Page 31 of The Hang Up
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, heart racing. I’m wrung out from the conversation, but also somehow lighter. That confrontation and this decision were a long time coming.
I feel better now. I’m finally starting my life. For the first time in forever, I’m choosing me.
I sit on my bed and let the silence settle.
It’s not peaceful, not yet, but it’s mine.
And it’s a start.
FOURTEEN
Holden
I’ve been pacing the floor of the workshop for the last thirty minutes, checking the clock a dozen times. Lena’s shift ends at six, and it’s five fifty-three. I don’t want to be the guy sitting in the parking lot like a lovesick teenager, but let’s be honest, I am that guy. And I don’t even care.
I’m taking Lena to dinner tonight.
A real date.
Just the two of us, no spectators, no distractions. No awkward silences or tears between us, at least, I hope not. I want to take her out, hold her hand, feed her good food, and remind her that we can do this. That we’re doing it.
That we’re okay now.
I grab the bouquet I picked up on the way back into town—sunflowers and baby’s breath, her favorite—and head for my truck.
I pull into the lot behind Clay & Cupcakes. Lena is already outside with Arlowe, laughing about something. I watch her for a second, soaking her in. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, cheeks pink from the cool air, apron still tied around her waist.
She looks like happiness personified.
She looks like home.
When she turns and sees me, her laughter stutters, but her eyes soften.
I climb out of the truck and walk toward her. “Hey, sunshine.”
She raises a brow. “Sunshine?”
I grin and offer her the bouquet. “I figured if I’m the grump, you’re the sunshine.”
Her lips twitch as she takes the flowers, holding them close to her chest. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.”
Arlowe whistles low under her breath and mutters something about swooning as she heads back inside, giving us space.
Lena tucks the flowers into the passenger seat when she climbs in and glances over at me as I pull out of the lot. “So, what’s the plan?”
“You like Italian?”
“Is that a real question?”
I laugh and head toward Mancino’s, the only Italian place in Lilac Harbor. It’s small, family-owned, and the kind of place where they give you fresh bread the moment you sit down. The lights are dim, the tables covered in checkered cloths, and everything smells like garlic and butter.
I open her door when we arrive, and Lena slides her hand into mine as we walk inside.
It’s not a big gesture.
But it’s everything.
