Page 22 of Yes No Maybe

On top of that, a twisted and unwarranted fantasy that Dean might show up has not only delayed me by a half-hour—and I detest being late—but has also heaped disappointment on my shoulders like I’m a pack horse overloaded with foolish expectations. He never said he could make it or even that he’d try.

But he called three nights ago after a rough day on set. He vented about working with elitist stars who kept delaying the production, which meant hours of boredom and a scolding he received from the assistant director because he looked too “normal.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said.

“Come home,” I suggested—no, I begged. “Take the weekend off, at least. I miss you.”

I told him about the oyster roast—Dean loves a party. It’s only a six-hour drive from Atlanta. With airports in both cities, it’s even more doable by plane—less than two hours and only two hundred bucks. Mira would hate this, but I even offered to pay for his ticket.

He only responded, “I miss you, too,” before he had to go. I never had the chance to talk to him about Sara.

With my steps feeling heavier the closer I get, I consider taking my freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (a classroom favorite) back home and eating them all while on my couch with Edgar Allan Poe. But I push on as I have all week, determined to offer my cookies, chat with a few people, and leave early.

The Pines is a huge neighborhood bordered by schools, grocery stores, and churches in equal measure. Our corner is a neighborhood within a neighborhood. Two parallel streets, Daisy Lane and Daffodil Drive, form a closed H and are linked on either end by short side streets. These are bordered by extra-large ditches that lead to a massive retention pond behind our properties. Our loop is an island—a quiet pocket protected from the city while still a part of it.

The block party occupies the middle of the H—a short and superfluous road linking the main streets. It’s quiet and heavily shaded with stretchy live oaks, magnolias, and towering pines—the namesakes of the neighborhood.

A small band plays “Zombie” by the Cranberries—The Daisy Chainadvertised that the neighborhood’s cover band,The Hurricanes,would feature ‘80s and ‘90s hits. The invitation also promised a food smorgasbord to accompany the oysters—pop-up tables house casseroles, salads, and chips.

Between the band and the food, dancers sway to the slow song. Mismatched tables and chairs fill the rest of the space with people chatting and kids running around.

Twinkle lights canopy the road, like walking into a gorgeous gazebo. I’m surprised at how lovely and casual it is, like a scene pulled from a cheesy Hallmark movie—the social event that brings the town (and the inevitable couple) together at the end.

I pass by the oyster tanks—large metal drums heated by propane—and say hello to the men supervising the roasting. Behind them, another set of newspaper-covered tables awaits the shelling extravaganza.

I make room for my cookies near other desserts and grab a beer from one of the coolers. I spot Rose, Vernon, Tom, and Marcy quickly, but the rest blur into unfamiliar faces.

I stand there feeling self-conscious and uneasy. My navy sundress and blue ombre wrap, strategically draped high on my shoulders to cover my neck scars, feel too dressy compared to everyone else’s shorts and t-shirts. The crowd is so engaged and familiar with each other that I go unnoticed—not that I’d know what to say if they did.

Mom says I’ve always been shy, but I argue that life’s made me this way.

“Beer drinker, huh?” Jack Graham emerges behind me like he may’ve been hiding in the trees. “That’s surprising.”

“I’m surprised you’ve given it thought.”

He shrugs. “It’s good to know your neighbors. What someone drinks says a lot about them.”

“And you thought I was exclusively a snobby wine princess?”

His dark eyes catch mine. “Aren’t you?”

“Usually,” I admit sheepishly. “But I’ve been less discriminate about what I drink since moving next to you.”

“I have that effect on people. Let me know if you want the whiskey back.” A wide grin bookends his words, easing my discomfort.

“Hmm, I might need it if your writing streak continues… to put me to sleep.”

His head cocks. “Is the music a problem?”

“No, I’m kidding. I’ve lived in apartments so long that I’m used to noise. But a softer playlist after midnight might be nice on weekdays.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The conversation dwindles into a strange silence, but he doesn’t disappear. He stays at my side, his upper arm brushing my shoulder when kids crowding the food table move us closer.

“Congrats on the writing, by the way. I hear that’s a huge deal for you.”

He looks almost shy, glancing at his feet at the mention. “Yeah, thanks. I haven’t written like this in over a year.”

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