August
* * *
Sheridan nudges my shoulder with hers as we walk to my car. “This feels so risky … being out in public together.”
We’re in the next suburb over, a touristy antique town called Springdale. No one our age ever sets foot here and most Meredith Hills locals prefer shiny new shopping malls to mom-and-pop vintage fronts, so it seemed like the safest choice for a day together.
We found a seafood restaurant and walked around Main Street window shopping like an old married couple, something I’d never have been caught dead doing before I met this woman. We took pictures by a mermaid fountain—pictures that will never see the light of day outside of our phones—and she danced for me outside a little café that was piping Frank Sinatra from an outdoor speaker. I couldn’t begin to remember what song it was either. I was too absorbed by her lightness, her contagious smile, and how the rest of the world melts away whenever we’re together.
Pinning my gorgeous girl against the passenger door, I cradle her sweet face and replace the smile on her lips with a kiss.
I’m officially that guy.
The lust-struck asshole with the girlfriend he can’t get enough of—only she’s not my girlfriend. Technically, this isn’t even a date. Despite establishing that we’re both catching feelings, we’ve yet to tack on labels or make promises we can’t keep.
Sheridan rises on her toes as she kisses me back, slipping her arms over my shoulders.
I don’t make habits out of wishing for things I can’t have, but what I wouldn’t give to live in this moment, with her, forever.
An endless loop.
Until she came into my life, I never thought twice about the future. Never worried about the kind of man I wanted to be someday. Certainly never cared about giving back or making a difference in anyone else’s life besides my own. But Sheridan makes me think about the future, where I’m headed and where I want to go. She’s given me something to look forward to when before I had nothing—and no one. This woman is pure love and hope and radiance—outshining the darkness that has haunted me my entire life.
I can’t go back to that.
I’ll fucking die.
I’ll waste away on a pathetic vine of hundred dollar bills and sports cars and meaningless sex with strangers and for the first time in my life, that sounds like some kind of fresh hell.
I want meaning and substance. I want her.
“Where do you want to go now?” I unlock the car and get the door for her.
She checks her watch and winces. “I actually need to get home. Mom’s having a friend over later and Dad’s doing yard work … I thought I’d corner him outside and confront him about those texts.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t by now.”
We’ve talked about it here and there, and every time she either changes the subject or vomits out a lame excuse as to why she can’t or why it wasn’t the perfect time. I’m sure she’s just scared.
Reality is fucking terrifying—especially when the truth has life-altering consequences.
“Me too.” She sighs. “I just …what if I’m wrong?”
“Right or wrong, you deserve an explanation for those texts.”
“True.”
She climbs in, and I close the door behind her.
A minute later we’re heading home, back to our respective realities. She hums along to a Led Zeppelin song on the radio, something about a girl with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair. I silently memorize the lyrics so I can look up the song later and listen to it whenever I want to re-live this moment.
Reaching across the console, I take her hand and lift it to my lips. “I’m here for you, Rose girl. Anything you need.”
It’s not quite “I love you” but it’s the closest thing I’ve ever said to it.
She rests her head on my shoulder as we drive, and, selfishly, I take the long way home just to have an extra four minutes with Sheridan by my side.
The clock is ticking, the days are fleeting faster than they should, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in my life so far, it’s that all good things eventually come to an end. And in my experience, the best things tend to go down in flames.
Chapter Thirty
Sheridan
* * *
“Hey, kiddo. Please tell me you came out here to shell some peas.” Dad sits in a lawn chair by the little raised garden by the garage, two bowls in his lap. “There’s a million of these little suckers.”
My father and his wholesome hobbies—a stark contrast to his alter ego …
Mom and her childhood best friend are in the kitchen, catching up over oolong tea and store bought coffee cake. If there were ever a time to confront my dad about those texts, it’s now, while she’s occupied and distracted.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.” I slide my hands into my back pockets and plant my bare feet in the grass. Heat creeps up my neck, likely painting it in little pink blotches, but I clear my throat and swallow my doubts. August reminded me that I deserve to know the truth about those texts. And he’s right.