Page 10 of Yes No Maybe

Not that it matters. If she moves in, she’ll be off-limits. I can’t have a casual fling with the girl next door—it’s too close to home. She’s probably too Hallmark-channel to hook up or be cool about joining the rotation.

“You’re not cool about your hookup rotation.” I hear Devin’s voice as if he’s standing next to me.

“I’ve curated a list of beautiful, attachment-free hookups—that’s every guy’s dream,” I argue, but it’s half-hearted. If Devin existed, he’d see right through me.

Especially as I retreat inside my dark, quiet house—the same house we grew up in.

And grab my half-empty glass of whiskey…

And stare at the blank notebook left open on the counter.

I imagine him flashing his dopey grin while shaking his head. “Sadness has made you numb. That’s why you can’t write about love anymore. Love is the best part about living, and you keep yourself from both.”

I toast the air. Devin is still annoying, even in my subconscious. He’s wrong—I don’tkeepmyself from anything. I’ve spent time with amazing, accomplished, gorgeous women, but I’ve never found that sweet spot of connection I write about in my books. Not even close. Maybe I am numb. But love isn’t for everyone.

Besides, I appreciate the beautiful, agonizing irony of it. I can write love but can’t have it.

At least, Iusedto write love. Now, I can’t do anything.

A new neighbor will only heighten my frustrations. No matter what she says, she’ll make changes and slowly erase all the home's beautiful history, like heavy paint rolled over smudged handprints on walls. Margot, Ben, Corey, and… Devin will be blotted out by a few trips to Lowe’s and Ikea.

The idea of her—ofanyonemoving in next door—makes me bristle. I pour another drink. With any luck, her latest asshole will get that ring on her finger and keep her away from me and our close-knit corner.

Four

Rowan

“It’sagreathouse,Rowan. Areallygreat house.” Mira twists in the passenger seat of the fifteen-footU-Haulas I back into the driveway. “A much better investment than marrying Dean.”

“I’m still going to marry Dean.” A low-hanging tree branch scrapes the roof as I park. “I’ll make this place so homey and comfortable that he can’t help but move in when he comes back. Besides, we discussed it at length. If he needs three months away to feel better about us, I told him I need this. He’s pursuing his dream, and so am I.”

“Sounds like you bothdreamof being apart.”

“No, we’re independent together,” I say, using his words. “Our autonomy has been the best part of Dean and me. He’s the first man I’ve dated who hasn’t thought of me asSilly Puttymeant to shape-shift around his life.”

Mira scoffs. “Sounds like two separate lives to me. Are you still engaged? Because I don’t see a ring.”

“We are… together. That’s all that matters. Please, don’t give me that look.”

“What? There’s no look!” she defends futilely. “I’m freaking ecstatic that you bought the little house!”

“But?”

“But…” Her light brown eyes fix on mine. “I don’t think he’s coming back, Rowan. And you shouldn’t take him back if he does.”

I suppose saying what you think is a universal truth of sisters because that’s what Mira has done since she became my grandparents’ foster the same summer I moved in with them, too. It was Mom’s first deployment after I incurred my injuries, and despite my grandparents’ best efforts, I would’ve been miserable if not for Mira. We’ve called each other sisters ever since.

Still, sometimes, using a gentler friend filter on her remarks would be appreciated. I force a smile. “Well, lucky for us, what you think doesn’t dictate what will happen. This is just a temporary separation before permanent coupling. You’ll see.”

Along the street, my students park in front of the house. We slide out of theU-Hauland meet them on the driveway.

“Now, for the fun part,” I say, eyes wide with new-home-owner giddiness.

“The fun part was seeing you drive this tank. You look like a twelve-year-old behind the wheel, especially in those overalls,” Eddie Speck says, snapping a picture.

I look down at my faded jean overalls, cuffed at the ankles, white t-shirt, and white and black Adidas, and second-guess my moving-in outfit.

“Madam truck driverandinsane organizer,” Ashley Morrow adds with a slight valley-girl twang. She holds up my clipboard, which contains a list of all my furniture and boxes, color-coded by rooms. Green for kitchen (to match the tiles). Yellow for bedroom. And so on. “This is why I’ll never be a teacher—I’m not organized enough. Well, and the money.”

---