Tumble (Dogwood Lane, #1)(32)

“’Night, baby girl.”

I make my way back into the kitchen. Fishing around in the refrigerator, I find a beer, and then I slip out the back door.

The sky is dark, the moon bright overhead and illuminating the good-size backyard. I plop on the swing and take a sip of the beer that’s probably expired.

My heart is heavy as I push back and forth in the warm night air. From the corner of my eye, I see a flashlight on in Mia’s room and laugh. She never listens. Dad says she gets it from me. I say she gets it from Matt.

She used to come up with new quirks—a way of saying a certain word or a new part in her hair—and tell me she got it from her mother. Then when Sara, a woman I really liked and saw a potential future with, moved in after our dating for a year, Mia latched on to her like a leech. And when six months went by and she left us, too, saying she wasn’t prepared to raise someone else’s child, Mia was broken.

I won’t let that happen again. I won’t fail her a third time.

I take another sip of the beer and free my mind to roam. It does the typical inventory list for work and runs through anything I might need to leave for Haley in the morning. And then it goes somewhere I usually don’t let it: to Neely.

Resting back in the swing, a baby doll lying beside me, I imagine what life might’ve been like with her. Everything I said about her tonight is true. I’m not surprised Mia thinks the world of her. What I am surprised about is, despite her hateful words to me at Mucker’s, I still think the world of her. How could I not? I’m the one to blame for things not working out between us.

Right or wrong, I broke up with her.

I gave her hope we’d work some kind of long-distance thing out.

I slept with Katie.

I had a kid.

Glancing up as the flashlight beam bounces off the window above me again, my heart fills with a love I’ve never felt for anyone else.

I wouldn’t change it for the world.





CHAPTER TWELVE

NEELY

Focus,” I demand. Flexing my fingers, I start again.

Dear Mr. Snow,

Thank you very much for the invitation to interview.

My fingers stop working.

I throw my head back and sigh.

It’s taken me twenty minutes to type twelve words I don’t hate, and all I’m doing is thanking a man for an opportunity to interview. It’s a basic email. I should’ve been done with this nineteen minutes ago.

Alas, I take a deep breath and start where I left off.

I can be available for an interview at several times next week.

I groan. “All week because I have no life.” I start again but stop when a knock sounds on my bedroom door. “Come in.”

“Hey,” Mom says, poking her head around the corner. “I’m heading to the grocery for tea. You want anything?”

“I can’t think of anything.” Scooting my computer off my lap, I narrow my eyes. “You look different. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” She says it too quickly. “Just running out for some tea.”

“Eyeliner. You’re wearing eyeliner.”

“So?” Her cheeks turn a shade of blush that isn’t natural. “Can’t a woman my age wear eyeliner?”

Grinning, I swing my legs off the side of the bed. “Yup. Especially if you want to look hot. Who you looking all spiffy for, Mama?”

The blush deepens. “Will you stop it?”

“Not until you answer me.” I walk across the room and pull the door open. “And you’re wearing a skirt.”

“A maxi skirt. For goodness’ sake, Neely. It goes to my ankles.”

“So you’re going for a classy look. A ‘you have to work for the goods with me’ type of thing.” I raise a brow. “I like it.”

Her hands fly through the air in exasperation. “When do you go back to New York?”

“Needing this as a love pad?” I tease. “I can stay with Claire, you know.”

“No, you may not. You’re staying here.” As she smooths down her skirt, the pink in her cheeks pales. “Mr. Rambis needed a few things, so we’re going together.”

“Mr. Rambis from across the street? The guy that taught algebra for a hundred years?”

“It wasn’t a hundred years, but yes. That’s him.”

I consider this. “Not bad. He’s cute. Could lose the mustache, though. But his lawn is impeccable. You might want to consider that.”

“And why should I consider his lawn when I’m just getting some groceries with the man?”

“Because,” I say, sitting back on the bed, “it starts with groceries. Then you start baking for him. Then he’s staying late into the night, and the next thing you know, he’s in your bed.”

“Neely!”

“It’s true. I’ve read articles on things like this because God knows I don’t have any experience. And they say if a man’s lawn is too tidy, that means he doesn’t spend enough time inside.” I waggle my brows. It brings the blush back to her face. “If you get what I’m saying.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

With a roll of my eyes, I lean against the headboard and bring my laptop back to my lap. “It’s been said.”