Page 9 of Book Boyfriends
“Don’t we all.”
After the applause subsides, the courtyard empties except for a few people. Pilar sits beside Estelle at a patio table. Their heads bent over Pilar’s cell phone, watching a video of her twins’ dance recital. Doc and I flutter around the space, picking up discarded cups and snacks.
“Another stellar performance,” I say, scooping up an empty bag of chips and tossing them into the small trash bag he holds.
“I just ride Estelle’s coattails.” His tender stare drops to his wife, her head tossed back in laughter. “She’s the sun, I just orbit her.”
“That makes you the Earth.”
“Or Uranus,” he deadpans.
I snort. “Even in their eighties, men act like teenage boys.”
A deep chuckle vibrates from him. “That may be the trick to sixty years together.” He gestures toward his wife, who flashes him a sweet smile from across the courtyard. “Never lose that tenacious youthfulness. That belief that no matter what happens, you can find a way. Every hardship. Every fight. We never lost that.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“And a lot of luck.” He bends down, picking up a coin someone had dropped on the stone path. “And I’ve been a very lucky man. I met the one at the right time, and, luckiest of all, she felt the same way.”
A frown drags down my mouth. The wear and tear of the last five years erodes my once steady belief that the future I want will happen. It’s a fear I barely admit to myself, let alone anyone else.
“It sometimes seems like the only luck I have is bad.” My admission is quiet.
“You’ve had a string of it, but you’ve also had some good.”
“I know.” I shift foot-to-foot. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself right now. It will pass. Just the hangover from a bad date.”
He frowns. “He’s the one with the bad luck. He’s missing out on you, Peach.”
Which one?Two names flash in my mind’s eye: Davis or Will.
He holds up the coin. “But just in case, take this. Maybe some of my luck will rub off.”
Blinking back threatening tears, I take the coin. “My older brother says luck is what you make of it.”
“He’s not wrong, but you still need some to make something of it. If anyone can, it’s you, Peach. Your writing shows me that. You were gifted the talent, and look what you’ve done with that.”
Despite my nod of agreement, queasiness sloshes in my belly.What if that talent is gone?
“I know whatever else luck has in store for you, you’ll not waste.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Hopefully, that lucky penny brings you what you’re looking for.”
As Doc says goodbye and collects Estelle, Pilar sneaks off for one last check in with the charge nurses before heading home to her family. Perched on the stone edge of the small fountain, the garden’s decadent perfume fills my nostrils, and the crickets’ melody plays in my ears. I skate my left hand along the water’s cool surface, the penny clutched in my right.
Luck isn’t something the Lane family subscribes to. It might be the one commonality between my brothers and father. Nolan Lane doesn’t believe in luck. He subscribes to a stubborn belief that if he just keeps painting, keeps doing show after show, his effort will pay off. Jackson is as determined in business, and Rem in law. Even me. With my writing and dating. If I keep doing both, it must hit, right?
I want a happy ending, but I don’t know what it looks like or how to get it. It could be like Doc and Estelle, a love that lasts a lifetime. It could be like my brother Jackson, single but fulfilled in his career. It could be something different. Something that is just mine.
“I just need a little luck to find it.” With a soft kiss to the coin, I toss it into the fountain. The coin’s splash joins the fountain’s constant flow of ripples. Sighing, I whisper my wish, “Show me what my happy ending is and how to get it.”
CHAPTER THREE
HE WANTS ME GONE
Each blink of the cursor mocks me from the laptop balanced on my lap. Wentworth, my six-year-old chocolate lab, is curled into a ball beside me. His quiet snores are almost in cadence with the flashingblink blinkon the screen.
Weekend mornings are my peak writing time. I wake early, walk Wentworth, brew a pot of Lady Grey tea, and write. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Today, however, I sit, the last sips of tea cold in myWho Needs Real Men When You Can Write Themmug, a gift from Hope, with no torrent of words in sight. Thanks to my bestie’s Etsy addiction, I have an entire cabinet full of mugs to put a humorously optimistic spin on my disastrous dating life. The mug’s whimsical promise fades with the realization that I may not even be able to write a book boyfriend anymore.
