Page 2 of Blue Moon Love

Calls like that were one of the reasons I was so grateful for my job. I loved it. I’d always been a social person and a night owl and bartending worked for both of those. Unfortunately, it hadn’t helped in my personal life.

One would think that working at the only bar in a small town, I’d meet plenty of eligible deflowerers, and I did, but none of them really panned out past a first date. I wanted to believe that the number of times I’d been ghosted had to do with word getting back to my protective older brothers, but I doubted that was the case.

My twin brothers, Milo and Mason, were two years older than me and stood an impressive six feet, four inches tall. Milo was a firefighter, and Mason was in the Army. In theory, they could be considered intimidating. But in reality, that wasn’t the case. They had always kept an eye on me, but I wouldn’t say they’d ever been particularly overprotective.

If I had to guess—which I didn’t because I’d actually spoken to a therapist who spelled it out for me in no uncertain terms—I would say the problem lay closer to home, literally next door.

As kids, Sam Whitlock had been my neighbor. As young adults, we both left Wishing Well. He joined the Marines, and I’d gone to college. After I finished school and he got out of the military, we both moved back into our childhood homes. I lived with my parents, and he lived with his grandpa, who everyone called Witty.

Five years ago, after I saved up enough money to buy my own home, I bought a cute two-bed, one-bath bungalow about five minutes from my parents’ home. Before the ink dried on the closing documents, he purchased the two-story craftsman next door. We moved into our new digs one week apart. We hung out all the time. He had a key to my house, and vice versa. We ate dinner together and had movie marathons on our nights off. We went grocery shopping together, to church together, and even to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner together.

As much as I appreciated him being so close and loved spending time with him, the truth was that I appreciated and loved it too much. I’d love to say that my feelings for Sam were purely platonic, but if I did, my nose would grow longer than Pinocchio’s when he lies to the blue fairy.

Sam was my best friend; that was indisputable, but I was also sort of totally in love with him. As much as I wished there could be something more between us, I knew that would never happen. He wasn’t the settling-down type. And even if he was, it’s not that he’d ever shown any interest in me other than friendship.

I’d been in denial over my feelings for him for years, but this summer, while on the job as one of Wishing Well’s finest, Sam raided a drug house, and things went sideways. For a few hours, thanks to the Wishing Well gossip train, I thought he’d been shot and maybe dead. I’d made multiple attempts to contact him but couldn’t reach him or anyone else to tell me what was going on. It turned out it was his partner, Kane Kingston, who was my cousin Taylor’s baby daddy, who had been hit. Kane ended up being fine. They both were, but that night, something changed inside of me.

It was like a dam of emotions had broken and flooded my system. I was a mess. For weeks after, I kept crying for seemingly no reason. I was having a difficult time sleeping and eating. I thought there was something physically wrong with me, but after a full blood panel detected no irregularities, my primary physician suggested I see a therapist. On our third session, Dr. McKinney insightfully pointed out that I was in love with Sam, and the thought of losing him had caused me to have a mini-breakdown. After six more sessions, during which we delved deeply into my life and goals, she pointed out that if I continued our friendship in its current form, I would never have room in my life for an actual relationship. I had to set boundaries with Sam and stick to them.

I’d learned that five months ago and had yet to do it. Queen of Procrastination, remember. But this was a new me. It was game time. I had a finite amount of time left as a thirty-three-year-old, and I refused to be a thirty-four-year-old virgin. Thirty-three was still early thirties. Thirty-four was mid-thirties. There was a difference. And it wasn’t just me who thought so.

Rebel Wilson had just released a book in which she disclosed she’d lost her virginity at thirty-five. It made headlines worldwide. People lost their ever-loving minds. I read comment after comment of people giving their opinions on the subject of her late blooming. That had been the final sign; I needed to face the fact that I couldn’t live my life in a holding pattern.

Which was exactly what I was doing tonight. I sprayed a few sprits of perfume on my neck, grabbed my purse from my dresser, and was halfway down the hall when Winnie brought me the cupcake box that I’d thought I’d thrown away, but it must have fallen on the floor.

“Good girl!” I took the box and went to the kitchen to give her a treat for the ‘treasure’ she’d brought me.

I initially introduced the reward retrieval system to encourage her to bring the ball back to me when we played fetch. It worked like a charm, but then she’d started bringing me random ‘treasures.’ I tried to explain that treats were only given when she gave me the tennis ball, but her little corgi butt wiggle and pride shining through her big brown eyes made it impossible to resist. So now, basically she brought me everything that was on the floor, and I gave her a treat.

Usually, her ‘treasures’ were trash, socks, or random items that were of no use to me. But tonight, her habit served as a reminder. I’d totally forgotten that I wanted to ice the cupcake I had cooling before I left.

Mine wasn’t the only birthday that was looming. Sam would be thirty-six at midnight. He hadn’t celebrated his birthday in twenty-four years. He had a much better reason than me for hating the anniversary of the date he was born. On the morning of his twelfth birthday, he went in to wake his mom up to tell her bye before he left for school and found her unresponsive. There was an empty bottle of pain pills beside her bed. He called 911, and she was rushed to the hospital, but a week later, she passed away. Eleven months later, his dad, who had also worn the badge, was shot in the line of duty.

On the night of his twelfth birthday, after he came home from the hospital, he climbed into my bedroom window, which was a regular occurrence. We had a very Dawson Leery-Joey Potter vibe going on. His parents fought a lot, and when it got too much, he’d climb through my window and sleep in my bed. It started when he was eight and I was six. The first night he climbed into my room was because my room was easier to get to than the twins’, who he was friends with since they were the same age. But we started talking that night and he just fell asleep.

Anyway, back to the night of his twelfth birthday, he climbed in and when I tried to tell him happy birthday, he said he didn’t want it to be his birthday. I could tell he’d been crying. Wanting to make him feel better, I went down to the kitchen and got him a cupcake I’d baked for him, then brought it up to the room, handed it to him, and told him, “Merry Christmas.”

For some reason, he cracked up. The next year, since he was still getting over losing his dad the month before, I did the same thing—and have continued every year since.

Sam and I pretty much ignored our birthdays every year, apart from two traditions. Mine was watching Sixteen Candles, my favorite movie, together. His was me baking him a cupcake and telling him Merry Christmas.

After quickly spreading the icing so it would be ready for tomorrow, I grabbed my purse, kissed Winnie on the head, and headed out. When I stepped onto the porch, I saw an Amazon package next to the railing. I walked out and bent down to grab it, and as my fingers grasped the cardboard, a gust of wind picked up, and I felt my skirt blow up and onto my back. I quickly stood and looked around, hoping that I hadn’t just mooned the entire neighborhood.

Thankfully, the only person I saw was Mr. Marsh, who was watering his flowers three doors down in the opposite direction of my backside. After tossing the box inside, I locked up and got into my Jeep.

One of the perks of living in a small town was that there was no commute to anything that took longer than ten minutes. The drive ahead of me was close to two hours. If it weren’t for my impending birthday goal, I never would have agreed to meet anyone in Dallas.

I hated driving, and I hated leaving the comfort of my small town. Unlike a lot of people I grew up with, I’d never wanted to live anywhere else. I loved Wishing Well.

As I passed through town, the familiar feeling of deep appreciation for my hometown wrapped around me like a warm blanket. The town center boasted a large grassy area with a wishing well in the center. The City Hall and library flanked the park on either side, and lining the perimeter were picturesque storefronts that were so quaint they could be a back lot for a movie.

Not only were all my best memories here, but my friends worked at and/or owned quite a few of the establishments. My friend Bella Connor, now McCord after she married Colton, owned The Best Hairhouse in Texas, which was the only beauty parlor in town and was housed in a whitewashed brick building with a steel sign that hung above the door. Kelsi, who was married to my boss Bryson, worked there selling her beauty line. Next to it was The Flower Pot, which was painted a cheery yellow and had a white and black striped awning, which Delilah Turner, now Briggs since Sawyer put a ring on it, owned. Beside the florist shop was a cute blue building with white trim, Sugar Rush Bakery. It was owned by Destiny Porter, now Briggs after she married JJ. Before she’d opened Sugar Rush, Destiny worked across the street at The Greasy Spoon, which was a fifties-style diner.

Bella and I were the same age, but Destiny and Delilah were both years younger than me, yet they were light years ahead of me in so many ways. Over the past five years, I’d witnessed most of my friends and my brothers’ friends fall in love and start families. And I’d been stuck. Which was exactly why I was forcing myself to drive two hours to go to the city.

The one nice thing about the drive was that I could catch up on podcasts. I put on the newest episode of The Duel, a he-said, she-said advice show that I was obsessed with. Ten minutes into the pod, it turned off as my phone rang through the speakers.

I pressed the phone button on my steering wheel and answered, “Hey, Ma.”

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