Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Thank you.” I slide my hand out from hers. “I feel strange asking this, but do you happen to know anything about a falling-out between Donovan and Lachlan?”
Berlin’s mouth twists at the side as she thinks. “Um, I mean, they were brothers. They had their differences. They were never really close. It was always their dynamic, and I guess I never really questioned it because that was their normal. Every family’s different, you know?”
The casualness in her tone puts me at ease—a little.
But my gut tells me there’s more to the story.
“Hey, do you want to give me your number, and I can text you when I have those shop names?” I slide a pad of paper and a pen across the counter.
“Yes, actually. That would be amazing.” She slings her bag over her shoulder and comes closer. A second later, she hands me a slip of paper scrawled with the name Berlin Waterford and her digits.
“Perfect. I’ll text you so you have mine too.” I grab my phone and fire off a happy-face emoji. Her phone chimes. “There.”
“Say . . . ,” she says, her hands fidgeting on the glass counter. “I just moved back here last year, and I’ve been so busy setting up my shop that I’ve been a bit antisocial. That and all of my old friends got married and had babies and moved away.” She laughs, nervous almost, and her cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink. “I don’t know why this feels so weird. It’s like asking someone out on a date or something. But do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?”
I can attest to the fact that making friends is difficult, the older we get, so I see her nervousness and meet it with an overzealous “I’d love to.”
Most of the friends I used to run around with in Chicago scattered like leaves in the wind as soon as they started getting married and having babies. I’ve stayed in touch with many of them, sending the occasional text or having a Facebook chat here or there. But it’s never the same. The closeness eventually fades.
I could really use another friend myself these days . . .
Berlin’s phone rings, and she glances down at the caller ID. “That’s my mom. I should take this. Anyway, I’ll text you about meeting up, okay?”
“Perfect.”
She leaves, turning back and waving from the sidewalk before disappearing out of view.
She seems . . . nice.
A little lonely, perhaps, but it takes one to know one.
I could see us being friends. And who knows? Maybe she’ll have some stories to share or a little insight into Donovan’s younger days.
He and I never dug deep into each other’s dating histories. That was one of the things I appreciated about him from those early days. He never pried. He was so secure in our relationship and his place in my life that he didn’t need to. He’d mentioned once that he was a serial monogamist. He preferred to be in actual relationships rather than chasing the next one-night stand. He mentioned once that he’d dated the same girl all through high school and college, and he had nothing but nice things to say about his nameless former flame. While some women might have felt a twinge of jealousy at that revelation, knowing they would never be his first big love, it only made me fall that much harder because it implied that he was both loyal and capable of commitment.
I finish the rest of the afternoon, close the shop, and head home to Lachlan, my stomach in knots given the fact that we didn’t leave things off on a great note earlier.
If I have any chance at saving this house, I need to smooth things over.
I grab a take-out pizza and a bottle of red wine from the gas station on the way home.
And before I head inside, I promise myself I won’t pry again—at least not tonight.
If we get to know each other a little better, maybe the truth will reveal itself?
TWELVE
LACHLAN
toska (n.) an immense ache for nothing and everything all at once
“What’s this?” Anneliese stands in the back doorway of the house shortly after seven Saturday night, a bottle of wine under one arm and a pizza box in hand.
“You left without saying anything earlier, and you didn’t leave me a list, so I thought I’d strip the paint off the back deck.” I rise, wiping my damp brow against the back of my hand. “Started with a test corner over there.” I nod to the left. “I think it’s salvageable. Just needs stripped, sanded, and sealed.”
“This looks . . . wow,” she says, walking around and inspecting my work. “I was going to replace the entire thing, but this is great news. This’ll save ten grand, easily.”
Ten grand is some expensive firewood . . .