Willow
willow
Present
I grabbed my metal to-go mug from the counter, my mom’s voice rattling through the phone speaker, filling the tiny living room. Sweat beaded along my back as I spun in a circle to make sure I had everything I needed. It was my usual whirlwind morning, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was forgetting something.
“I know. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s not like I can tell him I don’t want to hear about his family,” I said absentmindedly, still searching the apartment for whatever I was missing, as if it would jump out and bite me.
What even was it?
“That’s exactly what you can do,” she shot back. “Tell him you’re tired of hearing about how great his life is—” I let out a long sigh, cutting her off.
“That’s not fair.”
“No, what’s not fair is that he’s living the life you deserve to have,” she murmured. “It’s not fair he’s the father you need for someone else’s child.” Emotion burned my throat as I stopped by the front door and turned back to my apartment, my hand wrapped around the worn golden doorknob. It was too early to have this conversation.
Yesterday, my father called to tell me he was taking Vanessa, her husband, and my stepmother to Greece for a family vacation to celebrate Vanessa’s promotion. I’d braced myself as I waited for him to include me, but the invitation never came.
I couldn’t say anything without letting all my emotions out. I couldn’t do anything but listen as he excitedly told me how proud of her he was, how excited he was to go to fucking Greece— one of my bucket list destinations he definitely knew about.
A part of me wondered if I would’ve stayed in Ohio, if I would’ve eventually found a place in his family. Maybe I would’ve been happy. Maybe he would be proud of me, and I wouldn’t have been an afterthought.
But I knew the truth: this was how it would always be, because this was how it had always been.
And it wasn’t even jealousy that fueled this feeling. I knew it was my own shortcomings, my own issues that made me inadequate. Maybe if I was more successful, he’d pay attention to me. If I worked harder, did more , he’d realize I was special, too.
As the years dragged on, I’d found myself not wanting to prove anything to him. I’d just wanted to live my life and be happy. But could I be fully happy without his approval? That was what I’d been struggling with a lot lately.
Did I need him, his attention, a relationship with him, to be happy? Or could I be content with the life I was building? A life totally my own, without him or anyone else?
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to push all those thoughts away, and went through a mental checklist of everything I needed.
Macrame purse? Check .
Coffee cup with the cute, worn-out flowers? Check .
Pale pink wallet? Check .
Keys on their little sunflower keyring? Check .
What else?
Something lingered on the outskirts of my memory, close enough for me to feel it, but far enough away for me to not remember.
“He has to know how much it hurts you,” my mother continued. I moved through the living room, stepping over scattered throw pillows piled on the floor. Her words drifted in one ear and out the other. Mostly because she was right, and I currently couldn’t handle it. I was already late for work; I didn’t need a therapy session, no matter how right she was.
“You think so?” I muttered. Swatting a dying vine out of the way, I scanned the little boxes on the wall calendar for today’s date. What was it again? “Or do you think he’s so caught up in his own life that he can’t look past the tip of his nose to see mine?”
There was a beat of silence, then she delicately cleared her throat. “Well, that’s how he’s always been.”
Yeah, it was how he’d always been, but that didn’t make it a good excuse. He’d seemed to change in every other aspect of his life, yet he couldn’t gain a little self-awareness? A little empathy or guilt over the way he’d treated his only biological daughter?
My lip slid between my teeth, and I shook myself. None of this mattered. There was no amount of talking about it that would change a damn thing. I needed to move on. I needed to get over it. So, what? I had some abandonment issues—and maybe some daddy issues, too. Who didn’t? I wasn’t special. I couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone with the same issues I had.
So why was it so hard for me to move past it?
I glanced at the photo at the top of the calendar, taking in the lighthouse there. The sun was setting behind it, making it nothing but a dark silhouette against the expanse of the Atlantic ocean. Seagulls flew overhead, and waves crashed, the misty water a haze around the base of the lighthouse. I could almost hear the waves lapping at the shore, or the creak of the lantern up top as it rotated.
As pretty as it was, my lighthouse was better.
A smile tugged at my lips as I flipped the page to the next month—otherwise known as the current month—and scanned the boxes. I really would forget my head if it weren’t attached to my body. How could someone forget the month?
“Is today Monday?” I asked, cutting off further conversation about my dad. Silence filled the air between us, then Mom let out a breathy laugh.
“It’s Thursday.”
Thursday! It’s honey day!
“Mom, I have to?—”
“Look, all I’m saying is you should tell him you’re tired of being left out. That’s all.”
“It’s not that bad,” I mumbled, the words sinking like a stone in my belly. They rang hollow, even to my own ears.
I scanned the living room once more. What was I missing?
My fingers tapped along the edge of my phone. Then it hit me. My claw clip! It was my favorite one—pink with little daisies all over it. I wore it nearly every day at the bakery. How could I forget it?
“You haven’t been home in a year,” she said, sounding unimpressed. “Obviously he has some effect on you.”
Scattered belongings jumped out at me, tangling under my feet, as I stumbled to my bedroom. I searched the dresser where I always put it, but it wasn’t there. So I moved to my nightstand, but again, came up empty. Maybe the bathroom counter?
“Mom—”
“And it really upsets me,” she continued, ignoring me. “It upsets me for you. You don’t deserve?—”
“Mom—”
After checking the few places I could think of, I gave up. I didn’t have time to search for it.
I moved through the house to the front door. The lacy white curtain billowed, reminding me the window was open. I needed to remember to close it when I got home later.
Her voice still carried through the phone, oblivious to my chaotic morning. With a final glance back at the messy living room, I took a deep breath and slipped outside, the cool morning dew immediately clinging to my skin.
I turned the speaker off and held the phone between my shoulder and ear as I locked the door, making a mental note to clean the dead leaves littering my half of the porch. I also needed more potting soil.
Oh, and I was out of Oreos.
The door beside mine clicked shut as my deadbolt slid into place. Maybe if I stood perfectly still, he wouldn’t know I was here. Or maybe if I closed my eyes, he couldn’t see me—you know, the whole what I don’t see isn’t really there , thing?
“Morning,” Ronan grumbled, his voice sounding like he’d gargled with rocks instead of mouthwash this morning. So, standing totally still with my eyes closed didn’t work.
How unfortunate.
With a fake smile plastered to my face, I turned toward him. My eyes traveled up the long length of his strong body, desperate to linger on the corded muscles I knew he had hidden beneath his uniform.
“Good morning, Sheriff,” I chirped, using my best customer-service voice. Not that he was a customer, but interacting with Ronan Caldwell called for using that voice. It was pleasant and sing-songy, and put distance between us. Despite being neighbors—and my fake boyfriend of a year, though he still didn’t know—there was nothing personal between us. Nothing that screamed neighbors, or friends, and certainly nothing that even hinted at us being a couple.
“Who’s that?” Mom asked in my ear. The phone nearly fell to the ground at the sound of her voice, but I caught it before it could land. Ronan’s blue gaze ate me alive, searing me to my core.
It really was unfair how attractive he was. You’d think someone that hot wouldn’t have such a chip on his shoulder, but here he was, in all his grumpy glory.
“Your trash can is on my side,” he said. I blinked, the words barely registering. When they did, I turned my attention toward our shared front yard.
“It is not. Yours is on my side.” I pointed an accusatory finger at the plastic bins in question. How could he think mine were on his side? That was ridiculous. I never left anything on his side—except for the occasional dead leaf. He was the messy one. His stuff always seemed to migrate to my half of the white-paneled duplex.
“No—”
“Yes,” I shot back. “And your trash stinks. Keep it away from mine.”
“Trash stinks; that’s just what it does.”
“Whatever.”
“You two are so cute.” Mom laughed.
I sent a glare at the phone as I stumbled down the few front steps. The wood creaked under my weight, and I held my breath, bracing myself, just like I did every morning. I knew that any day could be the day it finally snapped—and when it did, I only hoped Ronan wasn’t around to witness me falling on my ass.
“And your truck was leaking last night!” I called over my shoulder. Gravel and leaves crunched under his boots as he followed me toward our vehicles.
“It was water. I washed it and it was drying?—”
“Just keep it off my side,” I told him as I reached my car. My fingers wrapped around the door handle, our gazes meeting over the rusted roof. His face was blank—well, no. It wasn’t blank. It was passive. Annoyed.
Which was fine. Because I felt the same freaking way.
“Keep your dead plants on your side of the porch, then.” My eyes narrowed into slits.
“You try keeping that many plant babies alive. It’s impossible!”
He let out a long-suffering sigh. “Have you thought of having fewer plants?”
“Fewer plants?” I gasped, completely appalled he’d suggest such a thing. “Absolutely not.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled, yanking his truck door open. “Just keep your shit off my porch.”
“Keep your stinky trash on your side!” I shouted as he slammed it shut. His engine rumbled to life, and without a backward glance or taking the time to secure his seatbelt over his chest, he peeled out of the driveway. “God, can you believe him?”
“You like him,” Mom said knowingly, and I rolled my eyes. “He likes you, too. I don’t know why you don’t just ask him out already.”
“Because he’s a total grumpy douchebag,” I muttered, sliding into the car. “I can’t stand him.”
The lie I’d told my father a year ago lingered at the back of my mind, just like it always did when I came face to face with Ronan. But there was nothing I could do to change it. I was just thankful no one asked me about him too much.
The odd, “So, how’s…your boyfriend?” came up infrequently, but still enough for me to know Dad remembered. He clearly didn’t remember his name, but he remembered I was in a relationship with someone .And he remembered to tell my stepmother and stepsister all about it, because they brought it up every chance they got.
It was insane that I was still carrying this lie on. I knew that. But what choice did I have? It was never a good time to come up with another lie about us breaking up, and my father learning the truth was not an option.
Not only would he think I was a total stalker-weirdo, but everyone else would consider me even more pathetic than they already did. And if people in Cedar Ridge ever found out that I was lying about dating the hot, aloof sheriff, I’d be run out of town or chased with burning pitchforks.
I was pretty sure that was in the small-town handbook.
I’d figure out a good time to tell my dad that Ronan and I went our separate ways, and it had to be soon. Despite it being the beginning of summer, everyone was starting to ask questions about when I’d come to visit again. They’d been expecting Ronan during the holidays, and when he didn’t come, they were disappointed. I’d had to dodge questions left and right about him, lying through my teeth like a psychopath.
This year—ideally sometime soon—I had to fake breakup with him because I knew that no amount of persuasion would make anyone believe he had to stay behind with his family.
No. We had to break up. That was the only option.
“Are you listening to me?” Mom’s voice rang out, and I jolted back to the present.
“Yeah, of course.” I took a deep breath as I gripped my steering wheel and glanced over my shoulder to back out. “You were saying how much you love me.”
She snorted out an unamused laugh, and a smile curled my lips. “Sure was. I was asking what you want for your birthday.”
Oh, I forgot that was coming up, too.
“Nothing,” I said. Crisp green trees and different colored houses lined the streets as I drove through town toward the Sugar Shack.As I passed, my attention caught on the community garden I’d dreamed of joining for the last five years, but it was invite-only and I didn’t know any members who could vouch for me.
I sighed. Maybe one day.
“Nothing?” she repeated, her tone deadpan. “At all?”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Of course, you don’t need anything. But what do you want ?”
I pursed my lips into a thin line. The only thing on my mind was that garden. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I laughed. “I’m okay. I don’t want or need anything.”
A long, dramatic sigh left her, and I rolled my eyes at her antics. I pulled into my usual spot at the back of the Sugar Shack. It sat on a hill overlooking the ocean. The rustic siding was a muted, pastel green that peeled and flaked, but the wear-and-tear only added to the charm. Vines crawled up the side, and the flowers I’d planted under the windows out front were thriving.
The morning sun reflected off the water in the distance, dancing and shimmering like glitter, and I knew when I opened my car door, the morning wind would be perfumed with the pastries baking inside.
“You’ll tell me if you think of something?” she asked, and even though she couldn’t see me, I nodded.
“You know I will.” My hands overflowed as I gathered all my belongings, balancing them precariously in my fingers. “I really have to go. It’s honey day.”
“Honey day?”
“We’re getting a shipment of local honey, and I need to help unload it.” She huffed out a laugh, the sound light and airy.
“I can’t believe this is your life,” she said, sounding awed. “I’m really proud of you, you know? You’re happy, and that’s all I could ever ask for.”
My lip rested between my teeth as I blinked back tears. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Have a good day. Love you.”
“Love you.” I hung up and hurried through the back door. “I’m here!” My voice carried to every corner of the old kitchen. Dough, sugar, and cinnamon scented the air from the baking cinnamon rolls in the oven, and my mouth immediately watered.
“About time,” Gracie grumbled as she pushed through the swinging door, winking so I knew she was teasing. I gave her a guilty smile as I put everything away and grabbed my apron from its hook.
“I’m so sorry,” I rushed out. “My mom was on the phone, and Ronan was—well, Ronan.”
“It’s not a big deal. Kenny isn’t here yet.”
She rested her hip on the butcher block counter before grabbing her mug of steaming tea. My shoulders fell as I leaned against the white shiplap wall. Snatching my to-go mug up, I took a long sip, letting the sweet coffee slide down my throat.
“Still having issues with Ronan?” she asked, her hazel eyes scrutinizing every inch of me. I shrugged as casually as I could, keeping the cup at my mouth. “I don’t know why you don’t just move.”
“I like my house,” I said a bit too defensively. The corner of her mouth quirked up, and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Just admit you like him,” she teased. “Admit he’s the reason you want to stay there.”
“No.” My cup clattered on the counter as I shoved it away. I pulled my hair up into a messy bun before shoving off the wall. “He’s insufferable.”
She hummed with laughter, and I let out an exasperated breath as I washed my hands, the sweet floral soap slicing through the yeasty scent of baking rolls. I kept my back to her, focusing on the suds between my fingers instead of the words that rang just a bit too true.
Ronan and I constantly bickered, but I think that was easier than actually talking. It was easier than trying to be his friend—or something more.
Five years ago, I moved in next door, and at the time, he’d been even grumpier than he currently was. He hated everything and everyone. I’d tried to be neighborly and take him some baked goods, but he ignored me—even though I knew he was home.
I figured he wanted to be left alone, so I left him alone. I stopped bothering him, stopped trying to be neighborly . And then he started complaining about the overflow of plants on the porch, or the fact I played music too loud.
That was when the bickering started. He was annoyed when I parked on his side; I was annoyed when he did house projects at midnight. Over the years, it became our thing. Now, there was safety in it. It was predictable. It was routine.
I didn’t truly hold any animosity toward him. I wasn’t sure if he really hated me or not, though. But I liked him…as much as I could like a grumpy asshole.
“When does Kenny get here with the honey?” I asked, trying to shift the subject far away from Ronan.
“He should’ve been here by now, but in classic Kenny fashion, he’s late.”
I dried my hands on a worn kitchen towel as I turned toward my best friend. Her golden-tan forearms rested on the counter, and her near-black hair was twisted into a massive bun at the top of her head. Ringlets fell around her face, framing it, and her massive doe-eyes stared back at me as she grinned.
“What?” I folded my arms across my chest, my brow kicking up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She shrugged a shoulder, the casual movement somehow elegant. “I’m not looking at you in any particular way.” She laughed. “Just looking at you. Is that a crime?” I opened my mouth to shoot back some snarky remark when she snapped her fingers. “I know. If it is a crime, I’ll just call our local sheriff to come arrest me. That way you can see him again, and I can see how much you definitely do not like him.”
“Gracie Mendez,” I growled, pointing a warning finger her direction. “You’re so freaking lucky I love you, or you’d be sleeping with the fishes tonight.” Her head fell back as she cackled, the sound echoing off the walls of our little kitchen. It was infectious, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. “But seriously, drop it. I don’t like him.”
“Sure, babe. Whatever you say.”
What was it with everyone thinking I liked Ronan today?
They were right—I did have a crush on him. The smallest, littlest crush in the entire world. It was stupid, and I knew nothing would ever come of it. But it was still there, and I tried to squash it every day.
That insufferable grin stayed on her face as the bell above the front door rang, and we both turned on our customer-service personas. She fluffed her hair, making sure the tight curls were imperfectly perfect, then headed out through the swinging door. I rolled my head side to side before following her.
“Sorry I’m late, girls,” Kenny said gruffly, flashing a weak smile our way. The older man had only one half of his overalls buttoned, the shirt beneath wrinkled and stained. Looking at him, you wouldn’t know he was a multimillionaire who ran one of the best and most successful bee farms on this side of the country. “I have the gold you were looking for.”
Gracie laughed softly, so different from the real laugh she’d just given me in the kitchen, and gestured toward the door he’d just entered from. “Lead the way, Mr. Key.”
“I’ve told you to call me Kenny,” he gently chastised, giving us both another smile before heading back outside.
The sun was quickly rising, the heat rising with it. We managed to move several crates of jarred honey into the store before breaking too much of a sweat, though. It was wild that I grew up in Ohio, that I was so used to the warm weather and humidity, that a day like today would’ve felt like winter back home.
I blotted my forehead with the back of my hand as Kenny put the final crate on the ground for us. Gracie paid him his due, then he headed home. With her hands on her hips, she stared at the jars of honey.
“We’ll save a few jars for baking and sell the rest,” she said, winded. I nodded as I opened the notebook I’d brought with me.
“I’ll add it all to the inventory.” I sank down onto the hardwood floor beside the jars. She patted my shoulder as she passed, heading back to the kitchen to finish getting together the pastries we opened with every day.
As I worked, my mind was so preoccupied with numbers and labels that I forgot all about Gracie teasing me and the entire conversation with my mother. Everything still loomed at the hazy edges of my mind, but the repetition, the soothing act of doing inventory, was thankfully enough to help me not think about Ronan Caldwell.
Even if it was just for a little bit.