Page 45 of The Scars I Bare
“Because it’s messy!” she answered, her voice rising in pitch.
Cora joined in on the laughter.
“Billy!” I hollered. “Bring this girl some ice cream. No spoon!”
A very confused Billy slid up next to me by the table. “Uh, Dean, I don’t really carry ice cream. I might be able to throw together a s’more or something.”
I laughed, patting my old classmate on the back. “It’s okay, Billy. Maybe another time.”
He seemed relieved, running back to the kitchen as the three of us laughed together. It felt good, and I could see appreciation in Cora’s eyes, which only made me want to stay longer.
I’d promised Lizzie I’d befriend her mother.
But what I felt growing inside me, what I’d felt since the first moment she walked into my hospital room and every moment since, went way beyond friendship, and if I was half the man Lizzie believed me to be, I’d walk away.
I’d tell Lizzie to ask someone else to befriend her mother.
Someone with good intentions and a pure heart.
I was not that person. I was the man who wanted everything from Cora Carpenter—friendship, love, and all the happily-ever-after crap Molly had been drilling into me for years.
But I had a feeling that Cora had already given everything she had away to someone else, and what I was looking at was a broken shell of what used to be there.
Kind of like me.
Somehow, the little mastermind had managed to talk me into walking them home, and I’d left my truck behind at the restaurant.
Her reasoning?
Mommy needed company while she looked for shells and rocks.
Lizzie looked back at Cora and me, the sun slowly starting to fade into the horizon, as we walked down the path. She gave me the cutest stern look. I guess I was supposed to be talking.
About what, I wasn’t sure.
Was I being set up by a five-year-old?
“She’ll be okay, running ahead,” I said, awkwardly clearing my throat. “Not many cars out at this time of day. Or any time of day really. Mostly just golf carts.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and let out a deep breath.
Real smooth, Dean. Good job.
“What is it with the golf carts?” Cora finally asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. They weren’t around when I was growing up, but they sprang up about a decade ago when an ordinance passed. The tourists like them and the locals, too.”
“But not you?”
I shrugged again. “I’ve never driven one.”
She looked surprised. “Really? Never?”
Shaking my head, I replied, “Nope. Molly talked about getting one for the inn when we—I mean, but, uh…no, I’ve never driven one.”
“There it is,” she said slowly, like she’d found a long-lost wallet or something.
I turned my head as we continued walking. “What?”
