CHAPTER THREE
A NYA
“You’re being dramatic,” Morgan said over her glass of house white wine.
“I am not,” I insisted. “I’m not a dramatic person.”
“Yes, you are.”
While raising one eyebrow at me, my best friend placed her half-empty glass on the cracked, peeling table between us. Front Street Bar desperately needed a refresh of its décor, but I knew that would never happen. The spartan tables, low lighting, alcohol advertisement signs, and license-plate decorated walls were all part of the charm, right along with the wear and tear.
“You’ve also been talking about the new bookstore the whole time we’ve been here.” She paused. “ And about Robert Kilgore.”
I frowned. “I have?”
She tucked a wayward strand of thick brown curls behind her ear. “I know you’re worried, but I think you’re obsessing.”
“But it’s just...”
I downed some more of my own cocktail, a simple vodka and soda I’d ordered to cut unnecessary calories while still having some fun. I was forever trying to lose the next ten pounds, and that week, I was back on the wagon and back on my low-carb diet. Vodka instead of margaritas. Veggies and meat instead of cookies and sourdough. Fasting from seven at night to noon the following day. Black coffee. Water.
Absolutely brutal.
“You know how hard it has been to keep the store going,” I pointed out to Morgan. “First the pandemic, then inflation, and now this .”
“Maybe there’s room for two bookstores in New Burlington.”
I scoffed. “In this booming metropolis? Nope.”
The corners of her mouth turned down. I was being a jerk, but I didn’t know how to stop the pessimism I felt permeating every comment I made. Once I hit on something, I had a hard time wrapping my head around it unless I'd processed and examined every aspect of it. And that was what I’d been doing almost nonstop since Mrs. Peterson’s visit to the store two days earlier. I couldn’t stop analyzing all the tiny ways a rival bookstore would affect my life. I’d have to work harder. Watch the budget closer. Get more creative with advertising. I’d have to fight.
I wasn’t sure I had the strength. But what alternative did I have?
Not much.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m being a jerk. How’s work?” I asked, turning the conversation to her life for the first time since we’d sat down a half hour earlier. A switch in topics would probably help get me out of my funk.
“Okay.” Morgan shrugged. “We’re low on members this year, and I don’t think Ian is thrilled about it.”
“That’s a shame,” I replied, draining the rest of my cocktail. “The club is so nice.”
“Yeah, but it’s small, and I knew we were going to lose members when the board approved that assessment during the annual meeting.” She glanced around the bar, which was surprisingly empty for a Friday night. “Country clubs are extra, and people are cutting those.”
I gave her a grim, knowing nod. Books were extra too, and I knew that fact all too well. The Green Frog sales were down twenty percent from last year to this year.
“And the wedding planning?” I tried, and it was yet another attempt to brighten up the conversation.
“Next dress fitting is Monday,” she replied as we finished our drinks. She took out her phone. “You sure you don’t want to come to Orange Theory class with me? You might like it.”
“No, I’m going to have another drink.”
I didn’t want to admit that I couldn’t afford the fees that came with attending fancy fitness classes. My job came with a decent salary and health insurance, but not a lot of room for extras. Morgan’s job as director of membership for Hollow Hills Country Club paid her twice as much. Now that we were past our twenties, that disparity started to show itself in a thousand tiny ways.
“Tell me how it goes,” I added.
“Sure will,” she said as we stood and hugged.
Soon enough, I was alone again, the ice in my drink melting, the din of the other patrons growing louder. I could leave and go home, but to what? Only the silence of the small row house I’d scooped up for just under one hundred fifty thousand a few months before the pandemic started. Two tiny bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen, a front room, an unfinished basement, and a storage shed in the back. Not even a garage to protect my car in the winter.
A modest starter home. Not bad but... not exactly what I’d hoped to live in by now.
Since real estate prices had soared, it was the only place I could afford to live. Even the average rent in New Burlington was almost twice my mortgage payment. Everything for sale was astronomical too. So, I stayed, and ordered another drink, this time alongside a hummus platter. There was no pita bread though—just carrots, celery, and sliced cucumbers.
I was halfway through the first bite of dinner when I nearly choked.
Oh my God.
There he was. Robert Kilgore. Sauntering into the place like he’d been here a thousand times before, wearing a pair of dark jeans, a light gray button-down shirt with a pair of aviator sunglasses hooked onto the open part of the collar, and black loafers.
There was no way I wouldn’t recognize him. I’d spent the last three days finding out everything I could about him—combing the public posts of his social media accounts for tidbits, googling his name, running a search on why Robert had left NYC. Maybe Morgan was right. Maybe it was a little excessive and obsessive, but I had to know my competition. Knowing everything about him would give me an advantage.
But it also meant reality could not be denied.
Robert Kilgore was hot. Really hot. Alluring in that masculine, confident, all-too-annoying way, the kind of man who came with something you could never quite put your finger on but kept you always coming back for more. Despite it being years since I last saw him in person, I recognized him. He hadn’t peaked in high school, back when he was captain of the soccer team and a finalist for homecoming king. Oh no, not Robert Kilgore. He’d only grown sexier during the time he’d spent in New York City making all that money on Wall Street at a fancy-named hedge fund.
I couldn’t say time had been as kind to me. My skin didn’t exactly glow— given I spent most of my days inside—a pudgy stomach was determined to stay despite various diets, and dark circles thought it imperative to take up real estate under my eyes. At least they were still a bright blue. Aging sucked.
But...not for everyone, it seemed. Men sucked too.
Robert slid into an open seat at the bar on the opposite end of the main dining room.
Kevin Richards was behind it, glass in hand, and they slipped into a familiar and affable conversation. I sat too far away to hear what he wanted, but I guessed it was one of the many beers Kevin kept on tap, all sourced from craft breweries around the Midwest. Kevin was good at his job and meticulous about details. That sort of attention kept Front Street Bar going, making it something of a destination, with people coming from all over for the authenticity and hominess they wouldn’t find at one of the chain restaurants closer to I-275.
After a few minutes, Robert took out his phone and started combing through it, seeming engrossed in whatever awaited him on the screen. I watched him for a while, going back and forth on my thoughts. Should I approach him? Reintroduce myself? Congratulate him on his move back to New Burlington and the new business venture?
Those would be the kind, proper things a small-town woman would do. A few hellos, some comments about how happy I was to see him, and it would be done. The ice would be broken.
That was what my mother would expect me to do—how she’d raised me. Always be courteous and kind, even to people you weren’t sure deserved it . But Mom passed away three years ago. She didn’t have a hold on me anymore.
So, instead of saying something to the man I was sure was about to ruin my life, I paid my bill, finished my drink, ate a few more tasteless bites of hummus, and left.