Page 36 of When We Are Complete

“How’s everything going on your end?” he asks, his tone shifting, more concerned than I expect. “You seem so busy. Handling all the pressure from the mayor, okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s a lot, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“You’re handling it all really well,” he says, his voice laced with a warmth that catches me off guard. “You’re pushing yourself to make this festival unforgettable, but just... don’t forget to take care of yourself too, alright?” He reaches out, briefly touching my arm, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.

My tongue darts out, wetting the plump of my lower lip, my mouth dry. “Of course.”

Jake looks at me for a moment, his expression so damn soft. “She wants it to be the biggest and the best, but the festival’s going to be great, even if it’s notperfectly brilliantand the best festival to ever grace the face of the planet.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “But I want it to be. For my own reasons.”

I can tell he’s not convinced. “Just don’t burn yourself out, okay?”

We stand there for a beat longer than necessary, the silence between us comfortable in a way that surprises me. We’re slipping back into something familiar, something good.

“Thanks,” I say, and I mean it. “It’s nice to know you’ve got my back.”

He pauses, his dark eyes drinking me in. “I’ve always got your back.” He catches my gaze, holds it, his expression open and unguarded. “And I’m not just talking about the festival. I’m here, for whatever you need. Anytime.”

I glance at the clock on the wall and clear my throat, fighting the urge to dig my fingers into the broad of his shoulders, to pull him into a kiss in front of everyone. “Look, I should get going.”

Jake is still smiling. “See you soon.”

“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. “See you soon.”

As I step outside, the cool air blasts me, but it does nothing to stop the fire burning inside.

I head to my car, driving to Town Hall with a smile on my face, before throwing myself into work, focusing on spreadsheets and layouts. My brain buzzes, running on autopilot, but my thoughts keep returning to him.

How is it possible that the man who broke my heart so completely could be this focused, thoughtful man? This good person.

I take a short break, eating a salad I packed earlier. It’s simple—lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes and ¼ of an avocado, no dressing, and I eat it quickly, telling myself I’ll grab something more substantial later, before getting back to work. But the hours pass, the afternoon turns to evening, and suddenly I’m shutting down my computer, realizing later never came.

The bike ride past my old family home is colder than usual. When I pull up to the house, I lean my bike against the fence and stand there, staring at the darkened windows. It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes it seem as though you’re the only one in the world.

It’s been strangely comforting coming back here, to the old house, talking to her. Believing the answers I need might be hidden in the wind or in the shadows of the house.

After filling her in on the progress of the festival planning, I switch to what’s been on my mind all week. “Being around him again is surreal. I thought we’d just keep everything businesslike. But—” I shake my head. “He’s not the same. I actuallylikehim. And there’s still this thing between us. I can’t explain it.”

“I want him.” I swallow hard. “And it’s messing with my head. I’m supposed to be focused on the festival, on doing thisright, on making you proud. But he’s everywhere, and it’s good to be around him again. I don’t want to admit it, but it does.”

The wind shifts, carrying with it the sound of footsteps, and I snap my head up. An older woman who looks familiar stands a few feet away, watching me with a kind, knowing expression. My heart jolts, and I stumble back a step, completely caught off guard. How long has she been standing there?

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she says. “I overheard you talking.”

I swallow hard, mortified, heat rising to my cheeks. I was talking to my dead mother, for God’s sake. I probably sound like a lunatic. “Oh, um it’s okay—”

“Kelly Charleston, right? I used to know your family,” she says, cutting me off. “Mrs. Fraser. Lived down the road for years. I saw you grow up in this house. It’s nice to see you back in town. I was sorry to hear about your mother.”

Now she’s said her name, I remember her. She and Mom used to chat about gardening sometimes on the weekend. She’s grayer than before, her face more lined. I force a smile, but it’s stiff and unnatural. “Thanks.”

She tilts her head, studying me for a moment, as if she can sense my discomfort. “Your mother was a lovely woman.”

My throat is so dry. The words are meant to be comforting, but they just remind me of everything I’ve lost.

Mrs. Fraser looks at me, but I can’t stand the weight of her gaze any longer. “I should get going,” I say quickly, glancing at my bike. “It was nice to see you again.”

She nods understandingly. “Take care, dear.”

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