Page 64 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

“I was packing for a three-day conference and ended up being here indefinitely. I have limited options,” I defended myself.

“Leave her alone, Renz, she looks adorable,” Uncle Ronnie chastised.

“Is adorable the standard we’re settling for?” Lorenzo, who spent his career in the fashion world as a stylist, defended his stance.

I knew better than to weigh in on this debate.

“I gotta go. Love you both.” I blew them kisses.

“Love you, darling.” Lorenzo waved. Ronnie blew a kiss and made the universal sign for ‘call us later or else.’

I hung up and slipped the phone into my purse, trying to steel myself for the crowd. I didn’t realize how many people in Valentine Bay remembered me until I tried to walk, inconspicuous and solo, down the midway of the Summer of Love festival. At first, I could almost pretend I was just another face in the technicolor crowd, one more anonymous Pacific Northwesterner in a sea of windbreakers, sunglasses, and ironic vintage band tees. But it’s impossible to be invisible when every third person stopped to ask me about Buddy, as if I were not only his granddaughter but also his nurse, publicist, and spiritual proxy.

I had to keep reminding myself that this was supposed to be temporary. I’d be back in New York soon enough, once Buddy was stable and the drama of his spectacular, near-fatal collapse had faded to mere folklore legend. But the longer I stayed, the less certain I felt about anything.

I’d made it ten steps before I was ambushed by a woman in a sequined visor and a boy with a shaved head and a cast on his arm, who both greeted me by name. For the next twenty minutes, I couldn’t move five feet without someone flagging me down. My old babysitter, Beverly Cooper who had just turned fifty and was now a hot yoga instructor, wanted to know when Buddy would be released and if there was anything she could do. An elementary school teacher, who I barely remembered but who seemed to remember me, pressed me for news about Buddy’s condition. Buddy’s neighbor, Earle who was pulling his beloved senior bulldog Sampson, who’d survived three heart attacks and recently made local news by swallowing an entire tennis ball, in a cart decorated with photos of the dog and flowers, making it look almost like a float, asked when Buddy would be released and coming home so he could drop by his famous Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, Buddy’s favorite.

My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my pocket, hoping it was Dawson. He was on the auction block tonight and I hadn’t spoken to him all day because I’d been in the hospital. I wondered if he was thinking of me at all or if he was more focused on who would win him. The thought of another woman going on a date with Dawson, even one she’d paid for and he was obligated to attend, left a very bad taste in my mouth. But it was for charity and we weren’t together, so I knew I was being ridiculous.

When I glanced down and saw the contact, my heart sank. It wasn’t Dawson. It with a text from my boss, Arthur, reminding me to submit the Q4 proposals by end of day EST tomorrow. I’d sent him my resignation with the recommendation that Janine was ready to step in and take my place, but he countered by pitching that I work remotely. I declined, but he wasn’t giving up that easily. I typed out my response, that I didn’t have the report completed since I resigned, and even if I hadn’t, I was on leave, and my thumb hovered over the reply button. I waited to feel guilt, or at least the familiar jolt of panic, but all I felt was an intense desire to throw my phone into the nearest oyster cart and run. I didn’t want to do ad work anymore, not really. Not after seeing how easily everything could be upended by a single, phone call, every priority in my life shifted.

“Sadie Rose!” The voice was both a shout and a caress, somehow. I’d know it anywhere.

I lifted my head to see Selma Lockhart, barely five feet tall, in a wrap dress that matched her eyes, smiling at me like she’d just run into her own daughter after a semester abroad.

I barely managed a “Hi, Selma!” before she enveloped me in the kind of hug that had once convinced a traumatized, motherless sixth grader that maybe the world hadn’t gone completely to shit.

“Don’t you look beautiful!” she exclaimed.

Tell that to Lorenzo, I thought to myself. I was wearing a floral midi-skirt and a baby doll shirt, which I’d planned on wearing to brunch on my L.A. trip before I got rerouted to my hometown.

I let her fuss over me, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my sleeve and brushing a stray hair from my cheek. No one mothered like Selma did, not even my own mother, and it was both deeply comforting and slightly mortifying to feel my emotional guard drop so instantly.

Selma wasted no time. “Honey, how’s Buddy?” she asked, and her eyes were so open, so guileless and intent. It was a test, almost, to see if I’d keep up the brave front or let the mask slip. Someone once said that Selma Lockhart had a sixth sense for other people’s pain, and I’d never known her to miss a beat.

“He’s…he’s okay, considering,” I said, voice already thickening.

“I was going to send flowers but I ran into Nonna at Ever After Blooms and she told me he’s not a big fan of them, she told me to get him a succulent instead, that’s what she got him and apparently when he eighty-sixed all the floral arrangements he kept her succulent.”

“Nonna got him the succulent?” I hadn’t even considered Gio and Gen’s grandma, mainly because I only thought of her as Nonna, but her name was Teresa. Teresa Russo. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. She was age-appropriate. She was a widow, like Buddy, and she’d also lost a child. Her oldest son passed away in a car accident.

Selma nodded, tilting her head to the side, looking a little confused. “She said that’s what he prefers.”

“Yes, no, yes, he does. She’s right.” I nodded.

“I was thinking about getting him a cactus, because he’s so prickly and strong.”

She wasn’t wrong. “I think he’d love that.”

A grin of satisfaction pulled at her lips before she took a step back, as if to examine me for signs of wear or distress. “And how about you, Sadie Rose? You holding up?”

I smiled, hoping that she couldn’t see any distress that was simmering right beneath the surface. “I’m good, yeah, fine.”

She nodded slowly, understanding more than she let on. “How much longer do you think they’ll keep him?” She was asking about Buddy, but the question felt booby-trapped, as though she were really asking about me.

“I’m not sure how much longer they’ll be able to,” I relayed. “He’s already threatened to sneak out the second he gets his hands on shoes.” I tried to keep my tone light, but I wasn’t kidding. I honestly didn’t know how much longer the hospital would be able to keep Buddy admitted.

“That’s pretty much what Gio said when he stopped by the ranch,” Selma interjected, with a sly little glance. “What’s the next step for Buddy, once he’s out?”