It’s not just spatial loneliness. It’s not having anyone to call at the end of the day, and no one to call in early December and demand a list of options for Christmas dinner.
There is no one to call who will love me and console me whether I’m right or wrong. I’m not building memories with anyone, and no one in the world shares my past experiences.
This kind of emotional loneliness is different. And it’s fucking hard.
“I don’t know if I want kids,” I say when Rusti slips her phone back in her pocket.
“Well, that’s a change from your usual stance.”
I shrug as I ponder the thoughts rolling through my brain.
“When I say this,” I say, “I don’t mean you.”
“This is starting off well.”
I laugh. “You know I love you, and I know you’re there for me, and we’re family and all of that—yada, yada, yada.”
“I love when you yada, yada, yada me.”
I smile, but my laughter drifts away. “I … I miss having a family.”
A lump pops in my throat, causing the word family to get stuck. I bat my lashes and hope the tears that burn like fire don’t spill over.
Stop being a baby.
Rusti watches me warily for a long few seconds. Then she reaches out and flicks the tip of my nose.
“Ouch!” I say, smacking at her hand.
“That’s so you don’t cry.” She winks at me. “Get mad instead. You’ll thank me later.”
I rub the tip of my nose. “You’re a jerk.”
“No, I’m your best friend, and best friends don’t let best friends cry in public.”
I laugh and nod. I know she doesn’t mean that. There’s nothing wrong with crying in public. But she knows that if I start down the rabbit hole of missing my mother and wondering why my grandfather—the only relative I have in the world—doesn’t want much to do with me, I’ll be digging my way out for a week.
And that will be what pisses me off.
We move forward a few spaces toward the hot dog guy.
“Just for the record,” I say. “My grandfather hasn’t called to schedule dinner with me like he said he would.”
“And, just for the record, you should be busy if he does call.” She shrugs in her Rusti way. “I don’t care how much money the man has, Dara. If he doesn’t make you a priority, especially knowing that he’s your only grandfather, then don’t prioritize him.”
“I know.”
“He’s not family by default. He’s a genetic similarity.”
She bumps my shoulder. When I look over at her, she’s flashing me a devilish grin.
“Rusti …” I warn without even knowing what she’s about to say.
Her laugh is loud. It’s bright. And it picks me up and lifts me out of the headspace I was falling into.
“Speaking of genes,” she says before biting her lip. “I know a dark-headed stud that probably has some good genes that you—Ow!” She laughs. “What are you shoving me for?”
The man in the fedora looks over his shoulder. The feather in his cap flutters in the breeze. He quirks a brow, shakes his head, and then faces front again.
“Will you quit it and behave?” I ask.
She laces her arm through mine.
We wait a few more minutes before we get to the cart. We place our orders, and then Rusti pays for our lunch. As we walk away, I thank her.
“You can pay me back,” she says, taking a bite of her hot dog.
“I’m happy to, but really, it was two dollars.”
She grins. “Not financially.”
“I’m not taking boudoir photos for Zack. He has to earn those.”
“Not that. Although …” She quickly considers, then dismisses the idea. “I was going to say that you could pay me back by having a good time at the wedding tomorrow night.”
I give her a look. “I plan on it.”
“I mean it.” She takes another bite and chews thoughtfully. “I’m happy—surprised—but happy that you agreed to go. You never do anything spontaneous or fun.”
“I do too,” I say automatically, even though I really don’t.
Rusti ignores my protest. “This is a good sign, a solid step in the right direction.”
“And what direction is that?” I ask before biting off the end of my hot dog.
“Toward … happiness. Forward progress. Resolution to all the pieces of your life that have been dangling for the past year.”
We walk quietly back toward our cars, eating our meals and lost in thought.
I’m not sure that this wedding will be a step in any direction, nor do I believe it has the power to offer resolution to anything in my life. It’s not even my wedding. But I do hope, maybe even pray, that something good comes out of it.
I might meet a new client. Maybe I’ll book a job for landscape photography or be introduced to someone who has contacts in that world. And maybe all I’ll get out of it is a good time with Wade Mason.
I’d be happy with any of that.
I finish my hot dog and toss the paper in the trash.
EIGHTEEN
WADE
The amber-colored liquid burns as it slides down my throat.
I eye my phone and twirl the remainder of the liquid in the glass.
I’ve sat at my kitchen table for far too long—long enough for the leftover potatoes in front of me to grow ice cold. Much to my dismay, time hasn’t delivered an answer to my problem.
Do I reach out to Dara or not?
If I do, does it send the wrong message? It would be communication that’s not related to the house design. Would she get the wrong idea?
But if I don’t, is that rude? Moreover, will it make the task of picking her up tomorrow even more cumbersome?
I growl into the air.
My entire day was spent with half of my brain where it was supposed to be—on work. The other half was mulling over what to do about Dara and this stupid fucking wedding that I don’t want to go to anyway.
It shouldn’t—there’s not a reason in the world for it to—but this feels like a date.
I look at the chandelier and flex my jaw.
The stress of the day—the pressure of the impending … doom, and the fact that I have no resolution and may not until I pick her up eats at me.
I can’t take it anymore.
Before I can overthink it, I reach for my phone. My fingers fly across the screen. When the send button has been pressed, I drop the phone like it’s hot.
Me: I’ll pick you up at four.
Dara responds almost immediately.
Dara: Sounds good.
I stare at the words. That’s it? Sounds good?
I chew on my bottom lip and wonder if she’s even in possession of her phone. She doesn’t sound like that.
Me: Do you have any questions?
I grimace after I’ve hit the button to send the message to her. It was a stupid question to send, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.
Almost immediately, her response appears on my screen.
Dara: I’ve been to weddings before, Wade. I think I understand how it works.
It’s her.
A grin slides across my mouth thanks to the whiskey. I get up and head for the shower, needing a little relief from the day … and in preparation for seeing her tomorrow.
Dara in a dress?
Lord, help me.
NINETEEN
DARA
“I’m not going to overthink this,” I singsong for the thousandth time in the last hour.
A flutter of impatience flies through my stomach as I fasten a gold hoop in my right earlobe. It’s the final touch.