Page 177 of Small Towns, Wild Hearts

“Oh,” I say. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

“But he said he was only sorry for breaking his promise to me. Not for actually doing it.”

I press my fingers on my lips, my eyes welling. The past three months have been good. I haven’t dated any good-on-paper men who I swore were the one for me, while still waiting for the inevitable break-up talk. I haven’t dated anyone. I’ve spent my time working, avoiding eye contact with the security guards when I see them just in case, making these new painted mason-jar candle holders for a friend’s upcoming wedding, and hanging out with Shirley and Doreen. In some ways, not much has changed.

But really, everything has. Before, I felt that anxious, gnawing feeling that I was never going to have the love story of my dreams. That I’d never get that part of my heart answered and I’d die a spinster.

Now, I know it doesn’t matter. I know Tristan has been the best thing that ever happened to me, even though I’d likely never see him again.

Plus, some of my best friends were spinsters.

“Anyway,” Sam said, “I wanted to apologize to you, Cor.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I doubted you. I told Tristan back when we were kids, when you first started turning into like… not just a kid anymore, that I didn’t want him going near you. I knew how open you were, and I was sure he’d hurt you. I didn’t trust him, which was bullshit, because he was my best friend. The thing about the business—I get just as hyped up about shit as you do—I didn’t leave room for him to even give me his take on it. I just barreled ahead. And with you—I didn’t trust you could handle whatever life threw your way. So I’m sorry, Cor. Really sorry.”

I had no words; just a swell of love for my big brother. “You were looking out for me, Sam. How could I be upset about that?”

Sam makes a sound that I’m pretty sure means he’s choked up too.

“So are you guys friends again?” I ask tentatively.

“We talked for hours, Cor. We were both fuckin’ crying.”

“Did he tell you we…”

“Saw each other. When he was back in town. Yeah. He told me.”

I swallow, nerves suddenly flickering through me. “It was just a few days, Sam. And it’s over now.”

There’s a pause. Then Sam says, “Well, it doesn’t matter—my opinion has nothing to do with you two. Though if you happened to want toknowmy opinion… Tristan’s the best guy I know.”

I laugh through my tears, both at Sam being Sam, and at the fact that no matter what I told myself over these three months, the fact is, Ididfall for Tristan, all over again. The only difference was, I knew I’d survive now that he was gone.

After glancing at the time, I tell Sam I should probably get going into my shift, but he says he won’t have time to call later.

“Mom says you talked?” he asks.

We did, I confirm. There were a lot of tears, because I finally got the nerve to tell Mom and Dad how much their constant fawning over Sam—and talk about my ‘flightiness’—had impacted me over the years. “I am who I am,” I told them. “And just because I’m not doing the kind of important things Sam does that you can tell your friends about, I’m happy with who I am and what I do.”

“Oh honey,” Mom had said, her lip quivering. “We’ve never been unhappy with you.”

Dad had pulled me into a hard hug, telling me I’d always be his special girl. Tears had ensued from all three of us.

“I wanted to know how work’s going for you too?” Sam asks after I fill him in and he, too, tells me how proud he is of me for speaking up. I can tell he’s trying to clear the emotion from his voice. “I heard the Kelly family all came home to take over the hotel?”

“Cassandra Kelly is amazing,” I say. “But she has her work cut out for her. The place is still a mess. I’m not actually sure it’s going to survive.”

I went for coffee with Louise last week. Fed up with George, she’d taken early retirement in September. She told me the guy George hired to renovate the east wing was some kind of sleazy politician who got caught up in an embezzlement scandal. He drained the company’s bank account and did none of the work.

“So, you going to look for a new job?” Sam asks. “’Cause I heard the receptionist at Reilly is retiring next year.”

I smiled, though my brother couldn’t see it. His obsession with the local homebuilding firm had been one he’d never shaken, even thousands of miles away and years later.

“Why don’t you come home and get a job with them?” I asked.

“Maybe I will,” he says.

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