Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 639(@200wpm)___ 511(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
“You look nice.” She hands me her basket so she can hook both of her arms in mine. “I just need to grab my purse and sweater and put these flowers in water.”
We go inside and she takes the basket from me. I watch her arrange them in a tall vase. She takes her time and we don’t talk. Then she takes them into the bedroom and comes back out wearing a sky-blue cropped sweater.
“Ready?”
She nods. “Should I drive?”
“Sure. You drive.”
She cocks an eyebrow at me. “Really? You’re gonna let me drive?”
“Like I could stop you.”
She giggles a little, shaking her head. “I know why you do this.”
So do I. But neither of us says it out loud.
Instead, I say, “I just want more time to stare at you.” And she knows this is true.
She drives her Suburban and I do look at her the whole time. She is backlit by the incredible purple, and red, and orange sunset sky. Town isn’t that far. Less than ten miles. But these ten miles are the most peaceful I’ve had in a long time. When I’m with Nova, nothing else seems to matter. I live in the present. The past is nothing but a hazy memory. And the future?
Well, the future is why I’m here in the first place.
I want one, with her.
She knows this. Maybe she’s even known this since the very first day we met. But Nova Ryan isn’t the kind of woman who gives in to urges that have long-term consequences.
She’s careful.
Some might even call her manipulative and shrewd.
But I call it cunning. And there’s a big difference. Everything she does, she does it with an endgame in mind. And that’s the definition of long-term consequences. She is impulsive in the moment, for sure. She can be impulsive. But only with things that don’t matter.
So I like when she’s quiet, and still, and contemplative.
And if I’m around, and she’s like this, it means she’s weighing her options with me.
Whatever this dinner is—whatever this invitation to stay is—it’s not an impulse. It’s a plan.
And this comforts me.
Maybe, after all this time and all these years, maybe we let things go. Start over. Build something better.
She pulls into the parking lot, shuts the engine off, and turns to face me as we unbuckle our seatbelts.
“What?” I ask.
“That first time we met.”
“Yeah?”
“What did you think of me?”
I huff a little. This allows my grin to escape. “Nova, the first time we met, you stole my breath.”
“And the second?”
“The second time you stole my heart.”
“Why though? Why did you… me… we… why did we do those things?”
“Why?” I chuckle a little. “Because we were young, Nova. And young people want to challenge the norms and leave their mark on things. That’s why.”
She grabs her purse and nods, but doesn’t answer.
We get out of the car. I meet her at the bumper, take her hand, and that’s how we walk into the little restaurant.
As a couple.
It’s a nice place. Quaint. Very trendy. Something you’d see on Instagram. But it fits this part of the world.
It’s actually an old mansion. White wood siding, large farmhouse porch, fireflies hovering over a squared-off hedge. And inside it’s just a little bit too warm, but that’s because of the bustling kitchen.
Nova leans in to my ear as we wait in line for the hostess’s attention. “My friend Deenya runs this place. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s really nice.”
I give no fucks about the restaurant. I’m only here to spend time with her.
We are led to a table near a window that faces a lit-up rear garden filled with lavender and I wonder if it was designed by Nova.
Of course it was. Purposeful, Locke. She is nothing if not purposeful.
Before we can even sit, a woman approaches. She is older than Nova by at least twenty years, but I know that this is Deenya. Not quite a mother figure, but close. She is something out of the last century. Thick, curly red hair. Long, probably, but it’s so curly it bunches up just past her shoulders. She’s wearing large, gold, hoop earrings, enough gold bangle bracelets to call cows home for dinner, and a dress that can only be called a mu-mu. It’s cotton, it’s white, it’s got some eyelet lace, but it’s oversized and has no shape at all.
Which is fine, I guess. She’s older. She deserves to be comfortable at work.
Nova and Deenya take each other’s hands, lean in, kiss cheeks. Pull back. Smile. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming in tonight?” Deenya asks.
“It was last-minute.”
A lie. Kind of. It was last-minute, but not last-minute enough to prevent a phone call warning. I’ll have to think about this later because right now Nova is introducing me. “Deenya, this is my good friend, Locke. Locke, this is my good friend, Deenya.”