Page 51 of Love Expert

“Oh, yeah? Did you speak to Brienne or Cassidy? I sincerely hope they left five-star reviews and mentioned how the green in my shirt sets off the green in my eyes.”

She snickers. “Spoke to them both, actually. Individually, and then in a group call.”

“Kinda giving me flashbacks to high school,” I chuckle. “Pretty sure the entire female body had a group chat going.” Nervous, I meet her eyes. “Guess that means you know everything, huh?”

She nods. It’s gentle and sweet. But it’s condemning, too. And comforting, in a way. “I’d say I’m fairly informed.”

“And yet, you still made the drive?”

“I did.” She reaches across and takes my hand. “I had to meet you for myself. Plus, I knew the food would be worth it, and that shirt certainly makes your eyes pop.”

I snort and shake my head. “Yeah. Thanks.”

ROUND TWENTY

BILLY

A couple of hours after arriving at Picnic Point, I climb back into my car and follow Devina’s all the way to the edge of town. I flash my lights in farewell and grin at the toot-toot of her horn bouncing into the distance, then I perform a U-turn and head home.

Try not to pick a fight.

Definitely apologize for that weird ass kiss I forced on her.

Like a fucking idiot!

I have to come up with a story for our date debrief, since she won’t leave until I give her something to analyze and pick at me about, and after all that, I have to watch her walk home, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion, shoulders bowed because she’s out of the house at four in the morning every morning lately, and not back again until six in the evening.

On the days she gets to sleep in, her car is gone again anyway by the time I send Jeremy off to school, and worse, those are the days she doesn’t come back again until damn near two in the morning.

Working? At those hours?

I tap my steering wheel to the beat of whatever is on the radio, some chick-singer pop-y thing with high notes and throat-aching solos, and as I amble along Main Street, past the diner and, after that, Alana’s bookstore, I do a security sweep out of habit. As I reach the end of the street, I turn left and head on over to the house I bought with my wife almost an entire decade ago.

The grassisnice, because I enjoy working on it for as long as the warmweather persists, and the deckhasbeen refinished, because my son is a danger magnet, and ignoring the busted lengths of timber would’ve cost far more in ER visits than the materials cost to do the job properly.

My house got a fresh coat of paint in the spring, because before that, it was peeling after years of neglect, and my windows are the fancy double glazed, non-shatter kind, because… Jeremy.

The non-shattering thing was most important of all.

Magnolia sees only what I have now, eight years after Aria’s death. Five years after I dragged myself out of hell and got on with my life. Three years after I decided I could date again,maybe, depending on the chick sitting across from me, and just one year after I decided taking another woman to bed was not disrespecting my late wife.

I went seven fucking years without touch, except for the too-much-touch of a kid who needed me, and the not-very-nice touch of a perp resisting arrest. I didn’t kiss another woman until a year ago, and that didn’t feel good, anyway. I didn’t have sex at all in the second half of my twenties, because even if could find a woman decent enough to date, one who didn’t cry about the unfairness of dead wives and motherless sons, I hardly had the time to undress them, anyway.

So I mow my lawn instead. I cut the edges with expert precision, paint the rafters without a safety rope, replace windows before my son kills himself, and, as of the middle of September, I stare at my beautiful new neighbor and mentally practice all the nice things I want to say.

The fact different things come out of my mouth is hardly my fault.

She’s just so fuckin’ pretty that being within ten feet of her scrambles my brains.

Shaking my head, I cruise along Ollie’s street and study the house lit up from the inside, with the flickering light of a television provingsomeoneis home. Better yet, Ollie’s truck is in the driveway, which means Rose isn’t in there alone.

I continue past without stopping, and just a few minutes after that, I pull into my driveway, cut the lights before they flash inside my house, then I switch the engine off and pocket my keys.

Opening my door and sliding out, I move to the trunk and grab Maggie’s massive picnic basket. It’s lighter now than it was when the night started, with fancy Cajun chicken pasta settled happily in my stomach, alongside individually wrapped garlic toasts that somehow remained warm and moist, even after sitting in the basket for at least an hour before I served it up. Maggie prepared strawberry shortcake bites, and mason jars bursting with soft ice-cream, whipped cream, and slivered chocolatepieces, and because she’s really a pro at this shit, she added a packet of playing cards—to pass the time, I suppose—and breath mints—in case things went well.

I lift the basket and hook the handle over my arm, then, closing the trunk again, careful not to make too much noise, I head across my yard and up the porch steps. I unlock my front door and step inside my house, and setting the basket on the floor out of the way, I lock up again and take a deep whiff.

It smells like Maggie in here. Maggie, and garlic, and something creamy and delicious.