Page 38 of When We Were Young

I don’t do what you’d call dating, so there’s no chance of developing something long-term. And I never break my three-date rule. Three times spending time with someone is my limit—usually including the day we meet.

Despite what everyone chooses to believe, it doesn’t usually turn into anything physical. It doesn’t need to, most of the time, to distract me when I’m in my head too much. But sometimes, yeah, companionship isn’t enough to kill the pain.

I shake my head to pull myself out of the path my thoughts have gone down.

“Holden, did you hear what I said?” Ella asks.

“No. I’m sorry. Can you repeat it?”

“I asked why you come here every day. Not that I don’t love seeing you.”

I grin at her, knowing the left side of my mouth tilts higher than the right and that, paired with my dimples, it’s supposedly hard for women to resist. At least according to Georgie, Heath’s best friend. I’m just being honest—it’s a tool I have in my arsenal.

“Ella, are you fishing for compliments? You know these pecan rolls and your coffee, though they’re my absolute favorite, are only part of the reason I’m here.” I wink at her. “I’m here to see my best girl.”

Ella flaps her hand at me. “Don’t give me that crap today, Holden Aron. I’m serious. You don’t miss a single day.”

I shrug, working to feign nonchalance. “I like routine. I need it. Structure helps me focus. It’s best when I do the same things as often as I can. I don’t know. It’s a good start to my day.”

“Listen. I’m worried about you. Tomorrow’s my last day, and then the bakery closes. I don’t know when the young lady will have things up and running, or even if she’s planning a bakery for sure. I’ve heard different ideas of what she might want to do with it. Maybe one of those places where you paint and drink at the same time.” Ella chuckles, and I can’t help but smile.

I know that sort of thing is right up her alley, and I’m betting she’s remembering the picture that circulated through our friend group a few months back. It was of Ella, Ruthie—the town gossip, who is sassy as hell but would give anything to help anyone—and Sally at one of those events over in Meadow Creek.

The photo showed them all holding up their finished paintings: a moonlit sky filled with stars. Except Ruthie. Ruthie had painted a male nude. Apparently, using the bartender as inspiration. Even funnier, they somehow dragged Lester along. He’s the only man in their band of saucy seventy-plus-year-old troublemakers. Lester acts gruff most of the time, but what you see is what you get with him, and he’s definitely softened. Kind of reminds me of my brother Harrison, actually.

I reach across the table and squeeze Ella’s hand.

“Hey, seriously though, don’t worry about me. I’m going to be absolutely fine. I promise.”

“Are you sure?”

No. But I can’t tell her that.

So, I sit up straight and smile at her. “I’m positive. I have a system, and it works for me. I got this.”

Chapter Fifteen

Lizzie

I’ve sneezed a minimum of seventeen times today. I lost count after that. The layer of dust that coats every possible surface in this place is unreal. It’s so thick it doesn’t simply wipe away; you almost have to scrape it off. Gross.

I’ve made huge progress, though, and am ready to attack the years of grime in the front: the main living space and the kitchen. Then we can move in, and I can start cleaning the bakery downstairs.

Unlike this apartment, the bakery has been in regular use over the last decade. The decor is dated, and the plans I have for the renovation add a layer of complexity. But at least it shouldn’t require nearly as much elbow grease as this apartment.

This place is the perfect place to make my dream come true. I’m about to take the culinary world by storm. Okay, the world might be a bit ambitious, but maybe I can do it in this town.

I need a break before I tackle the kitchen, and I think I’ve earned a treat today. I’ve drunk a lot of water today, so I think an ice-cold diet soda sounds perfect.

Anyone who doesn’t think cleaning requires some physical effort is crazy.

“Hello?”

I recognize Georgie’s voice and the tapping of feet on the steps leading up to my new home.

“Come on in. The door is open,” I call out.

With my soda in hand, I glance around the living room and find a spot that seems a little less dusty than the others. I walk over to it, plop myself down on the floor, and then rest my back against the mustard yellow wall.