Page 155 of The Grump Next Door
“Not Poppy. She’s a planner. She follows through. It’s her whole thing.” Even saying her name hurts. Some stupid foreign ache in my chest that won’t go away.
“Hmm.” She stands, and I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Well. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“Although Italy’s a big place. She could be anywhere. Rome. Venice. That cute little beach town with the lemons…”
“Portofino.” The word slips out automatically.
“Oh?” Her smile is pure evil. “She mentioned that specifically?”
I’ve walked right into her trap, and we both know it.
She heads for the door with purpose. “You know, the guest cottage is just sitting there empty. Might be therapeutic to check on it. Make sure everything’s… in order.”
My shoulders tense. “I’m not going in there.”
“If you say so.” She pauses at the door, playing her final card. “Though people leave things behind sometimes. Might want to make sure it’s ready for the next guest.”
“There won’t be a next guest.” The words come out hard, final.
“Ever?” She turns back, eyebrow raised.
I don’t answer because the thought of anyone else in that space, in her space, makes me want to punch something.
“Right.” She shakes her head like I’m a lost cause. “Three years, Dean. Never seen you like this.”
Same, I think but don’t say it.
“Maybe she’ll come back.” Nadine shrugs, trying to act casual.
Something twists in my gut—hope and dread tangled together. “She’s not coming back. She has a life in California. A business.” Each word is another nail in the coffin of whatever we almost were.
“Right.” She pauses at the door, delivering her killing blow. “You know what’s funny?”
“Nothing about this is funny.”
“I’ve lived next door to you for three years. Never seen you smile. Not once.” She looks at me with something like pity. “A week with that girl and you smiled every day.”
“That’s not—”
“Even at that damn goat.”
I give her a stern look because nothing about George was funny. That goat is a disaster.
She opens the door. “The goat made her laugh. And when she laughed…”
“What?”
“You smiled.” She shrugs like she hasn’t just eviscerated me. “Just an observation.”
She leaves.
I sit there with Muffin, both of us staring at the door like idiots waiting for something that’s never coming back.
“She’s not wrong,” I tell the dog. “I did smile more.”
Muffin grunts in what I choose to interpret as sympathy.
