Page 7 of Chasing You

“Miles,” I say.

She barks a laugh. “That’s fitting.” I roll my eyes out of instinct. I couldn’t count on one hand the number of times people have talked to me about Miles Teller from Top Gun. “Do you play beach volleyball shirtless too?” she asks.

“If you want me to.”Why did I just say that?

She sticks her tongue in her cheek as if trying to keep her smile hidden away. “Well, Miles,” she says, tipping the edge of my hat in my direction, “it works.” Then she winks at me and walks to the other end of the bar, wearing my hat. And I spend the rest of my night with my eyes glued on her hazel ones, even when they’re not looking at me.

chapter three

MARINA

PRESENT

The cottage isnext to the general store, right? But it doesn’t match. The red of the general store is a different red. This is more of a cherry red; maybe this is part of the barn?

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth as I scour my coffee table for a little snippet of the general store among the other thousand pieces of the puzzle scattered across the surface of my tiny coffee table.

There’s something about puzzles that relax me after a night in the bar. For some people, puzzles stress them out, but for me, they help me wind down and let my mind work on something totally random. It completely takes my focus away from anything that is going on outside this apartment. Including the absolute joke of a date I just wasted half my night on.

I mean, what kind of guy gets a seafood chowder on a first date? No one I know thinks slurping is a turn-on. But apparently, Dario didn’t think of that, nor did he think about the fact that I was getting nowhere near his mouth, unless he wanted me to gag during our first kiss. I shudder as I think of it, nearly retching as I just sit here imagining it.

I tip my wine glass to take a sip, but when less than a drop lands on my tongue, I decide that’s probably enough for the night anyway, considering I had three glasses with dinner. I had hoped it would distract me from my lame evening talking about stocks and cryptocurrency, but even the wine couldn’t dull the sound of Dario’s droning voice.

Why is finding someone to spend the rest of your life with so painful? Maybe it’s just me.

My cousin and one of my best friends are getting married next week.Theyfound it—that infinite, all-consuming love. So did May and Rafael, even after hating each other since the day they first met, they somehow turned that around into a passionate love story.

But here I am, the friend stuck sitting on the floor doing a puzzle after yet another shitty date. I can’t seem to block out the little voice inside my head that says I’m falling behind.

When I was a teenager, if I thought about my twenty-six-year-old self, I would have imagined myself running around a big yard, chasing after my perfect little children, my husband watching from beside the pool.

Oh, what younger me would think if she saw me now.

I know they say life never goes to plan, and sure, it can be a comforting phrase, but it’s not comforting to me. I feel as though I am racing the clock, rushing to find my happily ever after before time runs out for me.

I know it sounds ridiculous, some people find their person when they’re fifty, sixty, even, but I don’t want that to be me.

I’ve spent years trying to build the life of my dreams, and yeah, my life isn’t perfect, but it’smine. I just want someone to share it with, even if another person in this apartment would make it feel like an overfilled jail cell.

It’s probably enough of the puzzle as well. It’s one a.m., not especially late in my books, not when you own the town's only bar. Some people want to sit in the corner booth until the wee hours of the morning, meaning I have to stay awake waiting forthem to leave so I can lock the door behind them and trudge upstairs before falling into bed.

I unfold my legs from the couch and walk the two steps it takes for me to get from the couch to the kitchen counter, and place my glass in the sink. I catch a look at myself as I pass by the mirror on the way to my bedroom. God, I really should go to sleep if I look likethat.

I sigh as I stand in the doorway, looking across the floor for the pyjama pants I wore last night. I pick up piece after piece of clothing off my floor looking for them, throwing the items in my washing basket as I do, filling it enough to know I’ll need to make a trip to the laundromat tomorrow.

When I first bought this place, I thought it was perfect. Owning a bar was my dream. The fact that this building came with an apartment upstairs was the best possible situation when I was twenty-three and eager to move out of my parents' house on the other side of town.

It’s not that I didn’t love living at home; my parents are the best people I know. It was just time for me to do something for myself.

But as the years have gone on, I’ve gotten more and more annoyed every time I clip my ankle on a corner of furniture, overestimating the space in my small apartment.

I dread my trips to the laundromat after my run-in with Riccardo when he tried to steal a pair of my leather pants. They were never going to fit him, and I was not letting them go without a fight. How luxurious it would be to have my own washing machine.

Then there’s my days off, which I usually don’t want to spend here unless I want to spend the day listening to every drunk conversation going on downstairs. One day I’ll get my own place. A house, where there are multiple bedrooms, a kitchen with more than three cupboards, and a shower without a leaky head. But until then, this is home.

I give up, rifling through one of my drawers looking forsomething to sleep in. My movements pause when I pull out a worn sage-green T-shirt.

“Put this on,” he said, tossing me his T-shirt through the small crack of the bathroom door.

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