Well Matched (Well Met #3)(89)

God, she was right. I’d given her the same advice three years ago. And here she was, throwing it back in my face. Some sister she was. The best.

“I fucked up with him, you know.”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “I bet you can fix it.” She seemed so sure that I almost believed her.

As I took a fortifying sip of coffee her eyes lit up. “Hey, if you’re sticking around for a bit, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure.” But I narrowed my eyes, wondering what I was getting myself into.

She pulled out her phone and woke it up. “I got an email from one of the rescue organizations. You know, about adopting a dog? They just got some puppies in, and Simon and I want to go see them tomorrow. Would you mind coming with? I think having a tiebreaking vote could come in handy.” She passed me the phone, and I swiped through the puppy photos, each cuter than the last. Everything seemed better when you were looking at pictures of puppies.

“As long as the tiebreaker agrees with you, right?” I raised my eyebrows as I gave her the phone back, and she snorted.

“That would certainly help. You are my sister. You should be on my side.”

As she put her phone away, mine buzzed on the table between us and I turned it over. With Cait at school now, I kept my phone with me like a lifeline, just in case she needed me. She hadn’t yet. I didn’t dare hope it was Mitch.

It wasn’t either of them, just some new email notifications. I bit back a sigh and clicked it open anyway.

“Something up?”

“No.” I scrolled through, swiping and deleting. “Junk mail.” My finger lingered on the newsletter from the little downtown hardware store. I’d gotten hooked on that particular one, each of their suggested projects filling me with inspiration while Mitch and I had transformed my house. We never did build those bookshelves. I squinted at the subject header. “Huh,” I said. “There’s a sale on paint.”

Emily huffed a laugh and picked up her coffee mug. “That’s the last thing you need right now.”

“Yeah.” But my mind churned as I clicked off my phone and put it back down. Because an idea had taken hold. A way to show Mitch how much I wanted him in my life. For real this time. And paint might actually be the way to get there.





Twenty-Three





It took a couple weekends to get everything the way I wanted it, especially since I was on my own this time, but eventually I got it done. After a quick stop on the way home one Friday evening, I pulled into the garage and tapped out a text to Mitch. Can you come over? I need you. My breath froze in my chest at the truth in those last three words, and I hoped he could tell through the magic of text messaging how much I meant it. Before I could wuss out I hit Send.

I had no idea how long I’d have to wait for an answer. Our last text conversation hadn’t gone that well, after all. He could have blocked my number by now, and I wouldn’t have blamed him. I clutched my phone as I went into the house, and when it buzzed I felt the vibration all the way up my arm. I can’t do this, April. I told you. I’m not sneaking around with you.

There was that magic of text messaging: the hurt I’d caused pulsed through each word on the screen. God, I’d really fucked this up. All I could do was hope he’d let me try to make it right.

I put my purchases in the fridge, then leaned against the kitchen island to answer his text. No sneaking. I’m parked in the garage so you can take the driveway. Please? It won’t take long. Just need your opinion on something.

He didn’t answer right away, and my heart sank. I stared at the words I’d just typed. Too desperate? Did the “please” sound like I was begging? Ugh. When staring a hole in my phone didn’t make him text back I let it clatter to the counter and pressed my palms against my eyes. I had my answer. And I didn’t blame him.

Oh, well. It had been worth a try.

I got a cider out of the fridge, popping it open before wandering into the living room, where my new roommate snored lightly on a pile of blankets on the couch. I sat down next to him and touched his head lightly, hoping I wouldn’t startle him. His hearing wasn’t the best, and he was still getting used to living with me.

“Did Emily already take you out, Murray?” He nuzzled into my hand and thumped his tail in response. I’d gone to the shelter with Emily and Simon as promised. While they both fell in love with a wriggly black Lab puppy—no tiebreaker needed—my attention was drawn to an elderly black-and-white Jack Russell terrier snoozing in a nearby kennel. He was almost ten, the shelter person had said, and he was here because his elderly master had died. She shook her head in sympathy, because who was going to adopt a dog that old?

Me, apparently. I adopted a dog that old. Emily was thrilled, and promised to come by in the afternoons to take him out while I was at work. I’d named him after our grandfather—another old man who was a little hard of hearing and preferred naps—and we’d settled into a happy coexistence. He liked lots of blankets on his side of the couch, carrots, and snuggling against my hip while I read or watched television. We took slow, meditative walks in the evenings and on weekends, where I did a lot of thinking and he did a lot of sniffing. It was a promising beginning to a relationship, and the house didn’t feel as empty with Murray in it with me.

Now I scratched his head and leaned back against the couch, sipping my cider and looking at the freshly painted walls. Had this been a good idea? The more time that went by, the more I doubted myself.