Page 44 of The Romance Game

Then I go silent, motionless except for my heaving chest, realizing he’s still on the porch.

“Me too, Nugget. Me too,” he says before his footsteps fade into the night.

Much like in high school, I go up to my room and flop onto my bed, then stare at the ceiling and my thoughts start colliding.

I truly didn’t realize Ryan had asked me out on that day before the start of freshman year. It’s a blurry memory and a blurry Romance Game we’re playing.

Replaying our conversation on the bench, then shifting to the Driftwood and finding out about Chip’s will, wandering to the beach, and then back here was like binge-watching an entire season of a sitcom. Or a drama. Or an adventure and mystery. All of it. Maybe the Romance Game isn’t so much that as it’s our story.

Two kids who played together, grew up and had secret crushes that we managed by pretending we each still had cooties but kissed in secret because there was no escaping the truth.

There still isn’t.

It’ll always catch up one way or another—Dad taught me that when I’d ask him about our mother.

But this is different. Ryan and I caught up to each other after all this time. Yet, he doesn’t know the entirety of the truth—that I’m a mom.

He’s right. I liked kissing him. I like him...a lot. And I want him to like me, but what if the fact that I was married (briefly) and have a son (who’s so adorable) with someone else is a deal breaker?

But is a relationship a deal? No, this is a something-ship. A game. I have to remind myself of that as my thoughts duke it out.

Before I go to sleep, I take a look at a few photos of my sweet little Lukey-boy, relieved we’ll be together tomorrow. I say a prayer for him, for our family, of gratitude for all my blessings.

Afterward, feeling more grounded, I remind myself that thelast forty-eight hours were just a blip in my life—like a layover during a flight, I was merely passing through.

Still in my hand, my phone beeps with a message.

Mr. Right: Good night, Nugget. Miss you already.

I don’t know what time it was when I finally fell asleep last night because Ryan and I texted until my phone’s battery died, but I wake up to clattering from downstairs.

Occasionally, everyone wakes up and forgets where they are. I’m well aware that I lie on the single bed across from the bunk beds in the room my sisters and I shared growing up—though we all know Princess Harper would often sneak to the guest bedroom with the double bed when my dad wasn’t here.

My groggy confusion comes from not being sure what year it is. My sisters’ voices filter from below along with Brando and Uncle Eddie. It smells like someone is making pancakes—pirate pancakes by the scent of chocolate. Then my father’s low, rumbly voice from years of smoking filters up and everyone laughs—he’s good at making people laugh.

I bounce out of bed and race downstairs. Glimpsing myself in the mirror in the bathroom at the end of the hall, my hair is a snarly mess and I’m wearing an old school spirit shirt that saysLargo Longdoggers—Heather was on the surf team. Then I remember that I’m a fully grown woman with a son.

My heart doubles, grows. My family is back here, together again, and so is my boy. I bounce into the kitchen, not sure who to hug first.

“Family hug,” I call.

Everyone goes so quiet, even the kids, we can all hear the sizzle of butter on the pancake griddle. They’re so still, I’m afraid this is a dream.

But then Luke extends his arms. “Ma!” My dad gets to hisfeet, surprisingly spry for having worked so many years doing hard labor, and wraps his arms around me.

He whispers, “I missed this too.”

Then everyone piles in. The entire Owens clan is one big squishy, happy hug for a long minute before Heather hollers, “The pancakes are burning.”

Her three kids rush toward the stove along with Uncle Eddie.

Heather’s husband calls them off with a request to set the long table outside. Harper’s clan hoists the flags with their dad—the US flag first and the pirate flag with the Plundering Pelican logo. Uncle Eddie blows a conch shell when the food is ready, and Dad makes more coffee.

The bustle is so much like it was when we were younger, except Aunt Martina is missing, and there are lots of kids here. It’s only then that I realize Brando is absent.

“Where’s—?”

“Looking for me?” he asks, startling me from the crushed seashell path and not from upstairs.

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