Fluffy(35)

“No.” Perky frowns. “Not all of them.” A thousand-mile stare settles on her face.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I tell them seriously. “You know, and I know, that I’ll suck it up and go to the reunion. Between my mom finding out about it, the onslaught of everyone from our class coming into town for it, and my own eternal optimist curse, I’ll go. Just don’t make a big deal about it, okay? It’s hard enough having my past thrown in my face every day now that Will’s back.”

“That bad?” Fiona asks softly.

“That good.” I set my fork down and just go for the sweet naan. “He’s even better. Ten years has made my freaking high school crush even more appealing.”

“I’m sorry,” Perky commiserates. “What an asshole.”

“He’s an asshole for turning out to be an even better human being as an adult?”

“Yes.”

“That makes no sense, Perk.”

“It does according to Friend Code.” She snatches the naan from me before I eat it all.

“You both know how it is. I love living here. I love our town. The downtown is where I belong. There is nothing about our area that isn’t perfect for me. I went to Brown and loved Providence, too, but it wasn’t home. This is home. I want a house here. A husband. Kids in Little League and Boy and Girl Scouts. I want to take them to Fenway Park and ride the Swan Boats and avoid Salem every October. I want to take them to the Dance and Dairy festival every August and gorge on funnel cakes and fried Twinkies. I am hooked. I was born in the just-right place.” I sigh. “But when people who left come back to visit, there’s always that sneer. Like they’re better or smarter or whatever for leaving.”

“Does Will have it?” Fiona asks.

I think about him in that suit this morning. Our conversations. The phone call.

Oh, that call.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t invent it,” Perky warns me. “It would be easy to find something negative in Will that isn’t really there.”

“Why would I invent it?”

Another look passes between Fi and Perk. “Because, Mal,” Fiona says, the self-appointed speaker of truths we hide from ourselves, “you spent all those years in high school inventing reasons why you couldn’t take a risk and see if he liked you, too. Don’t make that mistake again.”

I start to protest.

I stop.

I remember the one deep conversation I ever had with Will. The one time I thought maybe, just maybe, he was interested in me.

I stuff my mouth with sweet naan as my phone’s notifications start to ping from the dating app.

I was wrong then, and I'm wrong now.

But this is my life.

And Will Lotham’s back in it. Like it or not.

Problem is, I do like it.

I like it too much.





10





I have to go back to the office, like it or not, because Will is my client.

A client who made sexually suggestive conversation with me yesterday before my phone died.

A client who certainly seems to have been flirting with me.

A client who... isn’t here today.

I’ve tried to avoid coming to The Lotham Group, but I can’t. I need to see him for approval on renting a few antique pieces to fill in at the house. I also need an orange lacquered urn his mother has in the worst possible place in the office, but that will be perfect for a pop of color in her front entry hall.

So.

Driven to overcome my own uncertain humiliation, my perfectionistic design tendencies get in the way. You would think I’d be relieved to come into the office, grab the urn, and run off, not needing to face Will.

Disappointment, though, seeps into my pores.

And then I check my email.

My pulse leaps when I see his name in my inbox.

Out of the office for the week as we migrate from old location to new. Agents showing house. Be ready.

That’s the entire email from Will.

What's the opposite of a pulse leap? A coma? That sounds restful.

Perky and Fiona were wrong. He wasn’t hinting at more. If anything, this is a measured, cool, all-business approach.

The lacquered urn feels heavy, stupid, trivial in my arms as I walk out of The Lotham Group’s office and into the bright summer sunshine.

Okay, this is a reprieve. A break. A breather from the sudden whirlwind of having Will re-appear in my life.

This week is a chance.

A chance to prove I’m worth that stager’s commission.

And a chance to get Will out of my life by getting the house under contract as fast as possible.

The drive to his parents’ house is a blur. It’s not just a blur because unexpected tears come, but also because it’s a small town. Five minutes, tops, anywhere, unless it’s rush hour or parade day.

I get there and storm up the Perfect Path to the Perfect Door and enter the Perfect Home.

In tears.

Why?

Why am I crying?

Setting the urn down on the table in the hall, I walk in, close the front door, and make a beeline for the bedrooms. My mission is clear: Learn more about this family.

Staging a space involves personality. My approach is the exact opposite of all those real estate advice articles about making a house as neutral as possible so potential buyers and renters can project themselves into it.