Just Friends(72)

There’s a faint smile on her lips. She takes a deep breath, and as she exhales, the lines in her forehead fade. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this at ease. I step through the sliding doors and join her, dancing my fingers lazily over the silky lavender tops.

“Isn’t this gorgeous?” my mom says, closing her eyes to bask in the sun.

“It is,” I reply in a weak voice.

We stand in the garden, letting the warmth drench us for minutes on end without saying a word. And in those few minutes, flashes of what could have been and what is flip through my mind like a roll of film.

Me—what could have been: moving into a tiny New York City apartment. Lottie alive, Declan estranged. Work and work and more work on the horizon.

The film skips.

Me—what could be: moving into a cottage by the sea. The chasm between Declan and me closed. The bridge: the street between our houses. Lottie gone, but my mom still here. An old, forgotten dream unearthed and sprouting to life—a book I thought I might never write, about a boy I thought I might never see again.

And somehow, perhaps miraculously, the fragility of my new decision becomes unbreakable inside me.

“Mom?” I interrupt the blissful silence.

“Yes, hon?” She paces through the garden, inspecting each flower and leaf.

“I’m going to tell Ernst and Young to give away my spot. I want to stay here and help you run the convenience stores,” I say in one hurried breath.

She stops mid-step, then looks at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“I’ll live in this cottage and work on my romance novel in my free time. And plus, Declan and I might be something again and I want to see that through,” I add. If there’s anything I know about my mom, it’s that she doesn’t want people to make a big fuss over her. I need to make her think this is about more than just her. And maybe it really is.

“Huh,” is all she says at first, and my heart starts pounding. But after a few seconds of contemplation, she walks up to me. “Con, I want you to answer me as honestly as possible, and I know your tells so don’t even try to lie.” She points a not-so-intimidating finger in my face. “Are you sure you want to do this? I need to know you’re not making a rash decision because you’re worried about me. You know I’m always going to be okay.”

I exhale a ragged breath, laughing a little. “Yes, Mom.” I grab her shoulders and look her in the eye. “Promise. Most of this decision is entirely selfish. I want to write my book more than I want to breathe air sometimes. And I didn’t think it’d be possible,” I say, my voice cracking. “But Lottie made it possible.”

I blink back full-on tears, and my mom’s eyes well up too.

“She gave us everything. And even in her absence, she’s giving us everything again,” I barely get out.

My mom nods and wipes at her tears, then reaches her hand out to wipe mine.

“I knew I raised you right, con,” she says with a broken smile. She throws her arms around my middle. Her gardenia scent fills me with warmth. But after a second of thinking in her embrace, I laugh into her hair and pull back.

“Hey, wait! What is that supposed to mean? What would you have thought of me if I went to New York?”

She shakes her head with a sweet smile. “I mean, I raised you right because you know what’s important. And sometimes”—she looks back at the cottage Lottie gave me—“circumstances can shift what’s most important.”

A swell of emotion tightens my throat, and I throw my arms back around her. Lottie’s unexpected passing changed things for us. And it felt validating to realize that was okay. Maybe I would have pursued a prestigious job in New York City and lived a more “glamorous life” if she hadn’t passed this year. But then I wouldn’t have reconciled with Declan, and I wouldn’t have spent all this time with my mom, and the mere thought of completing my first novel never would have crossed my mind.

So much had changed this summer. But as I hugged my mother’s tiny frame, I finally felt the first nudge toward accepting that change. How was it possible that so much good had been born from something so bad? It didn’t feel plausible. Or even acceptable. But maybe it was the truth.





Chapter 23


Can I pick you up from your place @6?





Nope! Pick me up from the cottage.





Getting a head start on renovations?





Something like that.





Yesterday, after calling Ernst & Young to tell them I wouldn’t be taking my position, my mom helped me move my things into the cottage. It was disconcerting: the fact that I was capable of demolishing everything I spent the past four years working toward in a five-minute phone call. But I felt nothing but relief when I hung up. I typed four thousand words of my romance novel with a comical amount of fervor and then passed out in my new bed.

Today, I took over some administrative tasks for my mom, typed another two thousand words into my Word document, and got ready for tonight’s gala.

I’ve been spending the past ten minutes peeking out the living room window, waiting for Declan to cross the street to my door. It feels like a lifetime has passed when he finally exits his house.

He’s in a dapper, midnight blue suit, hair the closest to tamed I’ve ever seen it. Something about the rare put-togetherness of his appearance makes me feel overly aware of my existence. He put in effort for me.