He must sense my vulnerability because he steps forward. Has me wanting to forget the past eleven months ever happened. But the sound of it in his soft, deep, familiar voice has my stomach tugging with longing. His shoulders are broader, his stride more confident. His hair is longer than before, the curling ends brushing the collar of his T-shirt. But the closer he gets, the more I notice the slight differences. His dark, thick hair waves wildly around his handsome face and he’s wearing the Warriors T-shirt he got after they won the championship.
He looks the same, which is another reason to be mighty ticked off. What we did.įor a moment, it’s like it’s always been.īut it’s not real, this sense of connection. It’s so familiar, me waiting for him, watching him approach, that for a moment I forget everything that’s happened between us. I just stand in the middle of the parking lot like a statue while Sam closes the distance between us. Sam Constable is walking toward me.Įspecially since I can’t seem to move. Not when the only makeup I have on is lip balm and I smell like the worst combination of dirt and sweat and the 50 SPF sunscreen I slather on at least six times a day. Not when my hair-pulled through the back of my battered Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat-is huge and frizzy from the humidity. Not when my clothes (khaki shorts that reach the knees, work boots and a green tee sporting the Glenwood Landscaping insignia) are covered in potting soil and grass clippings and I’m wearing a backpack approximately the size of a small car. Benton’s huge, perfectly landscaped lawn. Not when I’m hot and exhausted from an eight-hour shift spreading mulch over the raised garden beds in Mrs. It’s supposed to happen when I’m dressed to kill, my hair smooth and straight and shiny. Before he went on his merry way again, I knew we would have at least one totally uncomfortable, completely unwanted encounter.īut it’s supposed to happen days, maybe even a week or two from now. There’s no way I’d be able to avoid him completely. Or Zoe would send me to Top-Mart to get more diapers and baby wipes because even though Zoe works there six days a week, we’re still forever running out of diapers and baby wipes, and Sam and his friends would be there buying plastic cups, pop, Hawaiian Punch and Red Bull, because in the summer there’s always a party and there’s always need for mix-ins for the vodka, tequila and rum. Or he’d be leaving Drip ’n Sip, his usual large ice coffee with cream in his hand, when I was walking in. I’d be walking down Main Street and he’d be in his black SUV at a red light. Which meant I’d resigned myself to the fact that I would, at some point during Sam’s visit home, see him. Why should I hide? I wasn’t the one who changed everything.Īnd if I quit my job, my other sister, Devon, would kill me dead. That I’d considered it-quitting my job and staying tucked away in our trailer for the rest of the summer-left the unmistakable taste of resentment in my mouth. Once he came back, it’d only be a matter of time until we ran into each other. Every day for a week, my Instagram feed was filled with Sam, Sam and more Sam, the captions variations on the same theme: So glad you’re coming home! Can’t wait to see you! All is right in the world again! Constable-Reister, Sam’s friends started with the throwback pics of him. Shortly after Zoe’s conversation with Dr. Constable-Reister confirmed her middle son’s imminent return.Īccording to Zoe, the usually reserved doctor was almost giddy about having Sam home for a few weeks over the summer. During what had to be an awkward, stilted and overly polite chat, Dr. Only to have my hopes cruelly dashed last week when Sam’s mom went through my sister Zoe’s checkout line at Top-Mart. Still, I’d hoped word of his return was just the idle talk of those who missed him. Sooner or later, the truth always comes out. But that hasn’t stopped me from hearing all about him and his fabulous new life in sunny California, my information coming from social media comments, snatches of overheard conversations and local gossip. He hasn’t called, texted or sent so much as an email. Sam hasn’t initiated a conversation with me since he dropped out of my life almost a year ago.
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