Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 483(@200wpm)___ 386(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Yeah. Still the same Byron though.”
We pull up outside my small one-story home. Fisher kills the engine. I don’t reach for the door handle. It’s nice, just the two of us.
“Yeah. He always was a good guy.” I shift in my seat so I can see him better, my back against the door. “I like talking to you about music. You’re obviously really passionate about it. It’s… cool.”
“I like talking to you too. About music. And other stuff too…” His mouth parts, and he inhales.
His eyes grow dark in the moonlight, and I find I’m desperate to know what he’s about to say. He turns so he’s facing me, and heat runs through me as our eyes meet.
“I really like talking to you,” he says, his voice deeper now. His hand reaches up and cups my face.
I know he’s only in town for a short while, but all I want to think about is how his skin feels against mine and how his tongue darts out to wet his lips, like he’s just about to—
The front door to my house crashes open, and Fisher’s hand falls from my face. Riley stands in the doorway, her hands to her eyes like they’re make-believe binoculars.
I laugh because unless they’re make-believe infrared binoculars, she’s not going to see anything. It’s dark out here where the truck is parked.
Fisher turns to me, and my smile fades as I take in his shocked expression.
“That’s my daughter, Riley.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You never mentioned you had a daughter.”
What does he mean? Of course I mentioned I have a daughter. There isn’t anyone in a fifty-mile radius who hasn’t heard me brag about the amazing eight-year-old who rules my life. I pull my eyebrows together, trying to remember when I would have said something. “I’m sure I did.”
When we met at Grizzly’s, we were having snatched pockets of flirtations… and it felt good to be talking to a handsome man. I got swept up in the moment, and I can’t say for certain that I did tell him. But I didn’t hide it. I couldn’t if I tried. Everyone in this town knows I’m a mother. Everyone, including Byron and Rosey. Surely, they would have told their friend.
“I’m sorry if I didn’t,” I say. “I wasn’t hiding her. I never would.”
He turns back to the windshield and puts both hands on the steering wheel. “No,” he says.
And I’m not quite sure what he’s saying no to.
No, I didn’t know you had a daughter?
No, I don’t want you now that I know?
No, I don’t want to know you?
We watch straight ahead out of the windshield as my mom pulls Riley back inside.
Fisher’s expression has hardened; the air has shifted between us.
I could try and justify my omission, but I don’t owe Fisher anything. He doesn’t deserve to know anything about me. We’re not dating. We haven’t even kissed. There are no expectations on my side, and there shouldn’t be on his.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I mean it. I’m sorry he feels like I kept something from him.
His entire demeanor shifts, and his expression is pained. “You have nothing to be sorry about. We don’t know each other.” He clears his throat like he’s done with this conversation.
I sigh. I should get out of the car and go home and get Riley snuggles. But I’m not ready to. Not yet. I don’t want to get out of the car when whatever it is that Fisher and I have shared is still broken.
We sit in silence for a few beats.
It feels hopeless.
“I’m going to go inside now and get myself some eight-year-old snuggles. But I really did have an incredible evening tonight. And I’m really pleased you were there.”
I pause. Then I turn and press a kiss onto his shoulder. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do. It’s almost a promise of what might have happened between us. He smells of expensive shower gel and newly mowed grass, and I try and commit it to memory because it’s probably the last time I’ll ever see Fisher again.
Although no doubt he’ll live on when my mom teases me for sniffing strangers and kissing New Yorkers on the shoulder.
“Good night, Fisher.”
“Good night, Juniper.”
I offer him a small smile, but he stays facing ahead. I get out of the truck, and when I get to the porch, I turn back, but he’s busy turning the truck around.
If nothing else, Fisher proved my vagina hasn’t curled up and died. Maybe one day, a guy will ride into town who won’t only be here for six weeks, who won’t mind that I’m a mother, and who I’ll like as much as I started to like Fisher.
And maybe hell will freeze over and people of Star Falls will stop talking about the Colorado Club.