Page 31 of Fixing Up My Love Life

The way she looked at me. The way I looked at her. Back when I thought forever was a sure thing. Before I let her go.

It’s not just nostalgia—it’s clarity. I’m still in love with her. I’ve been fooling myself, dancing around it,pretending it’s just the kids or the town or the business.

But it’s her. It’s always been her.

Because she’s the one who never asked me to be anything but myself. The one who never treated me like I was some broken vet or a has-been startup guy. Hazel sees me for who I am—no embellishments, no masks. And even when I’m a total disaster, she doesn’t just tolerate me. She chooses me—every time. Even when I don’t deserve it.

She laughed at my dad jokes before they were dad jokes, and she called me out when I was an idiot. She knew when I needed space and when I needed someone to yank me out of my own head. And she didn’t flinch when things got messy. She just rolled up her sleeves and helped me clean it up.

That’s love. Not the fireworks and grand gestures kind—but the “show up when it’s hard” kind. And I want that. I want her.

“Thought I’d set it on your old dresser,” Mom adds, already heading toward the house. “Might remind you of what you had. And what you could still have—if you play your cards right.”

I clear my throat and turn back to the grill. “She’s subtle, huh?”

“She’s got a point,” Brett says, nudging me. “Notjust about Hazel. Caroline could use a steady female figure. And sisters. You ever think about what it’d mean for her?”

“I’ve thought about nothing but her since February,” I say quietly.

“She’s doing better.”

“She is.”

“Hazel been good for her?” he asks, almost too casually.

I glance over at my daughter, now trying to stack three watermelon wedges into some kind of pink pyramid on her plate. “They’ve only talked a few times. But Caroline listens when Hazel speaks. I saw it. Like—really heard her. That doesn’t happen often.”

He nods knowingly.

Caroline wanders over and inspects a brat like it might bite back. “Please tell me these aren’t charcoal-flavored.”

“No promises,” I mutter.

She picks one anyway. “Next year, I’m getting you a grilling class for Father’s Day. And maybe a fire extinguisher. Or just a stunt double.”

“You volunteering for the job?”

“I value my eyebrows, so no. But you’re lucky I like you.”

“Like?” I ask, mock-wounded. “That’s all I get?”

She smirks. “Don’t push your luck, Grill Master General.”

Brett chuckles, and my mom yells from inside that the corn’s ready, and suddenly, I discover what I didn’t know I’d been missing—a normal day. Family, friends, and future plans that don’t involve running.

I look toward the kitchen window, where the prom photo now sits. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop burning everything and start building something real.

I shift the cake box under my arm and unlock the truck while Caroline flops into the passenger seat with her usual dramatic sigh. “If I eat one more hot dog, I’m going to explode.”

“You ate two,” I say dryly.

“Plus chips. And that weird Jell-O salad. I’m regretting my life choices right now.”

I grin and start the engine. “You and me both.”

We pull up to the Hensley House just as the sun begins to dip behind the treetops, casting the beach in gold. The windows on the second floor glow like something out of a postcard. It looks like a place someone could actually stay.

Maybe even me.

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