Page 63 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

“I saw you and Sadie at the bar that night, I realized something. You’re still carrying it. All of it. And it’s not fucking fair.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know you hate me right now, and I deserve it, but I needed you to know. I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I envied you. And I’m sorry for every single thing I did to make it worse.”

The air between us was thin enough to snap. I looked at Gio and saw the kid I’d grown up with—the one who’d I’d had countless sleepovers with and who I’d learned to ride my bike with and had my first beer with—and I saw the man standing in front of me now, all his armor gone. I had no idea what to say. Anger and grief and relief, all tangled together, caught in my throat.

I let the words settle. The pain was still there, hot as a dragon’s breath of flames, but it burned out the poison that had been eating me alive. Maybe this was just another trick, a way for Gio to clear his own conscience. But I wanted to believe him. More than anything, I wanted to let it go.

He held out his hand. “I’m sorry, man. Really.”

For a long time, I just stared at it. Then I took it. His grip was strong, anchoring, and when I let go, I realized I could breathe again.

“Thanks for telling me,” I said. My voice was hoarse, but steady. “It means more than you think.”

Gio nodded, relief flooding his face. He started to say something else, but then just shrugged, like that was all there was left to say.

We stood there in the dirt, two broken idiots in the morning fog, and for the first time in a long time, the past felt like something I could finally put behind me, after I spoke to just one more person.

25

GRAND ROMANTIC COUP

Sadie

Iheaded down the boardwalk toward the main stage with the banner reading Valentine Bay Summer of Love Bachelor Auction: Bid on Your Destiny, phone in hand, as the air vibrated with heat and the anxious, sticky anticipation that comes from a small-town crowd giddy with the prospect of a communal spectacle. The annual bachelor auction was the evening’s centerpiece, and it seemed like every woman in a hundred-mile radius had convened, armed with purses and the ruthless, carnivorous energy of charity for a cause most couldn’t name. Somewhere in a bandstand, musicians were warming up with a cover of “Brown Eyed Girl,” and the air smelled of kettle corn, sunscreen, and the briny, slightly rotting sweetness particular to a coastal Oregon town in early June.

Navigating the pier, I kept my eyes on my phone screen instead of the crowd, while at the other end of my Facetime call, my Uncle Ronnie and his husband, Lorenzo, sat in their kitchen in Boca Raton in matching “Nassau or Never” T-shirts and with fresh cruise tans. Behind them, their cat, Galileo, kneaded the cushion on his bed.

“So, Sadie-girl, how long until you are back home?” Uncle Ronnie asked, leaning in so close to the phone that his right nostril briefly dominated my entire screen.

This was the longest I’d gone without speaking to my uncle since I’d moved in with him at eighteen. Even after he and Lorenzo retired to Florida, we always spoke at least twice a week, if not more. It felt good to hear his voice and see his face again. I’d filled him in on everything that had been going on.

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “At this point, I’m thinking weeks, could be more.” I kept my voice casual, but heat crept up my neck as I said it. I was still working out how I felt about it.

Lorenzo, who was sixty-eight but managed to look both younger and older, depending on how much time he’d logged in the sun that week, cut in, “Let us see the hunky lumberjacks! Turn the camera around, show us the scene!”

For some reason, Lorenzo had always associated lumberjacks with Oregon. The fact that I was raised on a Christmas tree farm didn’t do anything to dispel his assumption. With the resigned affection of someone who’d been forced to FaceTime every meal, milestone, and mid-level professional achievement since my uncles moved to Florida, I obliged. I flipped the camera and did a slow pan, capturing the booths stuffed with tie-dyed T-shirts, locally sourced pickles, and a glassblower demonstrating his craft while shirtless behind a thick barricade. Neon lights blinked around a makeshift bar, and the line for the funnel cake snaked so far that it threatened to merge with the line for the dunk tank.

“Oh, Babygirl, that’s precious,” Lorenzo enthused. “It’s like a Norman Rockwell if he painted for ‘Queer Eye.’”

I flipped it back on me.

“Before I let you go, are you happy?” Uncle Ronnie ended every call with the same question, voice softening, tilting his head so that his brow creased in what he probably thought was a fatherly gesture.

I thought about it. I weighed the gnawing, low-level anxiety that had followed me since I’d arrived in town a couple of weeks ago, but also the serenity of feeling like myself for the first time in a dozen years.

“I’m not here on vacation, I’m here for Buddy. It’s not about my happiness,” I pointed out.

“Happiness isn’t based on geography or circumstance, it’s a state of mind,” Uncle Ronnie went full Buddha.

“Where’s everyone headed in such a hurry?” Lorenzo ignored Uncle Ronnie’s lesson in Zen, commenting on the people swarming around me to get to the main stage.

“The bachelor auction.”

“Oh, that’s fun!” Uncle Ronnie smiled.

“And you’re wearing that?” Lorenzo grimaced with disapproval.

I laughed, then glanced down at my plain T-shirt and midi-length, flowy skirt and informed him, “I’m not the merchandise.”

Lorenzo tilted his head. “Still.”