Chapter One

Kelly

After three weeks of packing and moving, my mother’s house is nearly empty.

Well, almost empty. The scent of gardenia lingers in the hallways and the stain on the living room carpet remains. She always made jokes about how that stain would outlive her.

I guess you were right, Mom. My whisper echoes into the blank space as I watch shadows from the afternoon sun dance across the floor.

I hadn’t planned to be here this long, but it turns out, cleaning out seventy years’ worth of goods takes longer than a few days. If they sold it on TV, my mother had it. She had an obsession with the Home Shopping Network. Most of the things she bought were tailored to a specific set of tastes like the porcelain doll collection she had to match each of her siblings’ names, or the fake flowers that changed with the seasons. She did have a set of steak knives with an orthopedic grip that seemed useful. I’m sure someone down at the church will find a home for them.

The only thing left now is a stack of photo albums and a couch that’s being picked up by the church later today. They said they can use it for the youth center, and I’d rather donate it than worry about selling. Besides, Mom loved the little church on the hill. All her friends went there, and she volunteered at the community garden out back. They’re going to put a placard up in honor of her over the green pepper plants. They were her favorite, and she easily grew the biggest, juiciest vegetables in the garden, though I suppose I’m biased, especially now that she’s gone.

It's funny the things you end up missing. A pepper will never be just a pepper ever again.

I lean in and flip open one of the photo books, slipping past pictures of childhood and memories of days gone by. I’ve looked at these photos so many times with Mom that I can still hear her voice telling me of every memory that went along with the photo. The time I road my bike into the overgrown brush at the end of the driveway and thought snakes were coming after me. The time she pranked me with trick birthday candles that wouldn’t blow out. The time we went on vacation to Yellowstone and found ourselves surrounded by elk while we ate our ice cream. The memories are sweet, but right now, they’re too painful to look at.

I flip the pages, drawing my fingertips over the top of the sepia tone memories that are pasted down in the book. The colors of the photos are fading and some curl up on their edge despite the plastic film that holds them down. There’s something different about touching the photos than just scrolling through them on my phone. For some reason, touching the memory makes it more real.

I set that album on the table and pick up the next. This one is newer. I can tell by the way the photos slide into plastic sleeves. Mom has printed out the photos she’d taken with her phone and made an album. She made albums out of everything. There are some here that showcase elementary days, others that focus on birthdays, a few that focus on family vacations. Then, there’s this one. It’s nondescript with random photos of me as an adult. Well, over eighteen.

I haven’t made it far into the book when I see Gentry. A tall, inked, bearded man that holds me at his side with a soft grin on his face. He’s handsome as hell and seeing him again is like being punched in the stomach.

Why does the memory of him do that to me?

I kept a copy of his photo under my pillow and pulled it out whenever I was feeling horny. How sick is that? A twenty-two-year-old girl fantasizing about a forty-year-old man. A man I shouldn’t have been thinking about at all, considering I was engaged to be married.

I shake my head and flip past the picture, attempting to focus on the photos of John and I. My ex. I don’t get the same pitter patter. I never did with him. It’s not that he wasn’t a great guy, he was. He worked hard, he had solid dreams, and he was willing to do the work to make them happen. A lot of people would’ve felt lucky to have been with him. I should’ve felt lucky to have been with him.

But that’s the thing about love. You can think you’re feeling it. You can believe you have everything you’ve ever needed. Then all the sudden, by chance, you meet a soldier on leave at a bar in town, you share one simple conversation, and your whole life changes forever.

I didn’t mean for that conversation to happen with Gentry. I really didn’t. It was simple. He got talking about this truck that his grandpa left for him when he passed, and that triggered a thought about the truck my grandpa left for me. Somehow that snowballed into memories from childhood, ranches, horses, college, and the military. You name it, we were talking about it. The best part is it was effortless.

Against my better judgment, I flip back to the photo of Gentry and I at the bar that night. We were at a Halloween party at the bar in town. I pull the picture from the plastic sleeve and hold it in my hands, tracing our bodies with the tip of my finger.

That one conversation was the reason my relationship fell apart. It’s the reason I ran from Rugged Mountain and started a new life in San Diego. It’s the reason I’ve held every man I’ve ever met to an impossible standard. I probably need therapy.

I’ve looked it up. After a while, your brain starts to idealize someone. And the longer you go without seeing them, the worse it can get, especially if you had a thing for them. Somehow, the brain fills in spaces and replaces anything negative about that person with positives until a fantasy is created and no one else can compare to it.

The web doctor says it’s a psychological response to protecting myself. Apparently, I’m clinging to something I can never have as a way of avoiding commitment and pain.

I slide the photo back into the book and flip the pages forward, skipping past the years I spent with John. I guess I didn’t think much of him when he left because it’s been three years since we broke up, and my amygdala hasn’t filtered out any of the drama. In fact, it may have added some. Maybe it’s because he still contacts me.

I know what he’s feeling. I know what he’s thinking. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s out at my car right now with another long soliloquy about how we’re so right for each other.

Spoiler alert: We weren’t.

He liked control, and I liked making decisions for myself. Imagine that.

Gentry and I would’ve been so different together. I know it. You could tell from that one conversation.

I should’ve leaned into it. I should’ve called him. I should’ve followed my heart instead of doing what I thought was best.

God, so much of my life could’ve been different had I just followed my heart. Now, here I am ten years later, wondering where the hell everything went wrong.

Thirty-two, no husband, no kids, no house, and no life.

I bite the side of my cheek and blow out a breath of air. The past is the past, and I need to move on. My mother’s death is proof of that. Life keeps going, and if I don’t let this fantasy man go, I’m going to miss it.

I sigh and close the album hard, watching as an envelope flitters down. White corners are bent and stained with time and there’s a flag stamped in the corner with fading blue ink.

My eyes follow the fluttering insignia, and my stomach bottoms out when the envelope settles onto the ground, and I clearly see the name on the front.

It’s mine.

Kelly Anne Bruin, and the return address on the corner belongs to Gentry.

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