Page 7 of Those Two Words

It’s only when I reach my destination that the nervousness threatens to spill out all over the sidewalk.

Our Place.

Simply reading the words has my chest tightening in longing and dread. My breathing quickens and I rub my fingers together so fast, I wouldn’t be surprised if a fire broke out in my pockets.

I can do this. If not for me, then for my dad.

It’s been too long. And though I don’t hold the same fears and regrets I did six years ago, the mismatched red bricks and dark blue paint still tug at memories I thought were buried deep in my chest.

Today will be easy. Meet with Dad and Claire and discuss the job opening they have. Zero pressure. Take your time. That’s what my dad said when he called last month asking for my help.

He’s never pressured me to come back. I know he misses my sister and me and just wants us to be happy. My younger sister, Harriet, is definitely happy in Tennessee, living her dream in a small town on the outskirts of Nashville, playing her guitar and touring with artists across the country.

Me? I’m as happy as I think I can be.

Tennessee has been my home for almost six years, and although it was never supposed to be long term, I made friends out there. Had a good job. Spent lots of time with my baby sister. So yes, I was happy. I somewhat considered it home, but when Dad called to say the restaurant was struggling and my old job was available, I knew it was time to go home.

So here I am, back in my hometown of Sutton Bay. The place I’ve avoided for so long and at the same time yearned to return to. It’s not a totally impulsive move, and I’ve talked about it to great lengths with my therapist, Amanda. I just never saw myself actually doing it. If anything, I wanted to feel brave enough to return here for the holidays or my dad’s birthday. Amanda and my sister were as shocked as I was when I told them I’d quit my job, bought a one-way ticket, and was moving back. Harriet even tried to talk me out of it, but something deep down told me this was the right thing to do.

I’d put it off long enough.

I squeeze my hands into tight fists before pulling them out of my coat pocket, the cold air instantly nipping at my fingertips. With a deep breath, I push open the front door to the restaurant. As it creaks open and I step into the warm, open space, the first thing I notice is how much it hasn’t changed. The hot air blasting from the overhead heater makes my eyes water, obscuring the four figures sitting in front of me—two more than I anticipated. When my vision clears, I see the mix of emotions across three of their faces. Guilt. Delight. Shock.

“Sorry I’m a little early.” I wince at the wobble in my voice, needing to at least feign confidence today.

“You’re fine, sweetie. We haven’t gotten to the important stuff yet. Come in and get settled first,” Claire says with such a warm smile it immediately puts me at ease. She stands and walks over to where I’m still standing by the front door. I love that she doesn’t hesitate to pull me into a hug, her small frame somehow enveloping me like I’m not double her size.

I look back to the table and smile at my dad, who I expected to be here. I’ve been staying with him since I arrived back in town Saturday afternoon, so it’s not the first time I’ve seen him today. Booth Sadler’s face was not one I was expecting to see, although, I suppose it makes sense with him now being the head chef. I give him a hesitant smile and an awkward wave before my gaze drifts to the fourth person around the table. He hasn’t turned around yet, but I don’t need to see his face to know who it is. I’d recognize those wide shoulders and dark blond, shaggy hair anywhere.

Patrick.

I don’t know if everyone in the room has gone silent as they wait for him to acknowledge me or if the beating of my heart has drowned out all the noise. When he finally turns around and looks at me, everything falls away. The moment those dark green eyes lock with mine, I suck in a sharp breath. It’s like some invisible force of nature has me glued to the spot, because I want to look away from his scrutinizing stare, but I can’t. Green like the towering pine trees that surround this town. Only these eyes don’t hold any desire or kindness in them now. The usual warm glow has been swept away and replaced with a coldness, a lot like the cold winds blowing outside.

I’m not naïve to think he’d welcome me with open arms, no matter how much I’d love to have them wrapped around me again. I don’t know what I was expecting. Perhaps surprise or anger, but this hurts more. That nervous energy morphs into anxiety, and my fingers tap against my thigh.

A firm hand on my shoulder draws my attention away and I turn to find my dad looking down at me with kind eyes. Despite his calm presence easing my anxious thoughts, they still simmer beneath the surface.

“Hey, kiddo.” My dad kisses the top of my head, and then turns toward the bar while still talking to me. “Take a seat and I’ll grab you a coffee. Iced, I presume?” I don’t miss his teasing tone, because yes, I drink iced coffee all year round.

“Yeah, thanks, Dad.” Looking toward the table, I find the only two seats available are next to Patrick or at the other end of the table—where I will be sitting directly across from him, with no chance of avoiding eye contact. I shrug off my coat and hang it on the coat rack, summon all my courage, and sit to his right. Awkwardness hangs in the air, and I know everyone can feel it.

My dad comes over, places a tall glass in front of me, and as I watch the condensation run down the edges, I take some steadying breaths before properly taking in my surroundings. My eyes drift to Booth and Claire, who are both smiling at me from across the table. At least they want me here. Memories of my childhood come rushing back as I take in the familiar décor, paintings, and photographs, but I’m drawn to one photograph in particular that sits above the bar. The sharp sting in my sternum has me clamping my eyes shut and I try not to let my racing thoughts feed my anxiety any further.

A throat clears to my left and I jolt at the noise. Patrick’s gaze darts between mine and the photograph, and I swear that frigid stare starts to thaw, but it’s gone before I can blink.

“Why are you here?” he grits out. His words hit me right in the chest. It feels as though someone is injecting ice-cold water directly into my veins with how quickly that all-too-familiar feeling spreads from my fingertips and up my arms.

“Patrick,” Claire scolds, but the buzzing in my ears blocks out his reply. I breathe in deeply through my nose and let out a shaky breath through my mouth. My dad’s hand rests on my arm as I concentrate on my breathing.

Look for something red. Look for something red. Look for something red. I internally remind myself as my eyes dart around the room.

Red buoy.

The red of a miniature lighthouse.

Red ketchup bottle.

The red polish on my nails.

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