Page 5 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
Family. The word hangs between us like a barrier. I’m not family. Not to the Greenes, not yet to the Kelleys, despite the ring that once belonged to Adam’s grandmother on my finger.
“Of course,” I say, my voice hollow. “I understand completely.”
“I’ll be home tomorrow,” Adam promises, squeezing my hand. His palm is sweaty. “Hopefully, in time for breakfast.”
“Sure.” I force a smile. “Take care of yourself.”
He nods, relieved that I’m not making a scene. “Thanks for understanding.”
Paula gives me a tight smile. “You’re such a dear.”
They leave together, heads bent in conversation about what Millie needs, what Rhonda needs, what everyone except me needs. I stand alone in the church basement as the last of the mourners trickle out, the church ladies efficiently clearing away the remnants of the funeral lunch.
Outside, the day is still as blazingly hot as it was noon. I get in my car and start the engine. Driving home, I pass the town’s only grocery store and see several cars I recognize from the funeral in its parking lot. Life goes on in this tight-knit community where everyone has a place. Everyone except me.
At home, I kick off my shoes and peel away the stockings that have been driving me crazy all day. I shower and change into sweats and one of Adam’s t-shirts, relishing the clean pine scent I will forever associate with him.
I consider ordering pizza but decide against it. Instead, I pour a generous glass of wine and curl up on the couch, staring at the empty space where Adam should be.
“Family only,” I say to the silent house, testing how the words feel in my mouth.
It’s rare for me to get angry. Rachel has told me more than once that I let people walk all over me and I should stand up for myself more. I find anger to be a waste of energy. I treat people as I would want to be treated, and they will either treat me well in kind or not. And if they don’t? I walk away. It’s not worth my peace to get upset.
But sitting there alone in my silent apartment, reviewing the events of the day, I can feel the beginnings of anger churning in my gut.
2
Chapter 2
Caitlin
The pizza place is crowded and loud. I’m supposed to be reading my menu, but mostly I’m watching Adam as he studies his. The dim lighting casts shadows across his face, highlighting his cheekbones and the firm line of his jaw. How did I end up here, on a date with the most gorgeous guy whose ever shown interest in me? And more importantly, how do I stop myself from ruining it completely?
“Everything looks great,” Adam says, setting down the menu and catching me staring. His smile makes my stomach flip. “What do you think you’ll want?”
“Oh, um…” I pick up the menu and scan it. “I really like the Margherita. Or we can get the carnivore special if you like meat. I really like it sometimes, but other times it feels like too much, you know? But some people find the Margherita to be toosimple, so it’s hard to ….” I realize I’m rambling and snap my mouth shut.
Adam doesn’t seem to mind. He has a grin on his face that makes crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Let’s get both. We can share.”
“Both?” I blink at him. “That’s a lot of pizza.”
He leans forward as if he’s about to impart some secret. “Leftover pizza makes a great breakfast.”
The server comes by, and Adam orders the Margherita, carnivore special, and two beers. When she leaves, he turns those brown eyes back on me. “So tell me about yourself. Did you grow up in Colorado?”
“No, actually.” I take a sip of water to wet my suddenly dry throat. “I moved here about seven months ago. I’m originally from Oregon. But I’ve been traveling around for a while. Lived in a couple of different places.”
“Lucky for me,” Adam says, and my cheeks heat up.
I remember the first time he came into the cafe. It was a Tuesday morning, and I was half-asleep, having stayed up too late eating ice cream and crying after yet another guy informed me that he’d had a good time but I was just too out there to date seriously. Adam walked in wearing faded jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing tanned forearms. I almost dropped the coffeepot when he smiled at me, and Dylan Masters became a distant memory.
After that, he started coming in three or four times a week, always sitting in my section. He’d order coffee and breakfast, and we’d make small talk. And every time he walked through the door, my heart would start racing.
Yesterday, he’d finally asked me out after finishing his usual breakfast.
“I was starting to think you just really liked our breakfast specials,” I told him.
“The food’s good,” he’d said, “but the service is exceptional.”
