Lily Love (17 page)

Peter leaves the kitchen to go help Lily collect her things. He doesn’t look at me, and he doesn’t say anything else after that. I don’t want to hurt him; I just don’t want to be stuck in this holding pattern of grief anymore. When they’re ready to leave, I kiss Lily’s cheek and walk them to the front door.

“I will never forget what was good between us, and I don’t ever want to.” Peter’s words stop me in my tracks.

“I don’t want to either, Peter,” I answer, “but it’s gone.”

“I know,” he whispers, and turns his face from my view. “It doesn’t mean that I’ll ever stop missing it, though.” When he looks at me again, his eyes shine with unshed tears. The resignation in them conveys the pain of letting go. “Bye, Caroline.” He’s spoken those words a million times over the least thirteen years, but this time there is a finality.

“Goodbye, Peter.”

Acceptance is part of growth, but damn if it doesn’t hurt like hell.

off we go

I
watch Peter’s taillights disappear around the corner, while his words churn through my head. I don’t ever want to forget the good parts of our life together, and I don’t want to wallow in the bad. Sometimes I get caught up in romanticizing a life that no longer worked for me, and doing so only serves to sabotage the future. I don’t want to be destined to repeat the mistakes of my past. I want to learn from them and grow, so I can do better the next time around.

It makes me think of Tate, and all the chaos surrounding us. Despite all of it, something about us just clicks.

Mick Jagger’s muffled voice flows from my pocket, interrupting my Tate-dream. I don’t need to look at my phone to know who’s calling.

“Paigey,” I say cheerfully. “When are you coming home?” Ever since our adventure at the Ale House, I’ve been craving more time with my sister. The years of hiding inside Lily’s issues damaged more than just my relationship with Peter; I pushed Paige away, too. I didn’t realize just how much I missed her company until I spent some quality time in her presence. I’m so grateful she doesn’t hold it against me.

“I’m home,” she sings. “I know Peter’s got our girl, so I’m coming over to take you out.” My heart stutters with anticipation and fear. This
was not the way I was planning on telling her about Tate, but I don’t want to lie about why I can’t go out with her.

“I can’t do it tonight,” I say.

“What do you mean? You’re not in your sweats with a gallon of rocky road, are you?” She thinks I’m wallowing in self-pity. Ha!

“No, I’m not. I have plans tonight. That’s all.” Silence on the other end of the line. “Paige?”

“ ‘That’s all,’ she says,” Paige grumbles. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or do I need to beat it out of you?”

I smile at her frustration; I’d rather she be annoyed with me than hurt. The last thing I want is for her to think I’m blowing her off.

“I’m meeting a friend for dinner,” I offer. It’s a decent start, and it’s certainly true enough.

“You have a date and you didn’t tell me?” she yells. Way to jump right in there, Paige.

“No, it’s not a date. It’s dinner.”

“Is he paying?”

“Technically he said, ‘Let me buy you a burger at Giff’s.’ ”

“It’s a date.”

“Paige!”

“Who’s the lucky guy? Please tell me it’s Max, so I can have vicarious sex with the Adonis.”

“PAIGE!”

“So . . .” She waits impatiently.

“Buttons on your underwear,” I retort. I need a minute to collect my thoughts; I’m still choking on her Max comment.

“That’s it, I’m calling Mom.”

“Don’t you dare,” I howl. All I need is another lecture on the sanctity of marriage and how no one in our family has ever been divorced. Worse yet, she’ll offer to come over and babysit. The last time that happened, I ended up taking care of both of them.

“C’mon, Caroline,” she whines, “don’t make me beg.”

“OK,” I concede.
Just take a deep breath, girl.
“Do you remember the stranger from the cafeteria?”

“Mr. Dimples?” She sounds intrigued, which makes it easier to spill the rest of the details.

“Yes.” I laugh. “His name is Tate.” I tell her the very brief, slightly quirky, and remarkably sweet story of Tate and me. I make sure to take my time, sharing every detail as it comes to mind. When I’m through, she’s quiet on the other end. It steals some of the wind from my sails. I know the doubts are coming.

“So, he’s never been married?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I only know he isn’t married now.” Her question strikes a chord. I feel a little foolish for not knowing. I mean, his relationship status is an important factor in all of this.

“His mom’s got cancer, huh?” I recognize her concerned-mama tone. Something has got her worried. I brace myself for the impact of whatever she may say. “Do you really think this is the best time to be starting something with this guy?”

She’s right. I know she is, and yet I can’t seem to stay away. How do I explain it without sounding like a pamphlet for codependency?

“I hear you, Paige, I do,” I assure her. “I can’t describe it. He just draws me in. He reminds me much of myself, and I want to be his friend during this time. I’m also attracted to him; I can’t help it. He’s adorable and funny and smart and he gets me . . .” I trail off at the end, feeling silly for carrying on. Afraid that I failed to make my point.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Caroline.” Paige’s voice is thick with concern. “He sounds absolutely wonderful. I just want you to be careful with your heart.”

“I love you for worrying about me, but I plan on taking it very slowly,” I promise. “I don’t want to invite any more heartache into my life. You can count on that.”

“I know you don’t, sweetie.” She sighs. “Sometimes heartache finds us despite our intentions. I’m worried that this slightly damaged—albeit wonderful—guy is an invitation to hurt.”

“You’re right.” I can’t argue with her logic, and I know that she’s only looking out for me. “But, Paige, I would rather risk a broken heart than a lifetime of wondering what would’ve happened if I’d gone and had that burger.”

“Well, shit,” she harrumphs, “how am I supposed to argue with that?”

“I love you, Paigey.”

“I love you, too, Caroline. All I ever want for you is the best; I hope you know that.”

“I do, Sis. I promise.”

I don’t know if it’s like this with all sisters, but there’s something innate and unspoken about the bond Paige and I share. I don’t need her to justify anything she’s said. Without her ever telling me, I know how she feels, and I know, above all else, that she wants to see me find happiness. She is more than just my sister; she’s the cheese to my macaroni, the yin to my yang, my soul sister, and I couldn’t imagine my life without her.

“You’d better call me the second you leave Giff’s,” she warns.

“Of course, I wouldn’t dare leave you hanging.”

entwined

N
o . . . no . . . no . . .

I’m tempted to call Paige back and beg for advice.

Forget it, girl. You can do this on your own.

I stare at the heap of clothes piled on my bed, and a wave of self-doubt crashes over me. There are sundresses, skirts, and countless tops with varying sleeve lengths. Nothing that I’m satisfied will be appropriate for dinner, nothing that feels right. I don’t need to make a fashion statement; I just want to feel like me. My recent runway style has consisted of little other than yoga pants and hoodies. Don’t get me wrong; I
love
yoga pants. They’re a closet staple for every woman I know. They shouldn’t, however, be the only type of pants you own. Given the sheer number decorating my bed, I need to heed my own advice. Guilty as charged. On a hefty groan of frustration, I fall face-first into Mount Mom Wear and consider letting it suffocate me.

Pipe down, drama queen. Less whine. More thinking.

This is all so new to me. I’m not used to considering myself in the equation, let alone mulling over my own personal style. Do I even have one? Not really. Just my generic mom-iform of cotton knit workout clothes. The irony is, I don’t exercise in them. Chasing Lily and
managing her schedule has successfully sucked my energy dry. Good Lord, I feel pathetic.

The clock mocks me:
5:15 and you’re still in your panties.
Stupid clock. It’s time to break up the pity party and get real. I just need to pick something that feels like me. It can’t be that hard, but who am I exactly?

You are Caroline Hunter, snarky, sarcastic goofball.

Yes, I am. Not
just
that, but it’s a fair summation of my personality. I know I’ve got something in this mess that can reflect that. I roll off the summit of loungewear and head back into the closet. Sometimes simplicity is the best, and what I have in mind is simple and very “me.” I grab my best pair of jeans and my favorite graphic T-shirt. It reflects my love of music and my sense of humor. It has the cover artwork for AC/DC’s
Highway to Hell
album but instead reads, “ADHD: Highway to Distraction.” I feel the Cheshire Cat grin spread mischievously across my face. Feeling a lot like the person I used to be, I grab my Chuck Taylors for good measure. With a final spin in the mirror, I’m set to go.

Welcome back, Caroline.

I pull into Giff’s with a few minutes to spare. I feel good about the choice I’ve made and find myself anxious to see what Tate thinks. Thinking of him brings on a reflexive sigh. Oh God. I’m like a swooning teenage girl.

You know what? Screw it. It feels good, so I’m going with it.

Stepping into the diner is like stepping into a time capsule. Dion and the Belmonts are playing on the jukebox, and a black-and-white checkered floor leads into a dining room filled with red vinyl booths and a long lunch counter. Wiping down the freckled laminate countertop is a waitress in a pink button-down retro uniform and an even more retro beehive hairdo. She lifts her head to smile, revealing
Francine
embroidered on her apron.

“Anywhere you want, doll,” she says and sweeps her hand in a wide arc, encompassing all of the diner. It’s just her and the short-order cook in the back, but they run this place with military precision. She snaps her gum and gives me a wink, continuing to shine the counter.

“Actually, I’m meeting a friend,” I reply. My initial confidence wavers when a quick sweep of the dining room comes up Tate-less. My heartbeat drums loud in my ears as embarrassment replaces my excitement.

“Is this your fella?” Francine points over my shoulder; when I turn around Tate is jogging up the steps. It’s impossible for me to prevent a smile from spreading across my face. He barely slows his momentum as he swings the door open and rushes inside.

“Hi,” he pants. His smile gets me every single time. He’s shaved, so his dimples have their full effect on me, making me smile in return. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to make a pit stop.” He hands me a bouquet of red carnations and Shasta daisies.

“You stopped for flowers?”

He dips his head and blushes. “I did my best with the gift-shop offerings,” he says apologetically. It’s so adorable I can’t resist, so I lean in and kiss his cheek.

“They’re perfect,” I murmur. His blush deepens further, and so does my own. What we must look like. I peek over his shoulder to find Francine watching us with wistful reverence. Tate clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him.

“Shall we?” he asks, leading me to a booth tucked away in the back. I can’t take my eyes off my flowers. I can’t remember the last time someone bought them for me. Maybe when Lily was born? I don’t know. There’s no way for Tate to know this, but Shasta daisies are my favorite flower and red is my favorite color. Coincidence? I guess, if you believe in them. Divine intervention? Some things are too perfect to happen by accident. That’s what is running through my head when I see the card tucked in among the blooms. I pull it free and let my eyes linger over his words.

YOU’RE
GET
S
WELL

For Caroline: a completely unexpected, and perfectly timed, surprise.

Warmly, Tate

Perfectly timed? I’m afraid to ask what he was thinking when he wrote that. Timing is the thing that concerns me the most. I had planned on taking it slow and getting to know each other for a while—but then, he seems to already know me in many ways. Peter never brought me my favorite flowers. When he brought me flowers, he chose roses, because that’s what he thought I should like. Tate isn’t even aware of what he did, and he hit the nail on the head. It scares the crap out of me.

“You really think the timing is perfect?” I ask timidly. He arches an animated brow at me and opens his mouth to reply.

“What’ll it be, Pinky Lee?” Like an apparition, Francine materializes at the table, whipping a pen out from behind her ear. I bite the inside of my lips to keep from laughing at the comedic timing.

Tate pauses to unleash his dazzling smile and holds up his index finger. “Hold that thought,” he says to me, and turns his full attention to Francine. “We’ll do two of the cheeseburger platters—one with fries and one with rings—and a vanilla milk shake. Two straws.” He waits for me to nod my consent before he lets her go. “Thank you, Francine.”