Page 18 of Love Deep
We watch straight ahead out of the windshield as my mom pulls Riley back inside.
Fisher’s expression has hardened; the air has shifted between us.
I could try and justify my omission, but I don’t owe Fisher anything. He doesn’t deserve to know anything about me. We’re not dating. We haven’t even kissed. There are no expectations on my side, and there shouldn’t be on his.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I mean it. I’m sorry he feels like I kept something from him.
His entire demeanor shifts, and his expression is pained. “You have nothing to be sorry about. We don’t know each other.” He clears his throat like he’s done with this conversation.
I sigh. I should get out of the car and go home and get Riley snuggles. But I’m not ready to. Not yet. I don’t want to get out of the car when whatever it is that Fisher and I have shared is still broken.
We sit in silence for a few beats.
It feels hopeless.
“I’m going to go inside now and get myself some eight-year-old snuggles. But I really did have an incredible evening tonight. And I’m really pleased you were there.”
I pause. Then I turn and press a kiss onto his shoulder. For some reason, it feels like the right thing to do. It’s almost a promise of what might have happened between us. He smells of expensive shower gel and newly mowed grass, andI try and commit it to memory because it’s probably the last time I’ll ever see Fisher again.
Although no doubt he’ll live on when my mom teases me for sniffing strangers and kissing New Yorkers on the shoulder.
“Good night, Fisher.”
“Good night, Juniper.”
I offer him a small smile, but he stays facing ahead. I get out of the truck, and when I get to the porch, I turn back, but he’s busy turning the truck around.
If nothing else, Fisher proved my vagina hasn’t curled up and died. Maybe one day, a guy will ride into town who won’t only be here for six weeks, who won’t mind that I’m a mother, and who I’ll like as much as I started to like Fisher.
And maybe hell will freeze over and people of Star Falls will stop talking about the Colorado Club.
But there’s always hope. That’s what life’s taught me these last thirty-two years—there’s always hope.
EIGHT
Juniper
Riley and I probably look like children’s entertainers as we walk down Main Street in our matching outfits. We’re both wearing paint-splattered overalls and blue t-shirts, and our hair is in scarves. Except Riley’s outfit is a little smaller than mine.
“Mom, can you take my picture? None of my friends believe that I’m an artist.”
“You want a picture in front of Marv?” I ask, nodding toward the life-sized moose that sits outside Snail Trail—the outdoors store on Main Street.
She rolls her eyes like she’s barely tolerating me. “No, Mom. I grew out of photographs with Marv two years ago.”
“Oh, sorry. But it’s cute, having pictures of the two of you together over the years.”
“Mom!” she yells, like I’m insisting Marv be in all our family photographs. “I just want the mountains in the background.”
“Okay,” I reply. “So, go stand with the mountains in the background.”
My studio is in the old candy store. Everyone told Mrs. Peters that a candy store in the middle of Star Falls wasn’t ever going to be a moneymaker, but she didn’t care. She wanted a candy store. She was convinced Star Falls was going to be the next Vail, and she wouldn’t listen to anyone. Mrs. Peters has more money than all the residents of Star Falls combined, so when she finally closed the doors of Candy Cane, no one called it a failure. Mrs. Peters had wanted a candy store, and she’d gotten one.
It was Mrs. Peters who’d offered it up to give me a place to paint. Just until she found someone to rent the premises. I don’t know if commercial real estate is going through a downturn in Colorado, but I can’t remember Mrs. Peters even having anyone looking at the place. Anyway, I give her a painting of the bluebells in the woods behind her house every springtime, and I get a place to paint.
Riley strikes a pose, hands on hips, one leg out in front of the other. I have no idea how my child decided she was going to pose like a Hollywood movie star, but here we are. Eight, going on eighteen.
“You look gorgeous,” I say, and swipe to show her the shots I took before she can ask.
