Page 18

I stared out the window like a suspicious cat, half expecting her to change her mind and sweep through the door in one of her practiced breezy fake-smile entrances.

But no—she sat in the car. Didn’t even wave.

And I didn’t complain. At all. Honestly, I could’ve written her a thank-you note on monogrammed stationery.

She wasn’t exactly on my “Most loved humans” list. She was in a file labeled “ Handle With Alcohol .”

The clock chimed five, and right on cue, Aunt Becky started clearing dishes that weren’t even dirty.

Subtlety was not her spiritual gift. She yawned dramatically and smacked her thighs as she stood up with a long, drawn-out, “WELL, it’s been a day,” which everyone over the age of 40 knows is southern code for “Y’all can go now. ”

Jon and I exchanged the kind of glance people usually reserve for fire drills or overly long baby showers.

It was time to make our exit. We bolted like teenagers who’d just stolen their dad’s truck and didn’t want to get caught.

Straight to Napper Tandy’s, Angier’s version of an English pub by way of southern porch culture.

It was rustic and weird and charming in a “we-have-Guinness-and-fried-green-tomatoes” kind of way.

The floors creaked. The walls were covered in faded Irish proverbs and inexplicably a framed poster of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.

No one knew why it was there, and no one questioned it.

Angier, North Carolina, in general, had this uncanny vibe—like a Hallmark movie town that never quite got the budget for snow machines but, I bet come December, it sparkled.

I imagined string lights on every fence, wreaths bigger than small children, and locals smiling like they meant it.

I made a mental note to Google “Angier Christmas Festival” later.

Before I could sit, Jon had already ordered drinks like he had ESP.

A Bud Light for himself. An Old Fashioned for me.

He passed it to me with that boyish smirk that always made my spine act up.

“Those two women sure do stress you out, huh?” I said with the sarcasm of someone who’d been pretending to “stay neutral” for so long, it deserved an Oscar.

“Oh, you noticed?” He replied, raising the bottle to his lips like it was holy water and he was seconds from performing an exorcism. The bourbon hit just right—warm, smooth, and vaguely judgmental.

We ordered food and settled into a worn leather booth that probably had more secrets than a confessional.

My fried fish sandwich was practically a religious experience, crispy, flaky, seasoned to perfection, with tartar sauce that made me want to thank Jesus himself.

I took a bite and let out a soft moan that made the couple next to us glance over.

Worth it. Jon’s Philly cheesesteak looked divine too, a steamy mess of cheese and beef that had him humming after each bite.

We ate like we hadn’t seen real food in days.

Honestly, between Holly’s tension tornado and Becky’s passive-aggressive casserole, we might not have.

“So,” Jon said between bites, “Today wasn’t completely a disaster.” I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re grading on a curve.”

“I mean, no one screamed. That’s progress.” I nodded.

“Yet. No one has screamed yet.”

We laughed, but there was this tightness behind my ribs.

A weight. The reality of it all. Being here, tangled in his life.

In his town. In a complicated dance with his kids, his ex, and his small-town memories of what could have been.

I wasn’t sure if I was temporary or if I even had the guts to ask what we were doing.

I was also too drained to give a flying fuck…

After dinner, we drove back to the Super 8, which looked—under the soft menace of the spring moonlight—like it had been plucked straight from 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.' The kind of motel where you check for bed bugs and murderers.

The fluorescent sign buzzed overhead like it had a vendetta against peace. As we pulled in, I couldn’t help but joke, “So romantic. You know how to spoil a girl.”

“Only the best for you,” Jon said with a dramatic bow as he opened the car door for me. Our room smelled like lemon cleaner and desperation, but it had hot water and a functioning TV, and honestly, that’s all we needed.

Jon hit the shower first, emerging twenty minutes later looking raw and pink like a boiled shrimp.

His hair was damp, his jaw tense, and I could tell something was churning in him.

Maybe it was seeing Holly again. Maybe it was the weight of everything we weren’t saying.

Or maybe, just maybe, this was all a lot for him too, and we were both pretending we could float through it like it was no big deal.

He downed a second Bud Light in three gulps as if it might erase the tension crawling up his spine.

“You okay?” I asked softly, sitting cross-legged on the bed in one of his old t-shirts.

“Yeah,” he said too quickly.

“Just needed to rinse the day off.”

“Or scrub it with steel wool?” He laughed, but it was hollow.

“Something like that.”

He climbed into bed, and we curled up around each other.

Safe. Or pretending to be. Moonshiners were on, a lullaby of thick accents and illegal distilling, and before long, our bodies responded the way they always did when the walls came down.

His hands were on my waist. My fingers in his hair.

Mouths that said too much and not enough.

And then breathless laughter, tangled limbs, and silence.

Sweet, warm, comforting silence. We didn’t say I love you.

Not yet. But it was there, bubbling beneath the skin, daring us to acknowledge it.

Tomorrow, Joseph had his graduation, and I would be skipping it.

Not out of protest (well, maybe a little), but because Jon’s daughter, Melissa—his bright, funny, precocious seven-year-old—would be spending the day with me.

And unlike some of the adults in this soap opera, she wanted me around.

The thought made my heart clench. In a good way.

In a terrifying way. Kids don’t fake it.

They either love you or they don’t, and Melissa…

she’d chosen me. For a day, at least. I had no idea what to expect.

Play-Doh and Barbies? Deep, existential conversations about why grown-ups cry in Panera bathrooms? Either way, I was in.

“I’m excited for tomorrow,” I said, half to myself. Jon kissed my shoulder.

“Me too.”

And just like that, under flickering motel light and with the faint scent of bourbon and cheap soap in the air, I felt…okay. Maybe not perfect. Maybe not certain. But okay. Which, for now, was more than enough.