The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(27)
“It’s more human than my neighborhood uptown, and I let that lease go because . . . who knows what will happen. I’m counting on Chelsea keeping me connected to life’s energy. On good days, I’ll explore and write some ‘behind the scenes’ pieces since I can’t really travel much in the foreseeable future.” Her chin dropped as she quietly added, “And best of all, no one here hates me.”
“I don’t hate you, Peyton,” Steffi assured her.
“You hate what I did. So do I. I let us all down.” She shook her head, voice thickening. “I was so stupid. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You weren’t thinking.” Steffi approached Peyton and reached for her hand. “People don’t often think when they fall in love.”
Maybe love was the exception to her mom’s deathbed advice. Or maybe the advice wasn’t meant to be so literal. Maybe what her mom had meant to teach her was that she had to learn to forgive herself, and others, for mistakes made.
“Love.” Peyton scoffed, letting go of Steffi’s hand. “We should all be more like you when it comes to that.”
“What’s that mean?” It didn’t sound like a compliment.
“You’ve avoided it—other than your puppy love with Ryan, which ended as soon as you had some space.” Her face grew pensive. “You’ve kept your heart safe. I used to feel sorry for you, but now I envy you.”
“Don’t envy me.” Steffi gestured toward the sofa, needing to get more comfortable if the conversation was heading in this direction.
Peyton sat on a chair, so Steffi sat across from her on a black leather sofa.
“How are you settling in back in the old hood?” Peyton’s question sounded simple enough, but her square shoulders and straight spine marked her tension.
“Pretty well. We’ve rented a little bungalow on Forest Street. Claire fixed it up supercute. The business is up and running, but money is tight. We’re on a constant hunt for new clients.”
“I saw your website. Very Claire, with its preppy colors and traditional fonts.” Peyton mindlessly picked at her shirt. “How do you like being partners with someone so risk averse?”
Claire’s ghost crackled in the space between them.
“We complement each other.” Steffi hesitated, uncertain of how to proceed. She forced herself to make eye contact with Peyton. “Does this hurt you to talk about?”
“It makes me nostalgic for when the three of us ran around town together. But I’ve made my bed. Don’t feel like you can’t talk about your life with Claire just to spare my feelings . . .” Then she added drolly, “Even if I am dying.”
They both laughed in that self-conscious, slightly horrified way one does when making light of something painful. Peyton’s dry humor had always defused tension. Right now that made Steffi grateful as hell.
“I do wonder,” Peyton mused, pulling her legs up onto the cushion to sit with them crisscrossed. “Are there any eligible men in town . . . aside from your brother, that is?”
The short haircut and childlike pose made Peyton look ten years younger, throwing Steffi so off-balance she had to replay the question to answer it. “Well, actually, Ryan’s back in town. At least for a while.”
Peyton’s blue eyes widened as her jaw dropped open. “Seriously? That should’ve been the first thing you told me when you got here.”
“Really?” Steffi’s shirt stuck to the sweat beading from the spotlight of Peyton’s intensified scrutiny. “Seems like we’ve got more important things to talk about.”
“I didn’t ask you to visit so we could sit around fretting together. I want to laugh and forget for a while. Besides, Steffi, nothing is more important than boy talk. Wasn’t that our first rule?”
Steffi grinned, remembering the league scrapbook they’d compiled. Part collage, part journal, part wish list . . . Claire had upholstered that five-inch binder with batting and a green-and-pink plaid fabric.
Throughout the years, they’d stuffed it with cards, notes, camp brochures, and photographs, but the first page had been a list of rules. The second rule had been about boy talk (a “Vegas rules” kiss-and-tell kind of group promise). The first had been about putting friends before boys—no matter what. Peyton must’ve thought of that one at the exact same time, because she turned her face away and stared out the window, her forehead creased.
Steffi supposed she could distract Peyton with some gossip, even if it would be at her own expense. “Ryan and his daughter moved in with his mom. It’s temporary . . . maybe six months or so. I think he’s waiting to see how things shake out with the divorce before he makes any new financial commitments. For now, his mom is helping him with Emmy.”
“Divorce?” Peyton’s mouth dropped open. “And he has custody? Is Val in rehab or something?”
“I don’t know the full scoop, but it’s not rehab. Seems more like Val’s having an early midlife crisis.” Steffi shook her head. “It breaks my heart to see what it’s doing to Emmy.”
“So you’ve seen him and met his daughter?” Peyton’s riveted attention meant she wasn’t thinking about her cancer.
Despite her damp palms and tightening stomach, Steffi kept sharing, knowing more questions would follow. “I’m converting the Quinns’ screened porch into a family room, so I see them every day.”