FOUR

THE NEXT MORNING, armed with an arsenal of binders and papers I stole from the diner’s office, I return to the Prickly Pear. It’s busier than yesterday, but I’m still able to snag the corner table near the windows. With its purple-painted brick, cascading chandeliers constructed entirely from recycled eyeglasses, and vintage movie posters decoupaged onto the floor, there’s a coziness to this place that helps me concentrate.

If I plan on overseeing diner business from Chicago, I need to devote some time familiarizing myself with the diner’s records. Otherwise my father will be badgering me with phone calls every two seconds while he recuperates from surgery when my focus should be on executing the product launch for Kingsbury Enterprises.

I order my usual chai and get to work. Only everything is disorganized. Payroll records are outdated and incomplete. Daily sales figures are missing for weeks at a time. Purchase order requests are only partially filled out, and even then, with incorrect shipping instructions. Distributors’ catalogs are ripped with chunks of pages missing and several suppliers have sent outstanding payment notices for deliveries made months ago.

So much for the diner running on autopilot, I think as I flip through page after page of chaos. How does it even function with record keeping like this? Is it even turning a profit?

The sound of hollering yanks my attention away. I glance around and see four guys that look like they stepped straight off a bus from Nashville—guitars slung across their backs, cowboy hats pushed down low over their eyes, tattoos covering their arms—jabbing each other’s shoulders and laughing as they walk into the back room, where the stage is set up.

I recognize them as members of the Randy Hollis Band from the various posters hanging around the Prickly Pear. They must be performing tonight. I remember in high school and college watching musicians shuffle through this place, paying their dues, living off tips stuffed in empty coffee mugs, cutting their teeth trying to make their dreams a reality.

The same way Nick did, I think as sudden images of him playing the songs he wrote to a crowded room crash into me. I shake them away. I don’t want to remember him. Or what happened between us.

I turn back around and continue sorting through the diner’s files, keeping my focus where it belongs. Three hours later, I’m still trying to make sense out of something, anything, in this mess. My father’s chicken scratch, haphazardly scribbled in the margins of almost every page, mocks me. Claiming defeat, I toss my pen onto the table and stretch my arms above my head. A bowl of teeth-rotting cereal calls my name.

In the room adjacent to the café is Couch Potato Corner, the perfect place to catch a quick mental break and where I spent many late nights with Annabelle after all-day studyfests. Distressed leather sofas surround old-school televisions, complete with built-in legs and rabbit ears. A breakfast bar flanks the back wall filled with glazed doughnuts, cereals reminiscent of childhood, and Eggo waffles begging for a toaster oven and a bath in Mrs. Butterworth’s. Six dollars and thirty-five cents for all you can eat.

I pay my admission to the barista behind the counter and contemplate my choices. After pouring a bowl of Lucky Charms, I curl up on one of the couches, flipping the television to cartoons. I’m so distracted by an anvil being dropped on a coyote’s head I nearly miss my cell phone vibrating. Catching it on the last ring, I grab it off the side table and answer without bothering to look at the name on the screen.

“Hello?” I say, shoving of spoonful of pastel marshmallows into my mouth.

“You better be kidnapped by Goonies.”

And out comes the mouthful of marshmallows.

“Annabelle!” I say, scrambling to put the television on mute. “Hey!”

“Cut the bullshit, Lillie. When were you going to tell me you were in town?”

I bite my lip. “It was a last-minute trip. I got in yesterday.”

The sounds of Dallas traffic filter through the phone. From somewhere far off, I can hear the ringing bell of the McKinney Avenue Trolley. I imagine her strolling around Uptown, carrying glossy bags overflowing with linen swatches and stationery samples, phone pressed to her ear as she pops in and out of boutiques.

“You’re lucky I love you,” she says, then changes the subject with her usual abruptness. “Your fairy godmother, Sullivan Grace, woke me up at the ass crack of dawn this morning.” In Annabelle terms “ass crack of dawn” means any time before ten. Welcome to the cushy life of a wedding and event planner.

“Okay,” I say. “And?”

“And she knows you’re in town,” Annabelle says, her voice turning muffled. I hear her shouting at someone in the background.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” I say, louder than what is appropriate for any indoor space in an attempt to talk over whatever squabble she’s having.

Seconds pass of more muffled arguing. Finally she sighs into the phone and says, “Sorry about that. A damn bike messenger nearly decapitated me. Anyway, if you’re at the Prickly Pear, you better run and hide while you can. You know how pushy that old woman can be.”

As if on cue, a voice as sweet as southern tea drawls my name, emphasizing each syllable. I’d recognize that Charleston accent anywhere.

I cringe. “Annabelle, she’s here. I need to call you back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “We’ll catch up later at the committee meeting. Don’t be late.”

Huh?

Plastering a smile on my face, I set the cereal bowl aside and haul myself up from the couch. Sullivan Grace Hasell—better known as Ms. Bless Your Heart for her uncanny ability to insult the sin out of someone but mask it as a compliment swathed in a little southern flair—stands before me in a floral couture dress. Her caramel-colored hair is styled in an elegant bun that accentuates her long, graceful neck.

“There you are!” She encases me in a hug. I breathe in her perfume, a mix of pears and freesia, the same scent she’s worn since forever, as she drawls on, “Where Annabelle said you’d be.”

Of course it is.

“Hello, Ms. Hasell,” I say with exaggerated cheer.

“I hardly recognized you, dear. You look stressed. Are you stressed?” She cups my face in her hands. “Oh, you know what I think it is? It’s the way you’re wearing your hair now, all pulled back tight in that ponytail. But never mind about that,” she says, peering at me through long, full lashes. “You’re looking lovely as ever, even with those fine lines around your eyes, bless your heart. It’s nice to see you haven’t let those midwesterners pressure you into the Botox craze.”

“Actually, I opted for liposuction instead,” I deadpan. “Sucked the fat right out of me.”

Sullivan Grace ignores me. “Though you really should try a lighter color palette, Lillie. That black sweater makes you look haggard. Not to mention it dulls out the soft blue of your eyes.” She collects an imaginary speck of lint between her thumb and pointer finger and discards it to the floor. “Elizabeth would throw a fit if she knew you’d abandoned your apron for those drab pinstripes.”

My heart does that dropping-into-my-stomach thing again as anger swirls inside me. I rub my temples in slow, precise circles as I battle the headache forming from the mere mention of my mother’s name.

Sullivan Grace was my mother’s college roommate and closest friend before my mother went out for butter on my third birthday and never came back. But that didn’t stop Sullivan Grace from sticking around. Growing up, I think she saw me as some kind of charity case. Or maybe she was worried that since I no longer had a female figure in my life, I’d end up shaving my head and joining the circus. Or perhaps, in some convoluted way, she felt like she owed it to my mother to make sure I turned out on the right side of normal. Whatever the case, Sullivan Grace has always been there, lingering in the background, pushing my buttons with her veiled reprimands and meddling ways.

“Oh well, it’s not important now. It’s marvelous to see you,” she says, gushing like a shaken soda can. “Jackson said you’re moving home.”

“Actually, I’m only here for a short visit.”

“Nonsense,” she says, waving me off with a flick of her wrist. “You’re needed here.”

“That’s kind of you, but the diner is better off without me.”

“I’m not talking about the diner, dear, though Jackson did make me the most delectable eggs Benedict this morning. He really is the sweetest man,” she says, smiling like a coy schoolgirl. It’s no secret that Sullivan Grace has always liked my father. “No, no. I’m talking about the Upper Crust.”

“Upper what?”

“Honestly, Lillie, have you heard nothing I’ve said? Sometimes I don’t know where your head is at,” she says, adjusting the strand of heirloom pearls around her neck. “The Upper Crust is Junior League’s annual charity baking competition. You’ll make Elizabeth’s peach cobbler recipe, of course.”

Baking competition?

Peach cobbler?

“Are you crazy?” I say, my voice rising. “I’m not doing that.”

“Don’t be silly, dear,” she says. “Jackson already signed you up!”

My mouth drops open and a disbelieving laugh spills out. The jingling bell above the door interrupts my protest. A voice I never thought I’d hear again flitters into the Prickly Pear. It’s a voice I heard nearly every day for twenty years until the night everything broke apart. Nick’s voice.

The blood drains from my face, and panic bubbles up in my chest, crushing my lungs. My heart pounds a two-beat bass line, so loud I’m sure even the barista can hear it. A roaring, rushing noise fills my ears.

When I left Dallas, he was a second-year resident at Baylor Medical Hospital, sleeping on cots, living in scrubs, and eating cold cafeteria food. All so he could someday call himself a surgeon. Now he’s here, in the last place I expected.

Inhaling sharply, I keep my focus on Sullivan Grace’s pearl necklace. Don’t look at him. I peek anyway. I can’t help it. He looks exactly as I remember, but older and somehow even more handsome in that striking way I’ve always found devastating. A hum of electricity runs through me.

He’s standing in the doorway chatting with Candy Cotton, a diner regular from my high school days. Hovering at least two heads over her, he nods politely at something she says. Candy must be pushing ninety and almost deaf by now. I watch as she pats his cheeks with gnarled fingers, then pulls him down by an earlobe, yelling something in his face that brings out his signature crooked grin, followed by a laugh.

My breath catches as I gape at him, mesmerized. Somewhere in the background I hear Sullivan Grace droning on, her words a monotone “wah-wah-wah” like Miss Othmar from the Peanuts comics. I’m too fascinated by the sound of his laughter to speak. It comes from deep in his chest—full and real.

That laugh was once my favorite thing about him. The warmth of it. How it made the world seem limitless and bright. But like everything else that fell by the wayside once he started medical school, that laugh eventually faded away into silence.

A weight settles on me and I jump, blinking at Sullivan Grace’s hand resting on my arm.

“Are you paying attention, dear?”

When I don’t answer, she snaps her fingers in front of my nose and scrutinizes me like I’ve stuck my head inside an oven and turned on the broiler.

Maybe I have. Nothing else makes sense.

Sullivan Grace sighs. “Lillie Claire?”

My name hangs in the air. Nick’s gaze shifts in my direction, and the smile disappears from his face. Every alarm in my body sounds.

Before I can run for cover, he’s walking over. Then he’s in front of me, studying me with those piercing blue eyes that can see right into me. I refuse to look away. Looking away is weakness. Looking him in the eye is a challenge, a silent way of letting him know I’m not the girl I was before, the girl who lost herself.

Then he speaks, steady and controlled. “Hello, Lillie.”

My confidence fizzles away. I’m not sure what I expected after . . . everything, but his simple greeting definitely isn’t it.

“Hello, Nick.” My voice sounds weird and shaky.

His gaze sweeps over me, taking in my clothes, my hair, my face. My heartbeat speeds up as little pinpricks travel up and down my body, vibrating with energy. I hate how he can still affect me like this.

“You look good,” he says with a small smile that accentuates his strong cheekbones.

“Thank you.” In my nervousness, my response comes out curt and forced. Up close, I notice faint purple crescents underneath his eyes. Stubble lines his jaw. Worn jeans cling to his toned frame, and a threadbare gray T-shirt hugs his sculpted chest and broad shoulders. His shift at the hospital must have recently ended.

Before my mind has a chance to catch up with my mouth, I blurt, “You look tired.”

He raises an eyebrow and clears his throat. “I had a late night and an early morning.”

“Oh . . . right,” I say, glancing at his shoes—black canvas Chuck Taylor All Stars with scuffed toes and dirty laces. I remember shoes like those banging against the kitchen cabinets in my father’s house while Nick sat on the counter and taste-tested my recipes. I remember rubber soles squeaking as Nick chased me around the diner. I remember the feel of rough canvas moving up and down my calf while we made out in the backseat of Susanna—a restored 1969 mint-green Mercedes, named after my favorite James Taylor song, that was a gift from his grandfather.

“How have you been?” Nick asks in a way that sounds sincere, though I imagine he’s only being polite.

“Fine,” I say, biting my lip. “Just . . . tying up some loose ends for my father before I head back.”

“I see.”

“And you? The hospital?” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I immediately wish there was a way I could pluck them from the air and put them back inside me.

Nick rakes a hand through his dark brown hair. It’s the longest I’ve ever seen it but still just as untamed. “Things at the hospital are good,” he says. “Everything’s good. My father’s head of cardiology now.”

“That’s . . . great,” I say. “Your mother must be so proud.”

His lips form a thin line, and a muscle twitches in his jaw. “Something like that.”

“Oh! Lillie, dear, haven’t you heard?” Sullivan Grace interjects, pressing a delicate hand to her chest. I forgot she was standing beside me, and from the startled look on Nick’s face, I think he did, too. “Everyone’s all aflutter about—”

Nick’s shoulders stiffen. “It’s fine, Ms. Hasell,” he says. “Lillie doesn’t care about any of that.”

He’s right. I don’t care. Not about him and Baylor Medical, not about this Upper Whatever my father has volunteered me for, and not about managing Turner’s Greasy Spoons. I left Dallas to get away from all that.

Sullivan Grace blinks, looking momentarily stunned before regaining her composure. “Right, right. Of course,” she says, then changes the subject to the god-awful baking competition again, yammering on about sponsor expectations and donation forms and judging guidelines and blah blah blah.

“Ms. Hasell,” I cut in. “I’m flattered you want me to do this, but I really must be going. My father’s expecting me at his attorney’s office and—”

“And nothing, dear,” she says with a steel-wool smile, deepening the crow’s feet around her eyes. “You’ll be at Junior League headquarters tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock. This is for charity, after all. Are you really going to deny a desperate child the opportunity to receive a warm meal?”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“Now you’re a bit behind the other contestants with practicing,” she continues, “but I’m sure you’ll catch up in no time. In fact, yesterday I was telling Paulette Bunny . . .”

I tune her out, grateful she’s a talker.

As I tuck a hair that’s escaped from my ponytail behind my ear, I watch as Nick’s eyes lock on my finger. My left ring finger—the one with the sparkling diamond on it. I meant to leave it in my pocket like I did yesterday, only this morning I must have slipped it on out of habit.

Nick furrows his brow and tilts his head, examining the ring as if it’s a Magic 8 Ball giving him a clue he doesn’t understand. A moment passes and then his expression hardens into an unreadable mask.

My heart hammers in my chest and my insides twist like they’re being spun around fork tines. My hand trembles, and the cushion-cut stone dances under the lights, reflecting tiny rainbows onto Nick’s shirt.

Could I be a bigger idiot? I think as I shove my left hand into my trouser pocket.

My eyes dart to Sullivan Grace, hoping she hasn’t noticed. Thankfully, she seems oblivious. Now she’s in the middle of telling a story about last year’s Upper Crust baking competition. Something about how an apple turnover beat out French silk pie for best in show.

I start to interrupt before Nick ruins everything. The last thing I need is Sullivan Grace gossiping to my father before I have the chance to tell him myself.

But I’m too late. Nick speaks first.

“Congratulations,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he never got down on one knee in our secret spot at Montgomery Park and asked me to marry him. “I’m happy for you.”

My gaze meets his, and it’s as if we’re continents apart. I should feel smug, victorious, showing Nick that I’ve moved on, put our past behind me, but instead I’m overcome with sadness. It was supposed to be you. The thought is like a wound that won’t heal.

“Thank you,” I say. “It . . . happened recently.”

Sullivan Grace finally realizes there’s another conversation taking place and turns to me and says, “Recently? What happened recently?”

“Oh, um, my new promotion at work,” I stammer, my eyes pleading with Nick to please, for the love of cherry streusel go along with it. “So you can understand, Ms. Hasell, why I’m not in a position to stay and help with your charity event. You’ll need to find someone else, someone willing.”

Sullivan Grace’s mouth drops open but quickly snaps shut. In all my years, I’ve never seen her rendered speechless.

Nick stares at me with the focus of a sniper. When he finally speaks, his tone is so sharp it could slice through dry ice. “It’s probably for the best, anyway,” he says to Sullivan Grace, though I know his words are meant for me. “Lillie’s still got all those loose ends to tie up before she runs back to wherever the hell she’s been. May as well let her get on with it.” Then he gives me a look, as if I’m the bad guy.

A fire ignites in the pit of my stomach. Flames of anger lick through me and burst from my mouth. “You knew where I was.”

“Really?” Nick says with a bitter laugh. “How would I know that? You left.”

I feel a shift inside me, transforming my anger into righteous indignation as I recall all the meals I ate alone. All the times I waited for him to return home after his residency shift ended only to be faced with cold indifference when he finally did pass through the front door. All the conversations I had with myself because I couldn’t bear the silence. All the nights I laid curled up in bed longing for a touch that would never come.

He left me first, long before I ever took the final step.

He left me first.

“Go ahead, Nick. Blame me.” I take a challenging step forward. “You’re right. I did leave, and I don’t regret it,” I say, then say it again, louder, firmer, grounding the electrical current pulsing through me. Reminding me that nothing has changed between us. Nothing.

Then with long, purposeful strides, I walk away from him and Sullivan Grace, grabbing my things before stepping out into the warm October afternoon.

And like that day five years ago when I boarded a plane to Chicago, I don’t look back.