“Hey, baby girl!” Pops greets me at the door, his arms open wide.
I fall into them, managing to only let a couple tears slip past my tightly held facade. He smells like Calvin Klein Obsession cologne, the only one he’s worn since I was a little girl. And home. He smells like home.
“Hi, Pops,” I breathe into his neck.
He pulls back and studies my face, his smile dimming into concern. “What’s all this?” he asks softly, swiping at my tears with both thumbs.
Forcing a smile I don’t feel, I respond, “Oh, just a bit of vacation hangover, I guess.”
“I understand that,” he says in his kind, sonorous voice. “You made lots of friends?” When I merely nod, his face creases with amusement. “Of course you did. My Juli could make friends with a brick wall.”
That brings a genuine chuckle rolling up my throat. “There was some great cloud gazing on the island. You would have loved it.”
Pops pats my cheek affectionately. “You’ll have to tell me all about it later, but for now I’m going to get out of your hair and let you unwind. I just wanted to be here to hug you when you got home.”
Though I’m happy to see his handsome face, I’m a little relieved he’s going to give me some time to myself so I can finally let my emotions run loose. I’ve been holding them in for hours since I left…him.
No. Nope. Not thinking of that right now.
After another hug, Pops leaves, and I look around the room. Since leaving that corridor in Miami, I feel like I’ve gone partially color blind. Or maybe someone has hit the edit button on my brain and turned down the saturation setting.
Even the normally bright pops of color in my living room seem duller. My raspberry couch appears more of a sluggish magenta, and the vibrant art on my walls has been reduced to nothing more than splashes of blah.
Will the loss of Reno Swain always mute my perception, or will I one day wake up and be able to accurately see colors again?
Perhaps I’m mistakenly attributing this weird visual phenomenon to Reno when I’ve actually had a mini-stroke or something. If I go to a neurologist and explain that I’m either suffering from a neurological defect or my system is misfiring due to walking away from the man I’m pretty sure is the love of my life, would they be able to figure it out? Is there even a diagnosis code for loss of color vision secondary to a broken heart?
I sigh and walk back outside to get my luggage from my vintage Volkswagen. As I’m pulling out the second one, I hear, “Hold up. I got that.”
Turning, I see Xander loping across the postage-stamp-sized yard. I put on a smile for my little brother, though little isn’t an accurate term for him physically. He’s as tall as Bubba but not nearly as stocky, sporting a leaner build.
After giving me a quick squeeze, he hands me a bottle of hazelnut coffee creamer, explaining, “I used all yours this morning, so I ran to the store.” Then he grabs the handles of my suitcases and wheels them up the sidewalk with me trailing behind.
“Thanks, Xan. You didn’t have to do that.”
“No prob. I just appreciate you letting me stayhere. I managed to keep your ferns and azaleas alive.”
“I see that,” I tell him, smiling at the hanging ferns and the flowering bushes on either side of my front porch. “Did you get a lot of studying done?”
“Yup,” he says, opening the door and taking my suitcases inside. “I’m about finished with the psych shit portion of my study guide.”
“Psych shit? Is there actually a section called that?”
He laughs. “I think it’s something like Psychological, Social, and Biological Foundations of Behavior.”
I shake my head and gesture for him to follow me to the kitchen. “That’s too complicated. They should definitely change the name to Psych Shit.”
“I’ll pass on your recommendation,” he says, leaning his butt against the counter and crossing his arms while I put away the creamer. “You look tan. Was the resort nice?”
“It was top-notch,” I reply.Especially my neighbor,I think, though I keep that part to myself.
“Cool. Maybe I’llswingon down there for a vacation some time.” The emphasis on that one word has me narrowing my eyes in suspicion until Xander bursts into laughter and admits, “Holly told me.”
“Oooh, that big mouth,” I fume, but I’m not really all that mad. “I told her not to tell.”
Xander raises one finger. “You told her not to tellBubba.”
“Ole loophole Holly,” I say, rolling my eyes and then cringing at my next thought. “Did she tell the dads?”
