Return To You: A Small Town, Second Chance Romance

16. Ethan

sixteen

Ichoose to walk on sharp rocks, the sharper the edge, the better. My mind focuses on the knife-like feeling of blade into soft tissue, sending the question of Grace to the back. For later. Once in Lucas’s truck, I leave the pebbles stuck to my socks, and count slowly as I lace my shoes. Breathe in. Breathe out. My fingers don’t shake. My heartbeat is under control.

The door opens, Grace yells something I don’t quite understand, and then the door slams, making me blink.

I focus back on my breath.

I lost it just now. When she said it was all in the past? Fucking lost it. Managed to keep it under control.

Because really? If I’d never known Grace, if I’d just met her a few days ago? Pretty sure I’d be falling for her. But more importantly, I never got over her. Ever. Had her under my skin for over a decade, and I’m pretty sure I was under hers too.

So I’m going to check on this one last thing, and then yeah—she and I are having that conversation.

I pull out from her driveway, avoid looking in the rearview mirror, then drop off the truck at Lucas’s and straddle my bike. To say that I ride aimlessly would be a lie.

I know where I’m going.

But I still make it a point to notice the road, to enjoy the ride, to feel every bump in the handles, every sunray on my skin through the partial shade of the canopy of trees, the cooling of the temperature when I dip toward the river, the pebbles in my shoe as I shift gears. I push my speed as I go uphill, angling in the curves, reeling in the feeling of the powerful engine under me, drunk on its noise.

Then I get to the fork in the road. I take the dirt road, until it turns into a path. And then the path ends, and I continue on foot.

And I find it.

The tree is still there. And in a way it’s not.

It was hit by lightning. What remains of the trunk stands eight feet tall, the top part split in half. Charred limbs still lay on the ground in this remote part of the forest. There’s no trace of the treehouse, of course. It’s been over a decade. Although… as I trudge through the broken branches and undergrowth, there it is. The remnant of a pallet I’d used for the flooring.

The carpet and sheer curtains and the pillows are all gone, though I’m sure if I dug under the branches, I might find traces of the mirror Grace had insisted on bringing up. “Look how beautiful we are,” she’d say when we lay naked, after sex.

Sometimes during. She was so daring. So beautiful. So fun.

So in love with me.

Turning around to face what’s left of the tree again, I see it now. The spot on the trunk, at eye level, now carved out. The spot that held our phrase.

Tracing its contours, I imagine her coming here, using a chisel to save this small piece of what was once us. Did she often return here, after I was gone? Did she use the tree house for herself? Or did she only come when she could no longer see the tree from her house?

I figured that out, waiting for her with her cat on my lap. The couch faced Woodbury Knoll, and she would have had a vantage point on our tree, which stood so tall above the others. That was one of the reasons we’d chosen it. So we could see it from afar. Like a silent testimonial to our hidden love.

It was so tall, it attracted lightning. How ironic, I think. Just like our love—too big, too tall. It was meant to burn down.

Nimble limbs spurt from the broken trunk, making me pause. This tree hasn’t been gone long. A year or two at most. Running my thumb on the scar from its missing piece, I come to the same conclusion. Grace has been here relatively recently. My guess is, right after lightning hit the tree and she could no longer see it from her window.

So—while I was thousands of miles away. While she hadn’t seen me in years. While there was no plausible reason to believe she’d ever see me again, other than, possibly, in passing, she came here. To carve out our sign. To safekeep it. To have it closer to her.

I sit on the fallen trunk, take my shoes off, shake the pebbles off, put my shoes back on. My eyes are a little wet, I’m not gonna lie.

I’m calm… er. I just need to understand her. My heart is heavy. I don’t know where to start. And I don’t want this to be the end, either.

I swing by the farm to change into clean jeans and a T-shirt. Mom is reading in the sunroom and Dad headed out for some business with the neighboring farm. I look for the travel mug I bought for Grace and never had a chance to give back to her after the end of camp, so I can clean it and bring it back to her. But it’s not in my saddle bags, where I could swear I put it.

Then it hits me. I gave it to Colton. What the fuck was I thinking? He probably threw it away. Sneaking into Mom’s craft drawer, I take a gold permanent marker and drive my motorcycle to Easy Monday. There’s a bright pink mug with cat silhouettes in various poses all around.

Perfect.

“A Harvest Hug?” the owner, Millie asks me. “Lemme rinse that for you first.”

“Actually, it’s still morning, so…”

She smiles at me. “Maple Kiss then.”

She does the whole frothing thing and hands me the mug. “She’s gonna love that one too,” she says as I pay.

Once on my bike, I pull out Mom’s gold permanent marker and write the words:

A Heart Prank Reign

Then I secure the mug upright in a saddle bag and drive carefully downtown.

Grace’s spa is in a house off The Green. With its white columns, steps to the front door, and girly decor inside—all golds and whites and light pink—it’s a little intimidating for a guy like me. I feel like the proverbial bull in a China shop. “I’m here to see Grace—Miz Harper.” Shit, is that still her last name? I know so little about her current life, it twists me.

The lady at the reception desk taps on a slick computer screen that seems to float above the antique desk. “Do you have an appointment?”

I round my eyes at her. An appointment, me? In a place like this?

“Uh… no, I’m just… I just need to talk to her.”

Her eyebrows shoot up and a warm smile spreads over her face. She points to a fancy little white seat, the kind that’s probably named after a French king. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks,” I say, as I park myself standing in the corner next to a window.

“She’s going to be a while,” the lady says. “Want me to refill this for you?” She’s pointing to the mug I’m holding. Does she think this is my mug?

“How long?”

She checks her computer again. “About ninety more minutes.”

Ninety? Ninety more? What is she doing in there? Fuck. “Could you just… could I just pop in? It’s rather urgent.” I stomp back to the reception desk, hovering over the computer. “Where is she?”

A man holding a comb backs up from a side room into the reception area, eyeing me top to bottom, a small smile forming on his lips. Before I can figure out what’s going on with him, the lady blinks at me. “If you barge in there while she’s doing a facial, someone will get fired. And that someone won’t be you, since you don’t work here.”

“Really? She would do that?”

“Oh—she would,” the man volunteers.

The lady crosses her arms. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

I can’t lie to her. I can’t bolt out. Small town and all that, Mom and Dad would know in less than an hour. If that. “I’m Ethan King, ma’am.”

“Called it!” the man singsongs as he walks back into what must be a small hair salon. His voice comes out muffled. “He’s even more handsome than you said…”

The lady nods. “M-hm. Well, Ethan King, did they drill your manners out of you in the service?”

I feel myself blush all the way to my hairline. “It looks like it.”

She nods. “Ninety minutes.”

“Right-oh.”

She lifts her eyebrows.

“I mean, yes ma’am.” I glance at the chair she wanted me to sit in. Then at Grace’s mug.

A phone trills on the reception desk. She picks it up.

I step outside and take a power walk away from The Green, feeling awkward with my cute mug.

When I come back, the receptionist is on the phone again. Or maybe still. She looks flustered. “But we need the product now… No! It’s on you. You need to fix this… what do you mean, a whole week? How are we supposed to…”

She lowers her voice as a woman wearing a black tunic with A Touch Of Grace embroidered in gold letters guides a client to the exit, thanking her and handing her a small bag of candies. She does a double take at me, then smiles and goes to a side room.

“To you it’s not that far out!” the receptionist continues. “And why should we fix your mistake…” She hangs up with more anger than I would have thought her capable of. Picks up the phone again. Her voice is melodious when she asks, “Honey, where are you?… oh… no, never mind… No, it’s fine… some mix-up with a delivery. Grace is going to be beside herself.” She hangs up and makes another call. “Justin? Any chance you’re around Morrisville? No? Never mind. No-no-no, I said never mind, dear.” And she presses the button again. “Alex darling? Where are you, I hear noise…. Oh… I see… no, never mind. Sure, you go now!” When she hangs up this time, she looks anxiously down the hall.

I walk to her desk. “Anything I can help with?”

She looks at me top to bottom. “Well…” her eyes dart to the hallway again.

“I’m a family friend, you can tr—”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, I know who you are. Trust me. Took me a minute, but I’m all caught up now.”

What is that supposed to mean? I fiddle uneasily with the mug.

The hairdresser comes out of his room, and they have a silent eye exchange while his client hands her credit card over.

“Are you riding your sexy motorcycle?” she asks once the client is gone. “Because that’s not going to help.”

“I’m afraid so.”

She sighs. “Good lord, I hope she doesn’t fire me for this.” She glances to the side door, where the woman in the black tunic—clearly a beautician—is now leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, seeming to enjoy the show.

It’s hard for me to picture Grace as a boss firing people. “Tell me what I can do, and I’ll do everything I can to keep you out of trouble.”

“Ooooh—he fine,” the beautician murmurs.

“Shanice!” the hairdresser scolds her, but his blush and glance my way tell a different story. “We appreciate the help, don’t we, Claudia?” he says to the receptionist.

“Just sayin’, Fabrizio. Nothin’ wrong wid’at,” Shanice says.

Claudia searches through a handbag she keeps in a drawer and hands me car keys. Then she scribbles an address on a sticky note. “There’s been a mix-up in a delivery that we absolutely need. They sent it to another spa in another town, three counties over. Everyone is tied up all day, same thing each day. Now, we could either have them send it back and—”

“I got it. What car is that?”

“M-hm,” Shanice voices.

Claudia looks at me top to bottom. “The red and white Mini coop. Hope you can fit in.”

I scratch my head. Look outside. “How large is the delivery?”

Fabrizio joins me at the window. “Oh dear.”

“Pardon?” Claudia asks.

“The stuff I’m supposed to bring back. Will there be enough space in the trunk? The back seat?”

“Oh my.”

“I can see if there’s a spare truck at the farm,” I offer.

Claudia glances nervously at her watch, then down the hall. Then she opens the drawer again and hands me another set of keys.

“Just take Grace’s car. You know which one it is, right?”

The 2010 forest green Wrangler with flowery fabric wrapped on the seats. “Uh-huh.” I give her her keys back. “Alrighty.” I set the mug on the reception desk. “Will you give her this?”

“You sure you don’t want to give it to her yourself?”

“I want her to have it when she comes out. Of her… whatever she’s doing.”

Shanice snaps the mug up. “I’ll make sure she gets it. You go now.”

“That’s a nice thought, Ethan,” Claudia says. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“Oooph,” Fabrizio utters, his eyebrows shooting up in a comical expression of doubt.

I grunt and leave. I’m with Fabrizio on this one.