"I MISS YOU SO much," Kate said while I sat in the center living room, staring at all of my parent's belongings. "Should I come to visit?"
"No, I couldn't ask you to do that. We have so much work to do for the magazine. But," I dragged out the word, "You know I'd never stop you."
"Well, I'm considering flying out because it's lonely without you."
There were well over one hundred books on these shelves and collectibles from their travels. When I arrived a little over a month ago, I was hell-bent on fixing this house with the intention of selling and never returning.
Yet, here I was, dragging out the inevitable.
The house lay untouched—I hadn't packed a single room since arriving, and I slacked on fixing up the exterior the last couple of days. You don't live here anymore; this is not your life; you are here to pack up your past and move on.
I rubbed my face. "Kate, I have no idea what I'm doing."
The line was quiet.
"What do you mean?"
"This was supposed to be a thirty-day ordeal, and I'm a month behind and have commitments that will keep me here even longer. Why the fuck did I get dragged into this fundraiser?"
"Well, considering the stories you've told me about the people who live there, I am not surprised you got suckered in. Is it really that bad, though? This will be the last time you're there, in that house. What is another month or two?"
"So much time away from work and my bed."
"Who cares about work? Even though Larry sucks, he adores you and lets you work virtually for the next year if needed. For how much he doesn't understand, he really understands your situation."
Even though that was the best answer I could receive, it was not the answer I wanted. Part of me wished Larry had forced me to return so I wouldn't feel guilty using work as an excuse.
Then again, the thought of upping and leaving after they announced a fundraiser in my parent's honor seemed like it would cause doomsday, part two.
I could already hear their gossip: Did Ivey Pierce really leave after we planned a charity event in her parent's honor? This was the second time she'd done this despite our effort to celebrate their life. I'm glad she wasn't my child.
Kate cleared her throat. "Are you thinking about keeping the house? You know you're allowed to, right? It's yours now, after all. But if you still plan on selling, you don't have to do it this very moment alone. We will plan another trip and pack up the house together."
A painful lump formed in my throat; despite my best efforts to swallow, it wouldn't go away. My heart swelled at my best friend's words, and loneliness suddenly settled over me like a heavy storm.
"I love you, Kate. Thank you for being such a good friend."
"I love you too. I'm here, always."
We ended the call on a good note. My back met the carpet, knocking a sigh from my body.
Maybe Kate was right. I should not have come here by myself without a plan. Instead of packing up the house and contacting realtors like I was supposed to, I was practically on a mini vacation.
Though, it's possible there were other reasons preventing me from leaving than just the fundraiser.
AN HOUR BEFORE dinner, I dug through my suitcase—which I still lived out of—trying to find a decent outfit.
My room looked like a tornado tore through it. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and the jeans I wanted to wear were nowhere to be found. So, I put on my next best pair and sifted through shirts before settling on a black, bustier, long-sleeve blouse.
I fixed my hair, blinking aimlessly at my reflection. Weston was used to my overalls and outside clothes, yet the last thing I wanted was to wear something that looked too casual or too fancy.
The outfit would have to do.
The glow of my phone screen caught my attention, and I leaped onto my bed, stomach first. I'm early for once, so you can come over whenever you are ready.
I rolled onto my back, my teeth gnawed on my thumbnail as I typed: Sounds good :)
No, no. I hit delete until the smiley face was gone and replaced it with: Sounds good! Do you want cocktails or wine? Or both? Neither is okay too.
I sent the message before I realized how chaotic it sounded.
He replied, Lol. Whatever you want to bring, we'll drink it.
Seeing him use slang in his message made me laugh, not only because it did not fit his personality but because the likelihood of him laughing in real life was slim to none. The times I have seen him amused replayed in my mind often.
I scavenged for old bottles of wine that my parents most likely purchased and ingredients for Gin & Tonics, then got into my car and drove to Weston's house.
Leaf-shaped shadows fluttered on the paneling of the blue house from the sun setting behind the trees. I walked up the rickety wooden stairs, pausing under the roofed-in porch that hung over the front door. Rocking chairs swayed with the breeze off the water and wind chimes hanging from the ceiling.
Masie barked even though I had not knocked yet. Just as I lifted my knuckle to the door, it opened, and my hand fell to my side. Weston was drying his hands with a towel, an apron hung loosely around his neck, protecting his white button-up shirt beneath.
Masie nudged my hand, but I was focused on that damn apron and his cooking... And on top of that, he looked undeniably good.
Handsome. Sexy, even. Stop it, Ivey. Dismiss those thoughts.
I swallowed. "Hi."
"Hey." He took the assorted box of drinks from my hands, his eyes scanning my body from head to toe. "You look nice."
His compliment was so nonchalant that it took a moment to realize what he had said.
"Thank you. So do you," I said, then glanced at my outfit, reminding myself what I wore.
He walked into the house and motioned me to follow.
The fresh herbs and spices aroma filled the air, and I put a hand on my hungry, loud stomach. The porch doors connected to the kitchen (which faced my house) were wide open, and the screen doors were pulled shut. The crisp smell of waning summer nights drifted in, mixing with the scent of good food.
"Wow, it smells amazing in here. What's for dinner?"
"Steaks, potatoes, and an assortment of veggies. You can sit at the island and pour us a drink."
"Oh, dinner and a show. What a lucky girl I am," I teased. "Glasses?"
He pointed to the cabinet beside the stove where he worked. As I reached to gather the wine glasses, my shirt rose, revealing my navel. I caught Weston staring at my bare skin before we locked eyes. The corner of his lip barely curved into a grin.
Neither of us spoke as I poured us glasses of wine, but my mind raced with conflicting thoughts.
Was he flirting? Had I miss read this entire situation?
I could not pretend I did not have any romantic feelings for him. Something clicked when we spent time together, in my heart and in my head, but that was all the more reason I couldn't entertain the idea of us.
Messy, messy, messy.
I was leaving Clifton, and he was staying, and if we got involved now, that would make getting the hell out of here worse than it already was. And knowing how I behave in relationships, I could not be with him for fun.
My heart latched onto romantic feelings like a vulture capturing its prey—meaning I did not do casual easily.
"Here you go." I pushed the glass in his direction.
"You look... stressed," he noted, bringing his drink to his lips.
Could he read me that easily?
"I'm fine. Just thinking about work."
"Ahh. Did you go out on the water today?"
I exhaled, tracing the rim of my glass. "No, I had a hard day being productive."
"It happens to the best of us," he reassured, leaning against the counter with crossed arms.
"How about you? How was work?"
"It was the same as usual."
"The real question is, how was the grocery store?"
One curt laugh shook him. "Not terrible, but also not great. I've never been stared at so much except when I'm in that specific grocery store."
"Next time, I'll come with you to stare back."
"How would you do it?"
"Like this." I squared my shoulders and squinted my eyes menacingly.
"That'll scare them off, for sure." The amusement in his expression made my heart swelter.
"I think so too. Can I help with anything?"
He shook his head and faced the stove again. "No, you are my guest."
"I'm getting antsy sitting here, Wes."
"Take a lap around the house then, Ivey," he mocked. "because I'm not changing my mind." He flipped a perfectly seared steak.
His sternness made me chuckle. I stood from the island stool and took his suggestion. "Fine. I will since you won't let me help."
With my wine, I sauntered through his living room, holding the cool glass to my cheek, trying to rid the fire under my skin. Weston's house had little furniture, most likely from moving within the last year, but he had knickknacks scattered about.
I crouched beside the book stack, tracing each spine as I read the titles. Weston undoubtedly liked classics, but he also had his fair share of crime and fantasy novels. All his certifications and degrees hung on the wall in black picture frames, and he even had photos from college, but there was not a single picture of his parents.
I could not recall a single conversation about them.
The first thing I wondered was if they were alive.
Surely, he would have told me if they passed after I poured my heart out about my own parents, but who knew? Despite bonding over how much people disliked us here, we were still strangers. Or rather new acquaintances.
There were many reasons they might not be in his life.
I noted a speaker on a bookshelf and asked if I could connect my phone to play music.
"Sure," he yelled from the kitchen.
I assessed the mood, scrolling through my playlists, and settled on Gregory Alan Isakov. The song "Big Black Car" flooded the space, and I bobbed my head to the strumming of a guitar.
My feet itched to walk upstairs, knowing his bedroom was there; instead, I stepped onto the patio—illuminated by the string lights lining the pergola—and stared at my house across the water.
It was dark, aside from the outside lights I left on.
Considering his house sat on higher land, Weston had a better view of me than I had of him, which explained how Mr. Morris saw all my mischievous behavior as a child. I smiled as memories began making sense.
When I faced Weston's kitchen, I caught him staring with rapt attention.
Something pulled within me, and I wanted to ask what he was looking at, but he turned away before I had the chance.
"Everything looks wonderful," I said, returning to the kitchen as he plated the food. "Thank you for making dinner."
"You're welcome. We can eat outside if you'd like."
He wouldn't look at me, and I could not tell if it was because I had caught him earlier. I agreed to go outside, and we carried dinner to the patio table, including a new bottle of wine.
My body sagged when the first bite hit my tongue.
"How is it?"
"It's amazing. We need to have dinners more often, only if you let me pitch in for the cost and labor."
He looked satisfied with himself. "I'll gladly feed you any night."
I sipped my wine, disregarding how his reply made my stomach feel. "Did your parents teach you how to cook?" My question was a shot in the dark and probably an asshole move. Nevertheless, I watched how he shifted in his seat and gripped the stem of his glass.
"Not really. When I first moved out for college, I started cooking because I realized I didn't know how to feed myself well."
I snorted. "At least your survival instincts kicked in. I don't think mine ever did."
"You can't cook?"
"I can. I'm just not good at it. Half the time, I don't want to put in the effort."
We continued to small talk until the sun was gone from the sky, a cloudless night left in its wake.
At some point during the evening, Weston wrapped a blanket around my shoulders after I complained of being cold and lit the propane fire pit built into the ground. We sat beside one another by the roaring flames, Masie snoring at our feet, and nursed our third drink of the night despite our filled bellies.
I loved watching his demeanor ease as the night went on. I'm sure the alcohol was part of the change, but he smiled and laughed more.
We got on the topic of the charity event and how Nora invited me into her house.
"You're really going to help plan the fundraiser, then?"
"That's the plan."
"Well, if you're going to subject yourself to that, at least make it fun. After you spend the day with them, come over here, and we'll make dinner and talk about the dumb shit they say."
"Really?" I laughed, surprised by his proposition. "Okay, yeah. I'll be the secret spy."
"Aren't all spies secret?"
I whacked his arm. He held the spot of impact, exhaling through gritted teeth and grimacing as though it was painful.
"That did not hurt," I pointed out.
He immediately dropped the act. "Wow, way to gaslight me, Ives."
"See! You're fine."
"Don't get so worked up."
My jaw hit the floor as laughter rolled out of me in waves. "Who is the gaslighter now?"
His smile was wide until he added, "Everyone in this town."
"No kidding."
"You know, I think we are the only normal ones."
"Me, maybe, but normal is a questionable way to describe yourself. I understand what you're getting at, though."
This time he swatted my arm, but I knew I had won whatever banter game we played. I stood from my chair, needing to use the restroom, and glanced at him mischievously. Slouched back in his chair with one arm resting on his thigh and the other holding his glass, he matched my expression.
Beneath the harsh bathroom light, my cheeks were rosy, and my hair was frizzy from the breeze. I ran my fingers over my lips, stained a deep red from the wine, and the smell of fire lingered on my clothes.
The loneliness that weighed heavily on me this morning was a distant memory, replaced by a whole heart and a clear mind.
However, I realized it didn't matter if Weston and I were romantically involved. Leaving him now—with the friendship we had formed—would be difficult. Especially knowing he would be here all alone.
Before I joined him, I watched him through the window.
His eyes were closed, and his head tipped back toward the sky as the music encompassed us. The fullness in my chest cracked, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I needed to enjoy this moment between us because I was leaving for Washington state after the fundraiser.
This bubble we constructed would pop, and our lives would return to normal.
Shaking the unwanted thoughts from my head, I stepped toward the porch doors, and something pressed into my bare foot.
"You okay?" he asked through the door.
I crouched and peeled a puzzle piece off the bottom of my foot, holding it up with furrowed brows.
Slowly, I watched his expression light up with joy. "You found my missing puzzle piece."
┏━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┓
QOTD: Who is your favorite fictional boyfriend or girlfriend?
INSTAGRAM & TWITTER: annasteffeyy
vote • comment • follow
Thanks for reading ♡
┗━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━┛