Page 61 of Just One Summer with the Grumpy

He looked flustered. “Well, yes, but now it’s yours. If you want it.”

Here it was, the moment I’d wanted for months. I had dreamed about words like this coming from his mouth more times than I could count. And yet, all of this felt fake. Like a mockery of what I really wanted.

Ty stood. “We’re meant to be together, Daphne. It’s right. Don’t you feel it? Like fate itself wants us to be together?”

The fortune cookie. The horoscope. Even my best friend—and then there was Chase and the entire disaster with him. The fact that I had nowhere to go now but home. Everything pointed to Ty. If I accepted, I could stay in New York like I’d always planned.

But the Daphne who had wanted all those things—believed in all those things—no longer existed. I knew that now.

“I’m not letting fate decide my course anymore,” I told him softly. “I’m making my own decisions now. I’m going home.”

Ty’s face went tense, and for a moment, I thought he would explode with anger. The Ty I’d once known might have. But for some reason, whether it was the fact that my neighbor had a camera or the very public nature of our conversation, he chose to simply nod and wrap me in a short hug.

“Thank you for telling me about Veronica,” he said against my ear. “And good luck with everything.” He turned and hurried away, shaking his head and muttering something about trying the pawn shop.

Roger stood gaping in his doorway, his phone still raised.

I watched as Ty made it to the end of the hallway and stalked toward the stairs. He didn’t even look back. If he had, it wouldn’t have changed a thing.

My heart was no longer his, even if the man who had it now didn’t want it.

I turned and went inside to say my last goodbyes.

When I reached the bus station, I watched the bus driver toss my stuff in the storage compartment under the bus and kept only my handbag, clutching it to my chest as I climbed up the steps and found a seat near the back. Strangely, I barely felt sad as I stared at the city I’d loved so long and so well, the place that had once held my hopes and dreams. I knew now that happiness could happen anywhere. It wasn’t the place but the people I shared that place with that could fill me with joy.

The bus ride home lasted almost twenty-seven hours. My backside felt molded to the seat by the time we arrived, and my sleep-deprived brain struggled to get an Uber and concentrate on making it home.

The moment I stepped out of the car, however, everything snapped into focus.

Home.

I hadn’t set eyes on this tiny farmhouse in so long. Not since storming out, shoving items into my bag as I waited for my friend to arrive and drive me to the airport.

Now here I stood, my suitcases a little fuller, my heels higher, my wallet lighter, and my heart more battered than ever.

“Thank you,” I called to the Uber driver, who had set my suitcases on the driveway while I stood there, staring at my house.

He sent me a wave and drove off.

The house looked smaller than I remembered, yet it shone almost as if from within. A new coat of light green paint glistened in the sun, and the door had been replaced recently with a less splintered version. Still solid wood though. Dad wouldn’t settle for anything less.

I left my baggage on the sidewalk—just in case—and stepped carefully up the front walk to the door. A few quick raps with my knuckles, and I stood back to wait. How many times had I burst through this doorway, the master of my world and everything in it? Confident and happy?

The door opened a crack. Then I heard a gasp and it flew open wide, revealing my mother standing there. “Daphne.”

“Hi, Mom,” I said in a tight voice.

I’d barely gotten the words out when she threw her arms around me. No questions, no lectures. Just her arms and her love surrounding every part of me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against her hair.

“Honey, you’re right where you belong,” my mother said fiercely. “No use being sorry for that.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

I satat a round dining table more familiar than almost anything in my life, admiring the woodwork of the heavy leg in the center. Simple on top yet intricate underneath, this table held plenty of memories. I recalled the many art projects and math homework sessions I’d both enjoyed and endured here as a child. How many dinner conversations had this table seen? How many discussions that later turned into arguments and then reconciliation?

Except for the one argument that had never been reconciled. The one when Dad had admitted his condition and I’d realized he’d been fighting cancer for weeks without my knowledge.

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