Page 6 of Until You

And despite not physically seeing his wife or children, I know there’s a family that comes with him. At least that’s my assumption, considering the shrieks and yelps and belly giggles that I catch a hint of every now and again when the breeze carries them my way.

That house deserves a family. Kids playing and dogs barking and memories being made. Maybe Ian recognizes it too and that’s why he’s putting it on the market come fall.

Kids playing.

A family making its milestones.

The pang hits a little harder than expected. Aren’t those the things I used to want? That I thought I was going to have? And now wonder how any of that will ever be possible . . . given what I let occur.

I give a quick shake of my head as if the action will clear the sudden melancholy that I refuse to give space in my mind.

What-ifs aren’t something I allow myself to live in.

Besides, there’s sunshine overhead, wildflowers growing all around me, and I’m living my life on my own terms. How could I be disappointed with that?

Now if I could just get the issues with the cottage fixed, then I’d be set.

The question is, do I kill him with kindness, or do I come in assertive and demanding so he doesn’t think I’m a pushover?

And what would either of those do to our longstanding relationship? Does he want me seen and not heard? If that’s the case, then taking care of my issues quickly would behoove him.

Who knows? Maybe his wife is nice in that non-invasive, I want to be your friend but not ask a million questions about you kind of way.

Having a friend to share a glass of wine with every now and then would be welcome.

This might not be so bad after all.

And maybe I should learn to stop overthinking everything.

Wouldn’t that be nice for a change?

I laugh at myself as I reach the bend in the long, dirt driveway, just past the huge oak tree, when the house comes into view. In the short time since they’ve moved in, the place looks more lived in than it ever did in the years prior. A turquoise hoodie is thrown on the porch swing. A black scooter is on its side on the front lawn. The trash cans near the garage are overflowing with broken-down moving boxes.

Signs of life. For some reason, they make me smile.

My knock on the front door goes unanswered despite the pickup truck parked in the driveway. I stand there for a few minutes, just in case, but no one comes. Resigned to another night of my daily roulette game of “Will there be hot water?”, I turn to head back home.

It’s then that I hear someone talking on the far side of the house. I know it’s a little forward, but I traverse across the yard, hoping to have a few seconds with whoever is home, even if it’s a friendly greeting.

I’m just about to announce my presence, the hello on my lips, when I turn the corner and falter from the sight that greets me.

The man I’ve seen driving the truck? The one with the tattooed sleeve I’ve only ever gotten glimpses of. He’s standing about fifty feet from me, and that tattooed arm is attached to a very attractive, shirtless and sweat-misted man. All six foot plus of him.

That’s the landlord I’m supposed to be pissed at? Him?

Jesus.

He wouldn’t happen to be a Delta Force agent, per chance, would he? I guarantee I wouldn’t be worried about where he put his hands and if it were feasible so long as they were on me.

He grunts as he bends over and picks up what looks like a railroad tie. The action causes a chain reaction of muscles to contract in his shoulders and back that I never even knew existed. He takes a few, laboring steps to a wheelbarrow and dumps the tie in it with another grunt followed by a loud clang.

When he turns, I’m granted a fleeting glimpse of his profile—a straight nose, a dusting of stubble, his dark hair falling over his forehead—before he moves the few feet back over to the old barn which, by the pile of junk, looks like he’s trying to clean out.

“Christ,” he mutters. A sigh follows soon after before he hefts up another large beam of wood and moves it to the wheelbarrow.

“Dad,” a girl’s voice calls out from the other side of the yard. I shrink back while both of our attention is drawn to her.

A girl about eleven or twelve stands at the edge of the yard, a hand on her hip and her head angled to the side. She’s tall and gangly with a heart-shaped face and a head full of thick brown hair.