The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

  “This is me.” I shrug. “This is who I am now.”

  “I don’t buy it,” she says without hesitation. “In fact, I refuse to believe this is you.”

  Laughing, I shove my hands deeper in my pockets. “Believe what you want. It’s not my job to try to convince you.”

  “You wouldn’t be so angry at me if I didn’t hurt you. And you wouldn’t still be this hurt if you didn’t still have feelings for me,” she says, like she’s suddenly some psychoanalytical genius.

  “Not true.”

  “Bullshit. It is true. If you truly didn’t care about me, if you truly hated me, you wouldn’t be so cold every time you’re around me,” she says, one hand on her hip as she comes closer. A hint of her perfume—the same kind she wore back in high school—is carried on a breeze and deposited all over me, clinging to my skin, my clothes.

  My gaze falls to her full pink mouth.

  I’d fucking kill to know what it feels like to kiss her again, but I have to be strong. I can’t give in just because I’m a little bit buzzed and she’s standing here all gorgeous, damn near offering herself to me on a silver platter under the guise of ripping me a new one.

  If she truly didn’t care about me, she wouldn’t be standing here trying to put me in my place right now.

  Her phone dings.

  “My ride’s here,” she says, glancing up at a little white Nissan.

  She isn’t even gone yet and already I miss her. I could stand here all night, verbally sparring, daring myself not to try to gift that smart mouth with a punishing kiss.

  Yardley doesn’t say goodbye.

  She doesn’t give me a second look.

  The little white Nissan swallows her whole and just like that, she’s gone.

  And just like that, I try to wrap my head around what just happened. By the time my ride comes, I accept the fact that I don’t know what to fucking think.

  As I’m driven back to my mother’s house on the south side of town, I can’t stop replaying our conversation.

  And as I toss and turn in my bed all night, I can’t stop seeing her beautiful face every time I close my eyes. Unlike basketball, I can’t fucking win with this woman. She’s just as all-consuming as ever. And tonight? She was so close I could’ve touched her. I could’ve pushed her against the brick wall of the bar, lifted her into my arms, and kissed her so hard she wouldn’t be able to breathe by the time I was done.

  Tearing the covers off, I creep to the kitchen and rifle through my mother’s medicine cabinet until I find a bottle of Ambien that expired last month. Tossing one back and chasing it with a glass of water, I trudge back to my bed.

  I need to be stronger than the thing that broke me.

  But tonight, I just need some fucking sleep.

  Chapter Forty

  There’s Nothing More to Say

  Yardley

  “Oh. Hello.” I’m fixing myself a cup of coffee Saturday morning when a man in nothing but jeans and ruffled hair creeps out of my sister’s room. She normally doesn’t bring them home—or if she does, she gets them out before the crack of dawn. “I’m Yardley. And you are?”

  “Carson,” he says, eyes squinting as he glances around. “Have you seen a yellow t-shirt by chance?”

  I lift my mug to my mouth before pointing to a sunshine yellow article of clothing draped over my reading lamp.

  “Thank you,” he says, grabbing it and tugging it over his taut, muscled body.

  I have to admit, he’s a thing to look at, at least according to Lambs Grove standards, but before I have a chance to grill him about his intentions with my sister, he’s stepping into his sneakers and dashing out the door like he’s late for a meeting with the president.

  “Bry! He’s getting away!” I yell at the top of my lungs.

  Her door swings open a second later and she stumbles out, locks of golden hair in her face and her pajama top crooked, falling off her shoulders.

  “Who was that?” I ask.

  “Carson Conover,” she says, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Even from several feet away, I can smell the stale alcohol wafting from her person. “He stopped by the bar last night after you left.”

  “So you know each other?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She yawns. “We went to school together. He’s back in town for his grandma’s funeral. We used to hook up all the time.” Bryony laughs. “We used to do some crazy stuff together, sneaking out at all hours. Mom and Dad had no idea. You never noticed either.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?” I head to the coffee maker and pop another coffee pod in, fixing her a cup.

  “No, I’m just saying. I know that guy. We have a history. I wasn’t bringing home some crazy guy I just met,” she says.

  I lift a hand. “Not judging.”

  My sister slides into one of the bar stools, and I glide her mug across the counter. “I saw you talking to Nevada outside last night.”

  My gaze flicks to hers.

  “What’d you two talk about?” she asks.

  “Nothing, really,” I say. “Nothing of significance anyway. He was mainly making fun of Brendan giving me his number and trying to kiss me.”

  She lifts a brow. “No shit?”

  I take a sip. “Yep. I’m so confused. It’s like he resented the fact that another guy was interested in me … but yet, he wants nothing to do with me.”

  Bryony worries her bottom lip, though her face is expressionless. “Thinking, thinking …”

  “You don’t have to interpret this, Bry,” I say. “Really. I’m moving on. I’m in a good place now. For the first time in all these years, I’m okay with the fact that we’re not meant to be.”

  Her head cocks to the side. She doesn’t buy it. And I don’t blame her. For ten freaking years, I was hung up on this guy. Suddenly I’m over him? I understand it’s hard to accept, but this is huge for me, and it’s real and it’s happening.

  “A part of me will always love him and always miss what we had, but there’s so much more of life that I’m missing out on,” I say.

  “Very true,” she says. “Which is what I’ve been trying to tell you for years, but go on.”

  My palms cup around the warm porcelain in my hands, and I smile. “There’s nothing more to say. I’m moving on. I’m finally moving on.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Last Night’s Dream

  Nevada

  I’m wiping sticky syrup off Lennon’s hands Saturday morning when my mother takes a seat at the head of the kitchen table, watching me.

  “You’re so good with those girls.” She wears a sleepy smile, her cheek resting against the top of her hand and her hair disheveled. A fluffy gray robe covers her pajamas, and she looks exhilaratingly tired.

  As a single mother for most of our childhoods, I imagine she missed out on these kinds of simple pleasures like making pancakes for your kids on a lazy Saturday morning, cartoons playing in the background.

  I shrug. “I try.”

  “Give yourself a little more credit, Nev,” she says. “You’re a single parent. And you’re doing a hell of a lot better job than I ever did.”

  “Our situations are a little different.”

  “All things considered,” she says, “anyone else would be falling apart after what you went through, but you’re trudging ahead. I’m so proud of you.”

  Exhaling, I take a seat beside Essie, who’s trying to pick up pieces of mashed banana from the tray of her high chair.

  “I’m meeting up with a contractor this morning at the house,” I say. “Think you can watch the girls for a couple of hours?”

  “Of course.”

  “Figured I’d take them to Saint Louis after that. Maybe see the aquarium and the children’s museum, just us.”

  Mom smiles. “They’d love that.”

  Watching my youngest squish fruit between her fingers, I smile. I’m looking forward to a daddy-daughters day.

  “How was last night?” Mom asks.

 
I glance across the table. “You want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  “It was a small-town bar on a small-town Friday night,” I say. “Cheap beer, blue-collar types, a handful of drunks, and a bunch of girls with bleach blonde hair, tight jeans, and cowgirl boots.”

  Mom shrugs, like she doesn’t see the problem. But she’s used to this slower-paced, middle America kind of life. She’s grown up here her whole life. Being away for ten years, I’ve grown out of this.

  Living on the East Coast and traveling all over the country, I loved waking up each morning to something new. I loved walking to the coffee shop at the corner and never running into the same person twice.

  “Honestly, I’m still not sure moving back here was the right decision,” I say. “On paper, it is. You’re here. Hunter and Eden are here. And I know I need you guys. But it just doesn’t feel right yet.”

  “Nev, you already bought a house. Whether or not it feels right, you’ve uprooted your life—the girls’ lives. You’re here. You have to try. You have to make the best of it. Besides, if you left, where would you go?”

  I shrug. That’s another thing. I’m not sure.

  Home was always North Carolina. And Estella. After college, I signed with the Raleigh Warriors and then I got married. There’s nothing left for me back there. And I’ve never lived anywhere else.

  “Everything’s new and maybe even a little scary,” Mom says. “But it’s all going to work out. I know it is. And one of these days, everything’s going to make sense. It’s all going to add up. That’s how it always goes in the end.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. My head pounds from last night, though I’m not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the Ambien.

  “Would Estella have liked Lambs Grove?” Mom asks.

  I chuff. Estella loved everything, everyone, and everywhere. “Yeah.”

  She’d have especially loved it here with all the tree-lined streets and the salt box houses and the clock tower on Main Street.

  I stare over Mom’s shoulder for a second, gazing out the sliding glass doors toward her shady, half acre back yard and recalling a strange dream I had last night about Estella.

  I’m not the type to frivolously assign meaning to things, but I can’t shake the image of my late wife dressed in white, smiling and telling me to come closer. Her hands were cupped, outstretched, and when I finally came near, she opened them only to reveal a single white dove.

  My nickname for Yardley was Dove.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I’m Doing This

  Yardley

  “Have you ever seen such gorgeous pieces?” Mom sighs Monday morning, lifting a sequin-embroidered sheath dress for me to see before laying it flat on her cutting board. Her shears glide through the fabric a moment later. “It’s a shame to destroy these, but it’s for a good cause.”

  “What is that? What are you working on?”

  “Memory quilts for the Kanes,” she says. “One for Nevada, two for his daughters.”

  So that’s why Doreen was here the other day.

  “I’m already done with the first one,” she says. “Took it home over the weekend. The girls’ quilts are small, so they don’t take as much time. The big one’s a bit more time consuming, but I’m happy to do this for them. I know what it’s like to lose your partner in crime.”

  She smiles a wistful smile before making another snip, and I grab a soft-as-cashmere sweater, pale pink with a Valentino label, and lift it to my nose. It may be morbid, but I’ve always wondered if Estella Kane smelled as beautiful as she looked.

  But the sweater smells like something that’s been packed in a cardboard box for six months.

  “These are beautiful,” I say, eyeing the rest of the pieces.

  “Each one is different,” she says. “Each one is special.”

  Several years back, I watched a video of Estella on YouTube. Someone had uploaded an interview of her back when she was the captain of the Grove State dance squad. At first I wanted to hate her. I was young and petty and jealous, and she was exuberant with exotic looks, and more importantly, she had the eye of the only man who still owned my heart.

  But after a sheer two minutes of listening to her sweet voice and infectious laugh, I found myself laughing along, grinning. Her joy and enthusiasm and zest for life were contagious. It was impossible not to like her.

  My heart broke all over again, but I was happy for Nev.

  He found someone amazing.

  And, my God, he deserved her.

  Heading back to my office, I close the door, crank the music on my phone, and force myself to get lost in my work just to keep myself from dwelling on the kind of things that are going to give me a heavy heart for the unforeseeable future.

  For the past several months, I’ve been designing a website for The Sew Shop’s side business. Mom’s been designing the most adorable, original little girls’ dresses since Bryony and I were kids, and we finally convinced her to turn it into another component of the company. Besides, we never know when we’re going to hit a slow patch, and the Lambs Grove economy is always so unpredictable.

  Rumor has it, some NASCAR driver’s in talks to develop his own speedway outside of town, and if that’s true, we’ll get hotels and gas stations and restaurants, which means more jobs and more uniforms to alter.

  But I’m not holding my breath. I’ll believe it when I see it.

  Checking my email, I find a reminder from Grandwoods University about their upcoming summer enrollment period. Clicking on the link, I’m taken to a website I haven’t visited in forever. Over the years, I’ve always dabbled with the idea of getting a graphic design degree from the local extension campus in town. Despite the fact that my job here is technical and boring and business-oriented, my heart is screaming to do something creative.

  Growing up, I was rarely without my sketch pad and graphite pencil.

  Browsing the website and poring over all the course offerings, I finally draw in a deep breath and click on the flashing green “Apply Now!” icon in the upper left-hand corner.

  I’m doing this.

  For the first time in a long time, moving on finally feels like the right thing for me to do.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The Errand

  Nevada

  “Oh, hey, on your way across town, could you stop into The Sew Shop and pick up those quilts?” Mom asks me when I’m halfway out the door. “Rosamund called and said they were ready last week. I don’t want them taking up room on her shelf. Plus she worked so hard to get them done. Don’t want to be rude.”

  I say nothing, my hand resting on the door knob to the garage entrance.

  “I’d do it, but I’m taking the girls for their checkups in Hallwood Creek, and that’s a ninety-minute drive in the opposite direction,” she says, sensing my hesitation. “Would sure save me a step.”

  God, I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to step a single foot inside that shop. It’d give the wrong impression—she might actually think I’m there for her.

  But it’s not like I can tell my mother “no” after everything she’s done for me lately, watching the girls, cooking meals, doing our laundry … making sure I don’t fall apart.

  “Nev?” she asks, brows raised.

  Exhaling, I say, “Yeah. Sure.”

  It’s been two weeks since I saw Yardley at The Leaderboard. And for two straight weeks, I’ve had that same dream with Estella and the dove almost every night. Estella was never one to nag, but I can’t help but feel like she’s shoving me in a direction against my will.

  For fourteen days, I’ve dug my heels into the ground and gone out of my way to avoid interacting with anyone around here on the off chance I might run into her. Most days I head to the house, get shit done, sometimes stop at the hardware shop for a tool or whatever, and then I head home, shower, and spend the evenings with my family.

  Heading into town, I stop at The Sew Shop first. Mig
ht as well get it over with.

  The bells on the door jingle when I walk in, bouncing against the glass, and I wipe my work boots on the black rug.

  “Can I help you?” Bryony says before glancing up. Her expression falls when she sees it’s me, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “Nevada. Hey.”

  “Just here to pick up those blankets.” I shove my hands in my jeans, keeping back.

  It feels odd being here. On the Devereauxs’ turf. I feel like I’m infringing, like I don’t belong. I haven’t quite decided if I made an ass of myself with Yardley that night or not. It’s taken everything I’ve had not to analyze that entire situation to death. It’s human nature to attach meaning to things, but part of me thinks it’s easier to blame it on the beer.

  “Two secs.” Bryony disappears behind a back wall, and I glance down the hallway, spotting a well-lit office. A moment later, a woman takes a seat in a desk chair, and when she glances up, I realize it’s Yardley.

  Her hair is pulled back, her lips painted pink. And when she spots me, she freezes like a deer in headlights.

  “Hi,” I say, my voice loud enough to carry to the back of the store. Over the past couple of weeks, I made the executive decision that if I did run into her again, I’d at least be civil and take the high road no matter how hard it might be.

  Her eyes widen, as if she’s shocked by my candor. And she rises from her seat, heading toward the doorway.

  Only once she gets there, she stops, gives a quick wave, and closes the door.

  She’s shutting me out.

  “Okay, here you go.” Bryony returns with three bags filled with patchwork fabric, and for a moment, I find myself struggling to breathe at the sight of Estella’s clothes shredded and sewn. I’m not sure why my mom thought this would be a good idea. I think it’s morose, macabre almost.