Page 27

Eden

I n the end, we can’t get on the same flight, so I fly home alone to Redmond, big suitcase full of quilts, AirTagged—thank you, Rhys—and checked.

When I arrive at baggage claim to retrieve it, Mari’s standing there.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

“Rhys texted me and asked me to meet you.”

I roll my eyes. “Does he seriously think I can’t get myself back to Rush Creek from Redmond?” But I’m only pretending to be mad. I’m actually adding it to the list of Rhys’s small kindnesses.

Which only makes it a hundred thousand times harder that he doesn’t want anything with me.

And I can’t stop thinking about the kiss.

Mari throws her arms around me, knocking the cowboy hat off my head, squeezing and rocking me. “You’ve had a hell of a long weekend, and you need TLC.”

“I’m fine ,” I insist—and then burst into tears.

“Oh, hon.”

When she’s done handing me tissues, giving me more hugs, and rescuing the hat from the floor, we claim my quilts and wheel them out to her SUV.

“If you feel like talking about it—tell me what happened,” she says as she pulls out of the parking lot.

So I do. I tell her about my last three days, starting with Rhys bringing me Paul’s note and ending with boarding the plane in Sioux Falls.

I leave a lot out, though. I leave out Rhys cooking me dinner. I leave out him tossing me my thong. Asking me if I wanted to check out the quilt festival.

I leave out him piggybacking me so I wouldn’t get hurt.

The two of us kneeling over my underwear, electricity live and dangerous between us.

The frog slippers and the Advil. The foot massage.

The two of us falling asleep in the same bed, waking tangled, his arousal thick and demanding against me.

I leave out him going to buy a suitcase so I could bring my quilts home.

And most of all, I leave out the kiss.

I don’t know why I omit those things. Maybe I feel like there’s nothing to tell, like Rhys’s rejection of me puts the whole story to bed.

Maybe I want to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen.

I can do that.

Except for the kiss. I can’t pretend that didn’t happen.

I can still feel it, on my lips, on my tongue, between my legs.

The best I can do is accept that it was a one-time event and be glad Rhys stopped us before it could escalate.

I’m not sorry I kissed you. Or that you kissed me. Hell no. Not even a little.

That’s the confusing part. Because it was clear he meant it. And if I hadn’t believed the sincerity of his voice and expression, a quick glance downward had confirmed the truth of it.

But you could enjoy a kiss and not want the complications that might come with it.

I sigh aloud.

“I’m so sorry, Eden,” Mari says softly, rubbing my shoulder. “Getting jilted—that sucks so much. And the thing with Grace, that had to really hurt.”

“It stung. It hurt my pride so bad. But—” I take a breath, because this is the other thing I haven’t told her yet, and I don’t know how it’s going to sound when it comes out of my mouth. “It didn’t hurt me . Not the way it… should have .”

“Ah,” she says. “I—wondered.”

“I kept waiting to care more about losing him than losing the quilts. I kept waiting to feel…heartbroken.”

“It still might come,” she says. “It’s only been a couple of days.”

“It might,” I say. “But also maybe I liked the idea of Paul more than I liked Paul himself. And maybe…” I hesitate. “I’ve liked the idea of being loved more than I’ve…loved.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “We’re so much alike.”

I nod. Mari never had a dad, and I lost mine when I was six. Both our moms abandoned us in various ways—mine for her singing career and hers because—well, she was flighty and irresponsible. We were both raised by family members who couldn’t fill the void our moms had left behind.

We’ve talked about it a lot. Mari’s mentioned how she had trouble settling down and staying in Rush Creek with her husband, Kane, because she’d gotten in the habit of staying in motion so she could never want to belong somewhere and get rejected.

I thought I’d reached some peace with my own wounds because settling down in Rush Creek and letting myself be loved by Mari and her friends and Paul and his family had felt easy?—

But maybe it had partly felt easy because?—

“Maybe I wasn’t scared of losing Paul because it wasn’t scary to lose Paul.”

She makes a soft humming sound. It’s not agreement. But it’s not argument, either.

“Damn,” I say with a huge sigh. “Back into therapy.”

She grins. “Never stops, does it?”