These words hit me like a bowling ball to the gut. People sometimes treat being single as though it’s a preventable condition, like a sunburn. I wish snagging a good man were as easy as waltzing into one of those candy stores with all the bins, scooping out exactly what I want, and then walking away with a perfect combination of exactly what I want.
Dating these days, especially while raising a five-year-old alone, is not as simple as swiping in whatever direction you’re supposed to swipe on some app. Especially in a small town. Even if there were more guys to choose from here in Sheet Cake, Pat ruined me for other men. Or all men.
My dance card is empty. Wolf Waters, who jokingly proposes to me once a week, is my only prospect. Considering he’s Billy’s younger brother, it’s a hard pass. Though I do applaud Wolf for being the only Waters to break the privileged, pretentious vibe the rest of his family wears like a crest. Wolf—whose real name is Walter—seems sweet, even if he gives off doomsday prepper vibes. He lives in his own underground bunker on a big piece of property where he runs Backwoods Bar, the semi-legal drinking hole Sheeters frequent.
I stand, ready to be done with this conversation, this topic, this whole day. Unsure whether I should shake Ashlee’s hand, I go into weird mode again and curtsy, giving her an elaborate wave.
Ashlee’s kind smile only makes me feel worse. “I promise you, Lindy—I will do everything I can.”
But will it be enough? I swallow down that question.
“Thank you.” And because I’m not done being awkward, I add, “I’ll be in touch if I find a spare husband by the side of the road.”
Yep, I made that terrible joke. Before Ashlee can respond, I bolt through the door and almost run into Kim, Ashlee’s assistant. She steps back, her brassy highlights glinting.
“Sorry! I was just going to see if you needed more coffee,” she says, holding up the coffee pot in one hand. “What’s that about you finding a husband?”
Kim graduated a few years behind me. She seems friendly but has that slightly too-eager-to-please thing going on. Not to mention she’s got a bloodhound’s nose for gossip.
“A husband? You must have misheard. I was definitely not talking about trying to find a husband. Though I’ve always wanted one of those husband pillows. Do you know the ones I’m talking about?”
From Kim’s blank look, she does not.
“They’re big and puffy, with arms you can sort of snuggle with—you know what? Never mind. Have a super awesome day.”
I force a laugh, then practically run out of the office before I can say or do anything else tragically embarrassing.
Chapter Three
Pat
On the forty-ish minute trek to Sheet Cake, I alternate between driving too fast and draggingly slow. One moment, my thoughts are racing and my foot turns to lead. The next, my mind snags on a memory and I’m a sloth. Apparently, I’m slothing right now because Tank glances over at me.
“Are you part of a funeral procession?” he asks. “Are we in an invisible school zone? I told you to slow down a minute ago, but I didn’t mean like a snail. Pick up the pace, son.”
“Right. Sorry. Is it hot in here?” I punch the A/C higher, then roll down my window.
On any other day, Tank would notice my jittery, nervous behavior and force me with the power of his fatherly gaze to tell him why I’m freaking out. I’m grateful he seems wholly distracted by the need to play tour guide. It’s like he walked up to one of those brochure racks in a hotel lobby and mainlined every single bit of information on Sheet Cake. If there’s a pop quiz at the end, I will most definitely fail.
“As I was saying, the town used to be a hub for grain, though its real claim to fame is the annual Sheet Cake Festival.”
“Obviously.”
“It’s been going on for a hundred years and is the third largest food-based festival in Texas,” Tank continues.
“Mm-hm. Food is good.”
While he drones on about train routes and other inane details, my mind spins back in Lindy’s direction. What are the odds my dad would buy her town?
Maybe it’s a sign.
It’s NOT a sign. Of all the things it could be, it is not a sign. More like a cosmic coincidence, the universe’s joke at my expense. Lindy doesn’t even live there. She is in Europe somewhere or a tropical island, maybe a remote village halfway across the world. Not in Sheet Cake.
But the optimist in me is unflappably optimistic. He keeps coming back with maybes and what ifs.
“Are you feeling okay?” Tank asks. “You’re flushed.”
“I’m just excited.”
This is not a lie. I am excited, even if I have no reason to be, since Lindy doesn’t live here. Get that through your thick skull, Patty. Lindy isn’t here.
I know this because I came to Sheet Cake looking for her. After my career-ending injury sent me home to Austin, I drove this same route. The only Darcy residence Google knew about was a tiny, rundown farmhouse on the outskirts of town. I met Lindy’s mom, a sweet, round woman who shared Lindy’s green eyes and bright smile. She told me Lindy hadn’t been home in ages.
“I’m sorry. She’s never mentioned you,” she said when I told her my name.
I must have looked as crushed as I felt, because Mrs. Darcy served me up coffee and a slice of homemade buttermilk pie. We ate together on the wraparound porch in a comfortable, if a little melancholy, silence.
When the pie was done and my plate scraped clean—I only refrained from licking it because manners—I wished her well and drove home.
If I cried all the way there, I left no witnesses to the fact. I thought it would bring me closure, but Lindy has always felt like a door that just won’t stay closed.
“There she blows.” Tank points to a large sign beside the road that reads, Howdy and Welcome to Sheet Cake, Texas: Home of the Annual Sheet Cake Festival. We round a bend, and a water tower comes into view. It looks a bit worse for wear and is rusted over in places, but the giant painting of a chocolate sheet cake on the side is pristine. So is the name of the town, written out in a sky-blue script.
“The color is called Sheet Cake Blue,” Tank says, a note of pride in his voice. “A local artist developed it, and the city trademarked it.”