Tumble (Dogwood Lane, #1)(14)

He chews on his bottom lip. “But you know, sometimes when things fall apart, you can learn something to help you the next time. Makes it less like gambling. You can still win.”

“Good to hear.”

“It’s life, Neely,” he says. “Live and learn.”

“I guess when some of us fall, and we were all in, it must hurt a little more. You probably don’t understand that,” I fire back.

Our gazes snap together. He bites his lip harder—to keep from saying something? I’m not sure.

“Fair enough,” he mutters.

The back of my neck tightens as his tone washes over me. I bite my lip, too, in the hope that it keeps me from saying anything else, but I succumb to guilt.

Despite whether that was deserved, why waste our time on it?

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair,” I say.

“Nah, it was.”

“It was,” I emphasize. “But I shouldn’t have said it like that. It makes me seem classless.”

“Oh,” he says, his grin returning. “You’re sorry so you don’t feel like an ass. Not because it might’ve hurt my feelings?”

“Exactly.”

“So classy of you, Neely.”

“The last time I talked to you, I was pretty convinced you didn’t have feelings.” I laugh. “So, pardon me.”

He considers this as he plops a box of fruity cereal into his cart. “Okay. I can see where you’re coming from there, and I can’t argue it.”

“Really?”

“I’m not saying you’re right. Don’t get excited.”

“I was so close,” I say, feigning defeat.

“Let’s not get crazy, babe.”

His term of endearment has me stutter-stepping around the endcap. My shoulder hits a tower of potato chips, and the plastic rustles together, knocking one bag to the floor. I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He’s looking at me with a dose of caution.

“Sorry.” He winces. “It just slipped out.”

“Apology accepted.”

Our gazes refuse to break, although he’s trying as hard as I am to look away. He finally bends to get the dropped chips as I fan my face to quell the blush in my cheeks.

“I don’t think it’s crushed too bad,” he says, situating the bag on the rack.

“Just give it to me.” I take it off the rack again and toss it in my cart. “I’ll have a guilty conscience otherwise.”

He laughs freely but doesn’t comment. Instead, we continue down the aisle, going so slowly I could probably read every label as we pass. He points to little cakes shaped like stars with lime-green icing. Memories of those sitting in the passenger’s seat of his car when he picked me up for school make my chest ache so hard it steals my breath.

“I haven’t had one of those in forever,” I say.

“I get them sometimes.” He shrugs, the ridge of his shoulders flexing against the fabric of his shirt. “They’re smaller than I remembered, though. They’re half the size of my hand.” He holds his hand out to demonstrate.

“What did you do to your thumb?” The nail is a gnarly shade of purple, and the end is almost double the size of his other fingers.

“Hammer.” He makes a motion like he’s swinging a tool toward his thumb and makes a popping noise.

“Guess you didn’t take after your father after all,” I goad.

“That’s not nice.”

“That’s true. How many times has he hit his finger? Never. Because he’s the best.”

“You wound me.” He tries to pout but ends up laughing. “He’d like to see you, you know.”

My eyes dart to the floor. Leaving and never checking in with Nick was unfair. He was so good to me, loved me, even, and I just left. It was easy to rationalize then. He had Dane and his decisions to deal with, and I told myself having anything to do with either of them would only complicate things. That the responsible thing to do was just stay away.

That got harder as the years went on. I’d remember his birthday and want to send a card or see his favorite saltwater taffy and want to ship some his way.

I should see him. I want to, even. But the idea of being hit in the face with a family that isn’t mine sends the lump in my throat rising.

“Yeah, well,” I begin, clearing my throat. “I’m not sure I’ll have time.”

He nods, his face falling. “I get it. How long did you say you’ll be around?”

“A few days, most likely,” I say off the cuff. “Hopefully not longer than that.”

I make a turn down the bread aisle, and he follows suit. I wonder how long he’s going to follow me. I also wonder how much I’m going to buy before I have the balls to walk away.

“Why? You have something against this place?” he asks, his cart rolling to a stop. “Pretty sure Dogwood Lane is fond of you.”

A swallow passes down his throat. I wait for his lopsided smile, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a guarded hesitation is written across his face like he’s afraid he’s the something.

“I do have something against this place,” I say, the lump in my throat evident. You. “My heart is in New York.”

His brows pull together, and I have to look away.