serenity, warmth, and wonder, I remind myself.Mom was born to host and knew how to run a business, and I try my best to do it with half of her grit and grace.
As I bend down to inspect the damage, a gentle breeze reminds me this was a bad time to wear jean cut-off shorts. I position my ass away from the Hollises to preserve some modesty, giving the person from the other vehicle a show. Their car pulls up, the door slams shut, and footsteps crunch toward me on the gravelly earth.
“If you’re a tow truck,” I say without looking back, “I might have to kiss you.”
They make a throat-clearing sound. “Need some help, Daze?”
My breath hitches, and I drop my flashlight. I’d know that voice anywhere. That voice plays through my phone every other week. I could be in the deepest, wine-assisted sleep of my life, and that voice would be my alarm.
But it couldn’t be him without any advance warning—unless he mentioned it in the mystery voicemail I got ten minutes ago. I swallow a pang of disappointment at not being worth more notice, but I know what I let our friendship dissolve into, so I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Max?” I shield my eyes from the sun, and although all I see is a silhouette, it’s unmistakably, distinctly his.
“Hey.”
Scrambling to my feet, I wipe the dirt from my knees and tug my shorts down. He’s taller than I recall, and I have to tip my face upward to get a good look at him. How can he be the same but so different? Same intense gaze, same dark brown eyes, and same goofy grin that stirs up a weird sensation like homesickness. He’s still lean, but his shoulders are wider, and hehas more muscle. Max has really grown into his own—he used to be a boy, and now he’s a man.
And he’s back.
Chapter Two
Max, 7 Years Old
“What are you drawing?”
