Page 1 of A Bittersweet Summer

One

Cassidy

I’ve always believed in superstitions, so when my phone rattles the pine table with the glowing wordChad, I’m certain the tattoo stitched over my rib cage summoned this call. It’s like an unfortunate bat signal.

Six months of therapy was all it took for me to gather the strength to hit ignore and pull the vanilla and hazelnut latte to my lips. A bit sad it took me this long, but there’s little I can do about my attachment to men who can absolutely be fixed.

By me.

Specifically.

My fingers warm against the cup as I lean back, peering through the jungle of house plants framing the large windows of the coffee shop. Their leaves press up against the glass, pushing against the resistance in search of the hidden sun.

Surrounded by the sound of milk being steamed and quiet chatter, I watch spring shimmer on the damp concrete and bloom over the trees that stretch toward the overcast sky.

Taking another sip of my latte, I glance at the door impatiently. My brow furrows when my phone lights up again.

Same name.

Same sad request.

I refuse to jump back in bed with a man who found it appropriate to sleep with an entire country club while we were together. Even if the tattoo of his name burns on my side.

Ashamed of my idiotic decision to brand my ex’s name onto my body, I finally got the courage to schedule a tattoo appointment. Luckily, the tattoo artist, Ryan, runs in the same friend circle I’ve created for myself since moving back to Ohio two years ago. And even luckier? Ryan promised discretion when it came to the cover-up job—for which I am thankful.

Tattooing your boyfriend’s name on your ribcage is always a nail in the coffin of any relationship. If I’m being honest, I knew that. But when Chad suggested it, I was so anxious to appease him and patch together our failing relationship that I went along with it and kept a smile on my face the entire time.

I like to think I’m an open book, but I struggle with the scabs of my past. While some choose to pick at them until they bleed,I’d rather cover the wound with a bandage and forget about the pain until that sticky thing falls off.

Historically, I’ve been obsessed with starting anew, drifting on a breeze of expectations and bright ideas from anyone but myself. Moving away from Ohio was my dad’s idea. He thought it would be a good opportunity to find myself. Moving back was my mother’s idea, believing it would benefit our family if I had more availability.

I’ve never been one to open doors of opportunity. It’s more like I find myself being shoved into them whenever they present themselves.

I drag my gaze away from the plants and check the door again.

This job interview is the first time I’d actually sought out a door for myself. It’s why it’s so important to me, and I absolutely cannot be distracted by the ghosts of romance’s past.

I put my phone ondo not disturbonce the call ends, just as the rattling of a door pushes me straighter in my chair, especially when my gaze lands on the dirty work boots coated in mud.

My heart leaps into my throat, nerves sending my pulse fluttering. If ever a man was entering a coffee shop to interview a girl for a farm job, it would be the one with the soiled work boots, worn jeans, and plain white shirt.

I expected a cowboy hat, but I suppose a ballcap and mustache are still on brand.

I track his movements, wondering if I should say something, or if that would be too forward. I want to find the perfect balance of confident, assertive, and kind. A true gem, my hope is that he will take one look at my easy smile and give me a chance.

My job at the bar hasn’t formed impressive muscles, nor has it formed any semblance of joy, either. A job is a job, butthisjob could offer both.

Growing up, I found solace in riding horses on the weekends. It wasn’t so much an escape from my life but a return to myself.Whenever things were tense or stressful, I could always count on the fresh air and rolling grass to quiet my mind. It centered me.

My life is crying out for fresh air and a good centering. It’s my first step to blooming into something new—just like the spring outside. Though this time, that something new is simply because I want to. This one is for me.

So, when I stand up, the chair screeches across the floor as I release a breathless “Wesley Miller?” I wince internally.

Perfect. Wonderful first impression.

Not only is the mustached man with a confused scowl looking at me, but so is the entire coffee shop. Brown hair curls around his ears, peaking out from the worn cap, and I note the dark eyebrows, full and very much still lowered at me.

Confidence, Cassidy. Confidence.