Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(55)

What does that even mean?

My heart pounds in my chest, and I want to grab my balls and make sure they’re still there.

“Penn?”

“What?”

“Breathe.”

“I’m breathing,” I say.

Matt stands. He picks up his can and walks it over to the trash. “A relationship isn’t the worst thing—”

“Whoa. Hold up. How did we get here?”

“Where?”

“To discussing relationships.”

Matt grins. “I know you think you’d fail at a relationship, but how do you know? You’ve never tried.”

“Because I’m self-aware. I know how I’m wired, and I’m not wired for exclusive relationships,” I insist. “It’s all fun and games until someone realizes who you are. Everything is roses until you don’t do what they want. The blowback from that is avoidable, and I want to avoid it. Period.”

“But that’s saying that those things will happen.”

“Matt,” I say, shaking my head, “they will happen. You can create a facade for the world, like the walls we build at work, and make it palpable. But who you are down deep, the ‘you’ that someone would get to know if you’re in a relationship, is a different person sometimes.”

“And sometimes it’s better. You can really relate to them. Share things with them. Root for them.”

“And sometimes it’s worse.”

Avery’s face pops into my brain. The smile painted on her lips as she showed me her artwork is something I hope she never loses. And the main way to keep that from happening is to keep her away from me.

I need to get laid.





CHAPTER TWENTY

AVERY

So . . .” Harper adds pieces of garlic bread to the edges of our plates. “How is it going at the library?”

I carry the plates to the table in the small eating nook. Harper follows me with our drinks.

My new life in Dogwood Lane has been crazy. Balancing both Hometown Hair and the mural means days are full, but days are full doing what I love. I’ve been here two weeks now—working with Meredith for almost a full week, and I’ve never been so fulfilled creatively.

And then there’s Penn.

I smile to myself as I take a seat next to the wall.

Penn and I have developed the strangest, yet most normal friendship I might have ever had. It surprises me every day when I see him, whether it’s at the library or the café or if he comes into the salon just to say hi, how comfortable I am with him.

He genuinely seems to want to be a part of my life. He brought me fudge from Rockery because I mentioned in passing that I’d never tried it. He makes small talk when I get to the library, and he asks questions about the mural like he cares about it. Maybe about me, even.

“The library is going great,” I say. “I’m getting the design on the wall so I can start actually painting. Meredith is so excited, and it’s hard not to be just as excited when she’s gushing about what we’re doing. And Penn and Matt,” I add, “are transforming the interior of that space with new walls and ceilings. I’ve never watched someone do that. It’s pretty amazing, but they make it look so easy.”

Harper sits across from me. “I’m happy for you.”

“You know what?” I say, chomping down on a piece of garlic bread. “I’m happy. I can say that and mean it for the first time in my life. This is really a dream come true. A financially unstable dream, of course, but a dream, anyway.”

“I warned you,” she says with a laugh.

There’s something off about her laugh, though. It’s restrained, a little pulled back. When I sit back and take her in, I see the worry lines around her eyes.

“If you need me more at the salon, I can be there,” I tell her. “You’re my first priority.”

“I’m not your first priority, and that’s fine. I shouldn’t be.”

She focuses intently on her spaghetti, refusing to meet my eyes. Her voice sounds normal, but her behavior gives her away. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

“Harper, what’s wrong?”

Her fork twists a load of pasta up and into the air before she shoves the whole thing into her mouth. “Your mom called me today.”

The words are garbled. I think I misheard. But the somberness on Harper’s face tells me I didn’t mishear anything.

My mom called her today.

Shit.

“This should be fun,” I mumble. Clearing my throat, I look back at her. “What did she want?”

“She wants to tell you herself.”

“Don’t do this to me. Can we not just get it over with? Please.”

The longer it takes her to spill the beans, the more the knot in my stomach feels like a ball of mangled spaghetti. Harper doesn’t get worked up about LA stuff; she doesn’t care. So whatever this is has to be beyond a “I broke a nail at the Women’s Gala” kind of thing.

“Harper?”

She takes a deep breath. “She’s divorcing your dad.”

I sit still. Do an internal check-in because something about this should shock me or devastate me or trigger some sort of emotion.

Waiting for a feeling to knock me sideways, I close my eyes. I wait longer. How is it possible that apathy and indifference are what I feel? My mother is divorcing my dad. Yet . . . I’ve got nothing.