Chapter 23

First thing Monday morning and through the first half of the week, I buried myself in postholiday work at the inn. Arriving early. Staying late. It worked to my advantage for a couple of reasons. One, the new ownership visited three days in a row, mapping out the steps needed for a healthy transition. It was encouraging to meet them and see their enthusiasm and optimism regarding the inn’s future. And it helped to let them see me putting in the hours at work, committing myself to a job well done every single day. Two, staying busy was the only way I could keep myself from randomly bursting into tears.

I hadn’t seen or spoken to Simon since we’d gotten back into town on Sunday evening. I still had his ring and needed to return it, but I couldn’t think of any situation where seeing him wouldn’t make me feel worse. Finally, on Wednesday evening, after I’d worked a retirement party in the ballroom, I sent Carlos through the rose garden to Simon’s house with a thick manila envelope I made him promise he wouldn’t open and wouldn’t give to anyone but Simon. In person. Leaving it on the doorstep was not allowed. With all the assistance Simon had provided before the inn was sold, it must not have seemed an unusual request. Carlos didn’t even question.

He came back a few minutes later empty-handed. “Did you see him?” I asked. “Did you give it to him?”

He nodded. “Why do you look like you swallowed a bumblebee? I gave it to him. He said to tell you thank you.”

“Thank you. Is that all he said?”

Carlos furrowed his brow. “Yes? Should I have asked him something else?”

I shook my head. “No. Sorry. It was just an important . . . document. If you gave it directly to him, I’m sure things are great.”

A few minutes later, a text popped up on my phone.

Thanks for the ring, Simon texted.

I responded right away. I’m sorry we didn’t return it before we left Asheville. I should have remembered.

They were closed because of the snow anyway. It’s fine. They have a sister store in Greensboro. I can return it there, his text read.

Sorry again for the trouble.

How are you? he asked.

It was a loaded question. And one I had no idea how to answer. I was still confused. Still hurt. Still angry.

I’m working on being okay, I texted back. It was the truth, after all. I was working on it. And I’d already decided on the first thing I needed to do before I could really feel right again.

I had to break up with Jamie.

I waited up for him Thursday night. His flight was delayed, so what had originally been scheduled as dinner turned into “maybe we can still grab dessert,” then finally “too late for food, but we need to see each other anyway.”

It was 9:45 p.m. when he finally showed up.

I met him at the door. “Hey, you,” he said, pulling me into a hug. “I missed you.”

Despite his traveling, he still smelled like California—like sun and salt and ocean breeze.

“I’ve missed you too,” I responded. “How was your trip?”

His eyes danced. “So good. I can’t wait to tell you about it.”

I knew in my gut if Jamie started talking before I did, he wouldn’t stop, barreling forward into a proposal I didn’t want. If I could avoid it, sparing us both the awkwardness of that serious of a rejection, I had to try. I squeezed his hand. “Let’s go sit down.”

We moved into the living room, and I said a silent prayer that my fortitude would be enough to get me through the next half hour. I wouldn’t deny I’d been somewhat of a mess the past few days, but at least on this point, my conscience was clear. Jamie wasn’t the man for me. For all my warring emotions, that truth had settled into my heart, and I knew it was right. I didn’t want a relationship full of doubt or uncertainty. I didn’t want grand gestures to convince me to hang on. I didn’t want to need convincing.

I’d spent a good deal of the drive back from Asheville thinking about what had led me to go after Jamie in the first place. It was Simon who had approached me after the game. Simon who had complimented my playing and offered me water. And yet I’d looked right past him. To be fair, I’d been told he had a girlfriend, which he had. But more than that, I’d let my competitive spirit drive me forward. Jamie was a conquest. The untouchable, undateable brother. He was the grand prize, and I was a girl who hated to lose. It wasn’t a fun realization to make. It made me feel shallow—more superficial than I wanted to be. Which was precisely the problem with my relationship with Jamie. We were happy because things remained surface level, nothing but a few manufactured connections to take us deeper.

I don’t know how I thought he would react to the breakup. Remembering how annoyed he was over lost soccer games, I probably should have anticipated a bigger argument. But when I told him how I felt, I was totally blindsided by his anger.

“Do you realize how much planning I’ve done?” he said, his voice raised. “I found us a house, Lane. It’s close to hotels for your work, and it’s in a great school district. What am I going to do with a house if you’re not in California to share it with me?”

“You never asked me if it’s what I wanted. You did all that planning without talking to me at all.”

“When you said you needed time to process, I thought you just wanted to be sure about moving. I didn’t think you were questioning our entire relationship.”

“It feels like I’m questioning everything lately. But, Jamie, really think about it. We haven’t been speaking the same language for weeks. We’re not connecting. Not like we should be.”

“But we have fun, Lane. We’ve never even had an argument. I feel like this is really coming out of nowhere.”

“That doesn’t alarm you at all? That we’ve never argued? How invested are we, really, if we haven’t ever felt anything strongly enough to fight about it? I don’t think you know me nearly as well as you think you do.”

A conversation I’d had with Simon while walking through the Biltmore House came to mind. He’d been asking me questions, trying to get me to tell him things he didn’t already know about me.

“Okay,” Simon had said. “Here’s what I’ve got. You love to read poetry—Billy Collins for his love of ordinary subjects, Longfellow for his passion, and Nikki Giovanni both because she writes revolutionary words and because she helped pave the way for other black artists and authors. You love chocolate but more as an accent than the main ingredient. You have a ridiculous yet somehow still-adorable obsession with BOYBAND 2.0. You play a mean game of soccer. Your favorite color must be turquoise because one, you have two different scarves, both turquoise, and two, it’s the color of your toenails. You love to read books that touch you on a soul-deep level. You love Puerto Rican food more than anything ever cooked in the States, with the exception of Granny Grace’s chicken and dumplings.”

I’d been blown away by his thoroughness and perception. Sure, much of what he’d mentioned we’d talked about, but other stuff he’d figured out because he’d paid attention. He cared about details like I did, which allowed him to see me like I wanted to be seen, in a way that despite his best efforts, Jamie never could. Jaime had been wrong for me from the start. It had just taken us a long time to realize it.

After twenty more minutes of arguing, Jamie was finally subdued, and I was completely drained. I reached over and touched his shoulder. “Hey. You okay?”

He gave me a long, hard look, then breathed out a weary sigh. “I think I will be.” He started like he wanted to ask something more, then hesitated before blurting out a question. “Is there someone else, Lane? When you went home, did you meet someone?”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that it didn’t even occur to him to consider Simon. It could be that he simply trusted his brother’s loyalty, but more than that, I think he’d never considered his older brother an actual threat. Jamie never lacked confidence, not on the soccer field, not in business, not with women, and I’d seen him mock his brother more than once regarding those particular aspects of his life. It was like he had a blind spot when it came to Simon. Because he was quieter, more reserved, and much less of a showboat, he was discounted. It made me sad—so much so that I almost wanted to tell Jamie what had happened with Simon just to jostle his perspective. But I couldn’t do it. Simon wasn’t the reason we were breaking up. Saying anything more would create a rift between them that didn’t need to exist.

“No. This is just about us. No one else.”

He nodded his head slowly, then stood from the couch. “I guess I should go.”

“I’m so sorry, Jamie.”

He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry too, Lane.”

* * *

I pushed my toes against the end of Granny’s couch and pulled the blanket a little tighter against my chin. It had been snowing for three days, this time enough to really make a difference. Thick, heavy snowflakes had accumulated quickly and essentially shut down the city. Though, snow or no snow, I’d probably still be hibernating in Granny’s family room. Breaking up stunk. And I felt a little like I’d been through two of them. One with Jamie, and one with Simon.

“Lane? You still in here?” Granny peeked in from the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I made some soup. And there’s leftover cornbread in the bread box.”

I sat up and stretched. Soup and cornbread sounded amazing. Granny had been a patient listener the past few days. She’d nodded and hmm’ed and aha’ed in all the right places. She’d let me cry and pout and had handed me mugs of hot chocolate and bowls of ice cream and pieces of fried chicken. Sometimes all at the same time. But I could tell she was getting tired of my moping. I couldn’t blame her, really. I was getting tired of my moping.

It had been just under a week since I’d had any contact with either of the Hamilton brothers, save a few text messages. Jamie was likely at home packing up his house, getting ready for his big move to California. I could imagine him pacing around, annoyed that the weather was slowing him down. I was glad he was planning to move. I didn’t bear him any ill will. I wanted him to be happy, and he would be once he’d made it to the West Coast.

I could imagine Simon too, holed up at home, working a little, reading. I wanted to see him and felt a swell of sadness I couldn’t push aside. We’d had one more text exchange since I’d given him the ring.

I heard about the breakup. I’m sorry, he’d texted.

It was the right thing to do, I responded. How’s Jamie?

Dejected. But resolute. He seems to be moving forward-ish.

That’s good.

His next message came through over an hour later. Lane, I’m sorry about my role in all of this. That you ended up getting hurt. More than anything, I’m so sorry we didn’t meet under different circumstances.

The subtext of what he didn’t say pulsed behind his words. Jamie’s my brother. He’s broken, and I won’t make it worse. But if he weren’t . . .

It killed me. Because the more I thought about Simon, the more I realized how much I cared about him. All along, he’d been the one seeing me, understanding what would make me happy. Without having to really think or try or pretend, we’d always connected. That I’d ignored the obvious for so long in the guise of saving my relationship with Jamie was almost too much to process. But then, truly, what would it have mattered? They were brothers, and Simon had proven he’d never turn his back on his brother.

In the kitchen, Granny had the table set and was already ladling the soup into bowls. She handed me one and then the other. I breathed in, savoring the aroma of the spicy corn chowder, before setting them on the table. “Corn chowder and corn bread?”

Granny paused and leveled a stare right at me. “There’s a foot of snow on the ground outside. You been to the store lately?”

I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I wasn’t complaining. I’ll eat your cornbread with anything.” I filled my glass with water while Granny filled hers with sweet tea, then we both sat down. “How are things at the inn?” she asked.

“Quiet. There are a few stray guests left over from last week, but most everyone cancelled their reservations because of the storm. There’s supposed to be a wedding on Saturday in the ballroom. Hopefully the roads will be clear enough by then.”

“Have you met the new owners yet?”

“Early last week. From what I can tell, they seem really nice.”

“Are they going to keep you on?”

“I don’t know. I think so. I’m sure they’ll make some changes, corporatize everything, but that’s probably a good thing. There are a lot of things at the inn that could use improving.”

“As long as improving doesn’t mean firing you.”

I took a bite of soup. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. I know the inn. And I’ve had enough experience at bigger hotels that any changes they implement shouldn’t be totally foreign territory.”

“Well, that’s good. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of you moving away now that I’m finally used to you being here.”

I put down my spoon. “It took you this long, huh?”

She chuckled, her grin wide. “You’re a handful, Lane. There’s no denying that.”

I crumbled my cornbread into my soup and scooped up another bite. “I’m pretty sure that’s what Grandpa used to say about you.”

Her chuckle turned into full-bellied laughter. “That he did.”

I was nearly done with my soup when she asked me if I’d talked to Simon. She’d had a few moments of gloating when I’d given her the rundown on what had happened. Claimed she’d known it all along. It was fine to let her have her fun, but I didn’t like talking to her about him. Because she failed to see how he’d done anything wrong. And I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook. “You still haven’t talked to him?” she said as she rinsed out her bowl.

“It’s only been three days since you last asked me that.”

“Really? Only three?”

“I’m not giving in, Granny. What would it accomplish? Even if we both wanted it, we can’t be together. It’s not worth the heartache of calling him up just to talk about something we can’t have.”

And so began my fast from the Hamilton brothers. An icy November thawed into an unseasonably warm December. I spent almost all my time at work, coordinating with the new ownership, growing more and more confident in my role at the inn. I worked through Christmas. New Years. Oversaw and executed lavish parties and elaborate meals, observing from the sidelines as people lived their happy lives. I found a sort of detached peace through it all. I was alone, yes, but there was simplicity in solitude. I worked, I exercised, I ate with Granny Grace. And in my lowest moments, I agonized over how I was going to tell Abuela my engagement was off. She was expecting an announcement in the mail. Had asked about it multiple times, mostly through my mother. I was sick over the thought of disappointing her.

John’s reassurances went a long way in making me feel better. He reminded me over and over again that Abuela loved me. That she wanted me to be happy and I shouldn’t be scared to tell her the truth. But I couldn’t do it. Probably because somewhere in the innermost recesses of my heart, I hoped there might be a future for Simon and me after all.

Once, in late January when winter had finally descended on North Carolina in all its frigid glory, I bundled up in my wool coat and turquoise scarf and left my office for the gardens. I wound my way back to the rose garden, a place I’d been avoiding for weeks. I stood in the corner, hidden behind the leafless branches of my favorite tree, and stared at Simon’s house. It was late afternoon, so he probably wasn’t home. But I wished he were. Time had dulled and dissipated my anger. All that was left was longing.

I realized with a keen sense of regret that I missed him more than I had ever missed Jamie.

It became a frequent walk for me. Once, maybe twice a week. At first I timed my outings so I knew he wouldn’t be home. But then, as time passed, I started walking later in the afternoon, closer to dinnertime, when he might be arriving home from work. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to him. I had no idea what I would say. But I did want to see him.

It was the end of March, on a Tuesday afternoon. I’d just finished a long meeting with a wedding planner who had very specific requests for the reception space, and my brain was done. I’d grown to appreciate the benefits of taking a walk through the gardens to clear my head, which was my very specific goal that afternoon. For once, I hadn’t even given Simon a thought.

Until I hit the corner of the rose garden that offered a vantage point of his porch and saw him standing there in front of his door. He wore a suit and an overcoat and held a stack of what looked like letters in his hand. His mail, probably. He sorted through them, his face passive. It was such an ordinary thing to be doing. Looking through his mail. But it made my breath catch anyway. My reaction was visceral—felt all the way in my bones. The detached peace I’d cultivated and enjoyed the past few months evaporated in a moment, replaced with a longing so intense I nearly fell to my knees. I needed him. Wanted him. Loved him.

I took a step backward, leaves crunching under foot. He turned at the sound. We made eye contact across the yard, though neither of us moved. We just stood there. Staring. Finally, I lifted a gloved hand and waved. He waved back, offered a hint of a smile. And then I turned and walked away.

I did my best to wipe away the tears before I was back at the inn. But my efforts were fruitless. I ran into Carlos at the back door.

“Hey, you okay?” he asked.

I sniffed. “I’m fine. Just getting a cold, I think.”

He furrowed his brow. “I don’t believe you.” It wasn’t surprising he didn’t believe me. We’d gotten to be good friends over the past few months. When he’d started coaching his daughter’s indoor soccer team, he’d asked me to help, and I’d readily agreed. I’d needed things to do outside of work, aside from church and endless hours of Netflix binging. Assistant coach to a team full of ten-year-olds was a pretty great gig.

“I’m fine, Carlos. Just thinking.”

“You were walking in the rose garden again. Did you see him?”

I scowled. He wasn’t supposed to ask me questions like that. “See who?”

He cocked his head. “You are not so hard to read, amiga.” Carlos had gotten bits and pieces of the story as our friendship had grown. “Why don’t you just go talk to him?” He held open the back door, and I followed him into the inn’s office space.

I scoffed. “So many reasons. I don’t even know what I would say.”

“You still worry about Jamie?”

I nodded. “I do. It hasn’t been that long. Plus, I don’t even really know how Simon feels anymore.”

“You just said it hasn’t been that long.”

“No, but it still feels scary.”

“Sure it does,” Carlos said. “The best things always do.”

Jamie: Hey. I’m on your front porch. You got a key hidden somewhere?

Simon: You’re in NC? When did you get in?

Jamie: Just now. Finally here to empty the storage unit behind the old office. Can I crash at your place?

Simon: Of course. Key is on the back porch, wedged under the bird feeder.

Jamie: Got it. Thanks.

Simon: I’ll be home in an hour.

* * *

Jamie: Simon. Why didn’t you tell me about Lane?

Simon: What are you talking about?

Jamie: I found the book. And the card. Are you seeing her?

Simon: No.

Jamie: Were you ever seeing her?

Simon: No. I never gave her that card. Please, Jamie. Let’s talk about this in person. I’m coming home right now.