Fall in Love Book Bundle: Small Town Romance Box Set

by Grover Swank, Denise

  Next to me, my phone rang, and I picked up, already knowing who it would be.

  “Buenas noches,” I said.

  I heard Lucia sigh on the other end. “Oh my God, you’re still miserable.”

  I rolled my eyes, kicking my legs. “Si,” I said sardonically. “I’m still wallowing.”

  “You going out tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  A long pause, and I could hear her shifting around. “What can I do, chica? I hate seeing you this way.”

  A few kids rode by on bikes. I envied their careless laughter.

  “Nothing,” I said, blinking away tears. “It’s okay, really. It’ll pass. I just miss Gabe, but we don’t have a future together, so at least there’s an end point to this.”

  “It’ll pass,” she repeated but didn’t sound convinced. “Or… there’s another option.”

  We had spent hours on the phone about this—her, dutifully allowing me to wallow in that secretive way you can with your best friend because they won’t judge you, won’t tell you there was a reason why you never took men home twice, laughed with them, went hiking with them, or explored hidden fantasies.

  Because when it was over, it felt like your heart was being hit by a truck. Repeatedly. And then lit on fire.

  So she let me wallow—although recently she’d been gently suggesting solutions. All of which I kicked right to the fucking curb.

  I wanted to wallow.

  “It’s been a month,” I said, waving when I saw my mom walking down the street heading toward my house. “I’ll get back out there soon. Until then…” I trailed off.

  Lucia made a noncommittal sound.

  “Hey, I think my mom’s here. Can I call you back?”

  My mom was slowly walking up the path to my house, and I couldn’t read her expression.

  “Give her a kiss for me,” Lucia sang.

  “Uh-huh,” I promised. “Luego.”

  My mom walked up, perching a Crock-Pot on her hip.

  “What’s that?” I pointed.

  “Pozole. I thought I’d bring it by and see if you were still heartbroken over that man. The one with all the body hair.”

  “Hirsute,” I said automatically, ignoring the pang when I remembered the night Gabe and I had met. “And I’m not heartbroken.” I stood up, pulling her in to kiss her cheek. “Entra mama.”

  I gestured toward the open door, and she followed, tut-tutting at the clothes on the floor and the twelve pairs of black boots lying everywhere.

  “You should see Miguel’s house, though,” I said, hands on my hips.

  She smiled at me and plugged in the Crock-Pot and began prepping the soup in a bowl. She grabbed a ripe avocado from my counter and began to slice it.

  “What’s this for?” I asked, sliding up on the counter and watching her work. There was more gray in her hair than the last time I had seen her. “Not just my heartbreak?”

  “Si, your heartbreak,” she said, looking at me with kind eyes. I had to swallow sharply to keep from crying. “Last week, at your tía’s party, you looked like a ghost, Josefine.”

  “I’ve been working long hours,” I explained, which was true. Anything to dull my thoughts. “You know how it is. It’s already awards season, so my client list basically doubled.”

  She nodded. “I know, mija. I know how hard you work.” She pressed a hot bowl of pozole in my hands, garnished with avocado. The smell instantly transported me to dinners when I was a kid. My mom always made pozole when it rained. “But this is different.”

  I took a sip and felt, for the first time in weeks, a sunburst of contentment. “This is really good, Mama.”

  “Of course it is. Now eat your soup and talk to me.”

  I rolled my eyes, feeling like a teenager again. “I don’t… I don’t know what more there is to say. I told you what happened. We’re not going to work out. You don’t want me to move all the way up to Big Sur, do you?”

  Her eyebrows shot off her head. “Of course not. And I’m not saying you should. I am saying that it’s been two years, Josefine. Two years since that monster messed with your head. And maybe…”

  I took a fortifying sip of soup, sensing what was coming.

  “Maybe it’s time to trust again.”

  My head fell back against the cabinet, my eyes closed. For weeks after the wedding, every member of my family, plus my parents’ church, brought food for me. Like after a funeral. Like Clarke had died. They came by, wearing black and with distraught expressions, and pressed stews and enchiladas and casseroles into my hands. Marriage, especially in the predominantly Mexican East Los Angeles, was a way of life in this community. It was sacred and traditional.

  Your groom did not leave you at the altar.

  Between Lucia caring for me and my family and neighbors’ endless gifts of sustenance, I’d felt loved—a feeling I had recognized as having all but disappeared while I was with Clarke.

  “What does Gabriel make you feel?” She asked me, disrupting the silence. I bit my lip.

  “Happy. Silly. Wanted. Cherished.” I paused. “Safe.”

  “Safe?” she pushed.

  I nodded.

  She brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “When did you ever feel safe with Clarke?”

  I looked away because we both knew the answer.

  “What if he’s not real, Mama? In the beginning, I felt completely swept up with Clarke too. Exhilarated. I’d never felt that way before. And now, here comes Gabe, seemingly too good to be true, and I have no idea if he’s just a Clarke—but in disguise. I have no idea how to—”

  “Trust,” she finished for me, taking my empty bowl and filling it with more soup. The scent of pork and chiles filled my tiny kitchen. “What does this say, mija?” My mom placed her palm over my heart, which was beating recklessly.

  “Last time I listened to my heart, I ended up sobbing in a wedding dress,” I said softly. “My heart can no longer be trusted.” But she was shaking her head swiftly.

  “You underestimate yourself. You underestimate your heart. I think it knows,” she said fiercely. “I think it knows this time what’s real.”

  * * *

  Later I was back on my porch, this time with tea, listening to the city sounds. My mom had left an hour ago, and I still felt mixed up and strange, like I wanted to cry and laugh in equal measure.

  And when my phone rang, I picked it up, not even checking to see who it was. I was expecting Lucia.

  “My mom says hi and also wants you to remember that she loves you like her own daughter,” I said, taking a sip of chamomile.

  There was a long pause on the other end, and then: “Josie?”

  It was Gabe.

  “Oh… Gabe?” I asked, sitting up swiftly and sloshing tea on my arm. “What are you—Wait…?”

  In my ear, he chuckled softly, and all the hair on my neck stood up. “To be honest, I didn’t think you’d pick up. So now I’m extra nervous.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, still in a state of shock.

  “Um… how are you?” he finally asked.

  “Fine,” I lied. “How are you?”

  “Fucking terrible,” he said, and I burst out laughing, twisted up by the awkwardness and Gabe’s brutal honesty.

  “I’m happy you get so much joy from my misery,” he teased. “But it’s true. I’m fucking miserable.”

  “Oh,” I said, voice shaky. “I see.” Same here, I wanted to declare but wasn’t entirely sure what was happening.

  Was this real?

  Gabe cleared his throat, and I tried to picture where he was. Maybe in The Bar. Maybe in bed. Rubbing his thick fingers through his beard, plaid shirt straining at the buttons across his chest.

  “Josie,” he started, “I want to apologize to you. For what I said. For that last night you were here.”

  “Apologize?” I parroted.

  “Yes,” he said grimly. “I’m not calling to beg for you back or anything. I know… I understand where you’re co
ming from. But I do need to apologize for what I said the night that you left. For what I asked you to do. Sacrifice your life for a guy you barely know no matter how strong our connection.”

  “You were swept up in the moment,” I said, feet trying to get purchase on what felt like quicksand.

  “I’m not making excuses. I’m calling to say I’m sorry. For putting you in that position and making demands of you. Like Clarke.”

  I looked toward the smoggy L.A. sky, eyes filling with tears. I blinked them away rapidly.

  “You’re nothing like him, Gabe. And I’m sorry I said that that night. That wasn’t fair. To equate the two of you. You’re like… night and day. And I mean that,” I said.

  “But I’m still sorry,” he pressed on. “I might not be like Clarke, but… I behaved like a hypocrite. And a little bit intensely. I just…” he trailed off for a second. “I’ve spent my whole life idolizing love and the relationships I was raised around. Idolized love but never seemed to find it. Because I didn’t really know it or understand it. I’m learning that now… and I’m not perfect. Part of me wanted to drive down to you today with a marching band and a flock of fucking doves.”

  I laughed, and he did too. “I would have hated that.”

  “I know, Josie. And not long ago, I might have known that and done it anyway.”

  “In love with the idea of love,” I said. “That’s you, Gabe.”

  “Yes. And I’m not telling you that to make excuses. I wanted you to know that’s what I thought you needed. Even though you’d been telling me what you needed since the moment we met. And I didn’t listen. And for that I’m truly sorry.”

  The heart was a mysterious organ. But so was the brain. Because, for the briefest of moments, I remembered after the wedding—how much time I’d wasted fantasizing about receiving a call like this from Clarke. An apology. Or an explanation. As if that could have undone the catastrophic damage of that day.

  And then I realized: that was the first time I’d thought about Clarke in four weeks. No memories. No flashbacks. Definitely not his voice, whispering from the shadows. I’d been so consumed with trying to unravel the complicated knot that was Gabe, it was like my subconscious had no room left for abusive ex-boyfriends.

  I pressed my palm over my heart. “I forgive you,” I said, and I could picture Gabe smiling into the phone. “And thank you.”

  “I’m just happy I could hear your voice, Josie,” he said softly.

  The end of this call was dangerously in sight—and I was suddenly desperate to keep him on the line. I closed my eyes and located the source of reckless exhilaration, pulsing beneath my skin. There was no fear, only a bright light of hope.

  “Me too,” I agreed, laughing a little. “And I promise I haven’t been lying around L.A. being angry with you. Not at all. That time with you in Big Sur was… really life-changing. It’s still affecting me, even though it’s been a month. I can’t stop… thinking about it.”

  Gabe cleared his throat roughly. “This has easily been the worst month of my life. I’ve just been lying on the floor, groaning. The Big Sur Channel is convinced you cast some kind of witchy spell on me.”

  “Well, I am a purple-haired Satanist,” I replied. “I’ll lift the spell soon. I promise.”

  “Please do because I can’t go on like this,” he said, and it was hard to ignore the serious undertones in his voice. “Gladys and Gloria have been bringing me what they call ‘Heartbreak Gifts.’”

  “And what are those?”

  “Bottles of Hennessy, their liquor of choice, hidden all over The Bar. I found one the other day in my bathroom cabinet. With a little note that said, ‘Chin up, loser.’”

  I laughed so hard I sprayed tea out of my mouth. “Stop. You’re joking.”

  “Serious as a heart attack, gorgeous,” he said, the endearment sending an illicit thrill up my spine.

  “Since we’re sharing heartbreak stories, you should know I haven’t even been able to go dancing,” I said, and Gabe gave a shocked gasp. “I’ve also been going to bed at a reasonable hour. And I contemplated going for a hike the other day. I mean, a hike through downtown L.A., but still.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  More laughter, contagious now. “Maybe you cast some kind of spell on me?”

  “I put a potion in the coffee,” he said calmly. “It was in the cream and sugar.”

  “Shut up,” I teased, and I heard a settling sound, like he was sinking into a chair. I kicked my legs up onto the banister of my porch, leaned my head back. A few stars twinkled, so different from the brilliant Milky Way of a Big Sur sky. “So… tell me what’s been happening on The Channel since I’ve been gone.”

  “How many hours do you have?” he laughed, and I bit my lip as my cheeks flushed.

  “As long as you want, Gabriel,” I said softly.

  * * *

  Three hours later, and I was curled up under the covers, head on the pillow and phone still pressed to my ear.

  “Okay, but I really have to go to bed now.”

  “Me too,” he laughed. “But we’ve been saying that for the past hour.” He yawned loudly, which set off a chain reaction of yawns between the two of us. “You should go to sleep, Josefine.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” I smiled, loving the sound of his amusement. “But I do have to be awake in… fuck, four hours for a twelve-hour photo shoot, so…”

  There was a long, tempting pause, and then Gabe said, “Maybe I could… call you again sometime?”

  “Please,” I said, before he’d even finished talking. “How about tomorrow night? Which is technically tonight?”

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  And I would have given away my worldly possessions for my sweet Viking to be tucked into this bed with me.

  “Good. I’ll talk to you in, like, fifteen hours,” I promised, knowing that I wasn’t going to sleep now, too keyed up and happy.

  “Sweet dreams, gorgeous,” he murmured and finally hung up.

  * * *

  That night Lucia and I called Best Night Ever, when we’d stumbled into that street fair after tacos and blues and whisky, I’d enthusiastically volunteered us to let those fire-dancers toss molten-hot rods of flames around our heads. She hadn’t really wanted to do it, but I’d been fearless back then. Welcomed the delicious flare of heat, the slight threat, the heady adrenaline that made my heart race inside my chest. I hadn’t been able to stop laughing, even as Lucia screamed in terror.

  That night, deeply asleep with fingers curled around my phone, I dreamed of the fire-dancers. Felt powerfully alive. Euphoric even. Laughed in delight as the fire flew past me because somehow I just knew I couldn’t be hurt. Felt wrapped in cozy safety even as my skin tingled with elation.

  And in the morning, as I blinked through the hazy sunlight, I realized I hadn’t been dreaming of the fire-dancers at all.

  I’d been dreaming of Gabe.

  Chapter 42

  Gabe

  One month later

  Josie and I talked on the phone every single night for an entire month.

  During the day, we texted constantly. She sent me silly selfies and pictures of her clients. Snapped photos of gauzy sunsets over the L.A. skyline and walls of vibrant graffiti near her house. A video of her nephews running through her backyard. The sprays of magenta jacaranda that grew around her banister.

  Josie was bringing me into her world, bit by bit.

  I didn’t have a fucking plan. Our future was shrouded in mystery. And yet I woke up each morning grinning and spent my days enchanted with our conversations. Yearning for the next one.

  I was okay with that. More than okay—I’d never been more blissfully happy.

  Josie had had a shit day at work—a busy photo shoot with an asshole creative director and two entitled, whiny clients. I’d made her laugh with stories from The Bar, but there’d been a ragged edge to her voice. So before our call, I hiked out to the overlook at Pfeiffer Beach, sneaking
under the guardrail (a skill of every Big Sur native) and filmed a short video of the waves beneath the moonlight.

  Pfeiffer Beach was my favorite place in Big Sur, and I regretted never taking Josie here. A cove of rocks surrounded a small beach, and a tiny waterfall endlessly splashed against the sand, digging a hole that had been reformed and reshaped for a millennium. Gently carved by water. Beyond it lay the rugged coast of California, and on clear days, you could often see whales in the distance.

  Tonight I was filming the silvery reflection of the moonlight and the endless rock of the waves, thinking the sound of it might help her sleep. Or that seeing her phone’s tiny screen bursting with nature might bring her some serenity. I’d gone hiking every single day that we’d spoken, even if I could only find a free fifteen minutes, even if it was pouring rain, and the Ventana Wilderness seemed to breathe and expand into my lungs as I strode beneath the canopy.

  In the silence of the forest, Josie remained the center. No regret, no sadness, merely an acceptance of this time that we had. The present in all of its simple beauty.

  When I got home, I sent her the video, praying the myriad of technological upgrades I’d had Calvin input for me would get it to her. He’d set up a signal booster and a Wi-Fi hot-spot, and he’d found me a cell phone that hadn’t been designed in 1998.

  The Bar was slowly entering the twenty-first century.

  And I was okay with that too.

  My phone pinged, and when I swiped my thumb across the screen, I expected to hear Josie’s voice. But there, in miniature, was her image instead.

  “Is it okay if we video chat tonight?” she asked, and the force of seeing her for the first time in eight weeks slammed through my chest.

  I also had no idea what I was wearing or what I looked like. “Of course,” I said, trying to covertly glance into the mirror over the bar. Was there food in my teeth? Had I even showered today? “Although, to be honest, now I’m a little nervous.”