I’m not sure how long I stay in his bedroom, crying myself hoarse, all while wishing for Cal to come back and claim that this all was some sick joke.
Brady Kane comes into the room with furrowed white brows. “Where did Cal go?”
I look up at him with tear-stained cheeks. “He left.”
The wrinkled skin around his blue eyes softens as he takes me in. “Oh, Alana.” He pulls me into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I thought something like this might happen.”
“How?”
His lips press together.
More tears leak from my eyes. “Why wasn’t I good enough?” For my dad. For Antonella. For Cal. It always feels as if I’m fighting everyone to stay when all they want to do is leave.
He rubs my back. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Doesn’t it? If Cal loved me, he would have stayed. He would have fought for us.”
“He can’t even fight for himself right now, let alone you.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t want him to go.”
“Anyone who has spent time around you two would know that.”
The ache in my chest intensifies. “But I made him promise to never come back.”
His hand moves in small, soothing circles. “Is that what you want?”
I sob against Brady’s chest. “Yes? No? I don’t know.”
“Things will be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”
Except here I am, six years later and still feeling everything but okay.
Things are different now. You’re not the same broken-hearted girl anymore.
Aren’t I, though? Because all it takes is one interaction with Cal for me to remember everything I spent the last six years trying to forget.
The curve of his lips as he flashes me a smile.
The tug in my chest that always draws me back to him despite all the years of hurt.
The warmth that spreads through my body whenever he cracks a joke, threatening to melt the ice wrapped around my heart.
A part of you still loves him.
I bolt from the couch and escape to my bedroom, although the unwelcome thought follows after me like a dark, threatening storm cloud.
Just because you love him doesn’t mean you’re in love with him, the reasonable voice speaks up.
Truth is, a part of me will always love Cal. It’s impossible not to with over two decades of shared history, but I will never be in love with him—at least not again. I made that mistake once and I lost my heart in the process.
But unlike the last time Cal showed up at Lake Wisteria, this time is different.
I’m different.
And nothing he says or does will change that.
4
CAL
During my drive to the motel, I take in the sleepy town. The brick buildings along Main Street are the same ones from my childhood, although they have had their paint, awnings, and decor updated over the years. From the general store that opened during the height of prohibition to the pharmacy that hasn’t been renovated since the fifties, everything about Lake Wisteria is familiar. Quaint. Happy.
I didn’t think I would see the town again. When I swore not to return, I made my peace with never coming back to the one place that always felt like home.
It wasn’t the place itself, but a special person who made it feel that way.
While Lake Wisteria and its three hundred residents were warm and welcoming, Lana Castillo was the one reason I returned to the lakeside town every single summer.
At least until she had me promise to never come back.
For a good reason.
My chest tightens. I speed past the stores at the end of the road and take a hard left toward the motel inspired by those along Route 66, with a lit-up sign advertising telephones, colored TV, and air-conditioning. It’s as if I were transported to a time when women didn’t have the right to vote.
Fabulous.
The buzz from the vintage neon light fills the silence as I step out of my car and walk toward the office at the bottom corner of the motel.
A woman I don’t think I’ve met before gives me the worst stink-eye and a metal key to the grimiest room in the place, both of which I’m pretty sure were on purpose. If it weren’t for the stocked mini fridge filled with a decent selection of alcohol, I would have passed on this traumatic experience altogether. I drain the last bit of vodka from my flask before plucking the best mini bottle of vodka from the fridge.
I tend to make poor decisions when under duress. Choices that usually lead to me getting so drunk, I forget the reason for why I started drinking in the first place. It’s a shitty coping mechanism, but I usually only have two modes: taking small sips from my flask throughout the day to take the edge off my anxiety or getting hammered because I can’t stop drinking. The latter usually happens only once or twice a week depending on the stressors, but when it does, I’m out of commission.
I can feel it in my bones that this evening will be one of those kinds of nights. In a last-ditch effort to stop a panic attack, I call Iris.
“Hey. What’s up?” Iris’s yawn makes the speaker crackle. I can always count on my sister-in-law to answer the phone at any time of the day or night. It might drive my older brother crazy, but Iris was my best friend long before she ever became Declan’s wife less than a year ago, so I get exclusive privileges.
“I’m currently staying at a motel straight out of a true crime episode. Literally.” I shut my eyes as if that could erase the memory of the stains on the carpet.
“What happened to sleeping at the lake house tonight?”
“Turns out Grandpa forgot to mention that Lana still lives there.”
“Are you talking about the Lana?”
“The one and only. Plot twist: She has a child I had no idea about.” I chug the remaining bit of vodka from the mini bottle.
Since when has drinking solved any of your problems?
I’m not looking to solve them. I’m trying to numb them.
Iris sucks in a breath. “When was the last time you had sex with her?”
“Around when she got pregnant—give or take a month, I guess. I didn’t pull out a calendar and ask for the kid’s birthday before Lana kicked me out.”
“Wait. You don’t know if the kid is yours or not?”
I rub the sleep from my eyes. “When I tried to clarify, she wasn’t exactly open to speaking about it.”
Iris curses under her breath. “Does the kid look like you?”
“Her hair is a bit darker, but her eyes are a near perfect match to mine.”
She gasps. “It’s a girl?”
“Surprise.” I toss the bottle in the direction of the trash can, but thanks to my sucky aim, it lands a whole foot away. There’s a reason I played hockey over basketball, and that right there proves it.
“No need to freak out just yet. You don’t even know if the kid is yours.”
“Lana didn’t take too kindly to me when I insinuated she might be.” Suggesting such a thing wasn’t my finest moment. Neither was my comment about her sleeping with someone so soon after we broke up, but I let my emotions get the best of me.
You have no right to be angry at her for what she did after you ended things.
Easier said than done. I’m not the kind of person who usually gets jealous, but I sense it festering inside of me, searching for an outlet.