3. Poppy
three
Poppy
Late the next morning at my mom’s apartment, while I’m scarfing my third bowl of cereal for the day, my phone chimes and Dylan’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe at a trail of milk that dribbles down my chin and drop my bowl and spoon in my rush to get to my messages.
Dylan
Izzy’s in. See you Monday at seven-thirty.
I read the text again while my stomach dips and swirls, and then I feel ridiculous. It’s just Dylan. He’s sent me messages before. Not since I was a teenager, sure, but it’s not like this is a big deal.
I hear myself snort, a performance of casualness for an audience of exactly zero, and then roll my eyes.
Get a grip, Penelope. It’s not like he sent you a freaking love letter.
I set my phone aside and scoop up the last of my Lucky Charms just as the door to my mother’s bedroom swings open. Her soft, generous curves are wrapped in a floral satin robe, her vibrant red curls are piled atop her head, and her polished toes are bare. When she spots me sitting at the tiny round table in the apartment’s eat-in kitchen, she quickly closes the door behind her—a reliable indicator that there’s someone in her bed.
Mona glides over and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “Good morning, honey.”
“Barely,” I say with a nod at the time on my phone.
She glances at the old clock on the kitchen wall, the hands reading eleven a.m., and gives it an unconcerned wave on her way to the kitchen. “The bar doesn’t open for another hour. I’ve got time. And if I’m a few minutes late today, it’ll be worth it.”
“Gross,” I protest.
“You don’t want to hear any more?” Mona asks with feigned surprise.
“I heard enough last night.”
Her eyes widen. “You did not. Did you?”
I dip my chin to hide a grin, and she throws a dishcloth at my head. “You rat.”
I wait while she fixes herself a big cup of coffee and then takes a seat opposite me. Her soft robe falls open as she crosses her pale legs, and I admire how pretty and confident she is, even in her mid-fifties.
Mona Golightly was never like other mothers, as much as I wished she would be. My mom ran away from home when she was sixteen, leaving behind a strict Irish Catholic upbringing in search of adventure, and ended up in Aster Springs. My father was a businessman who passed through town one weekend, and I was the result of a one-night stand. While I know Mona did her best and I never went without, I spent a lot of time alone or with the Davenports.
She was in her mid-twenties when she had me, so age isn’t the reason she behaves more like an older sister than my parent, but I can read between the lines. She never wanted kids.
My dad stopped visiting the year I started junior high, and like Mona, I was something of a wild spirit, so she encouraged my independence long before I should have been on my own. I’m still sorting through how I feel about my childhood, figuring out which heartbreaks I can lay at my father’s feet and which ones belong to my mother. Most days, I decide it doesn’t matter. What’s done can’t be undone, and the pain is mine now, no matter who or what caused it.
“So, I have some news,” I say. “I’m starting a new job on Monday. It’ll mean early mornings and weekend work, so I won’t be around much, and I’ll need to cut back on shifts at The Tipple. You don’t mind, do you?”
I know what she’s going to say, and I know the time we spend together behind the bar means more to me than it does to her, but I’m still disappointed when she replies, “No problem. I’ll get Tiffany to cover your shifts.”
“Great.”
“What’s the new job?”
“It’s nannying for Dylan Davenport. You know—for his daughter Izzy? She does so many extracurricular activities, and she’s transferring to a new school—”
“That sounds perfect.” Mona pats my hand as she sets aside her still-steaming mug. “Dylan is lucky to have you. I’m going to have a quick shower so I can get to The Slippery Tipple. Can you still cover the bar this afternoon, or should I call Tiff to ask if she’s free?”
“No, I can work tonight. I’ll even go one better and head over there now. Open up so you can”—I glance pointedly at her bedroom door—“finish your date.”
“You’re a doll. Thank you, honey.”
I return her grateful smile with one bright enough to cover my disappointment, hoping that maybe this time she’ll see through me…but no. She disappears into our shared bathroom, and I wash my bowl and spoon in the tiny kitchen sink before grabbing my tote bag and taking the short walk to The Tipple.
Saturdays are our busiest day at the bar, and within twenty minutes of opening the doors at noon, I’ve already served a handful of customers, and the kitchen is sending out lunch orders. If I’m honest, I don’t mind pulling beers and slinging wings at my mom’s dive bar. Daisy was right about the long hours and crappy tips, but the buzzing neon lights and peanut shells on the floor give the place a certain charm. I’ve got the final say on the country music crackling from the jukebox, and my conversations with locals are always a bit of fun.
As Saturday evening rolls into nighttime and I exchange a frothy pitcher of beer for another lousy tip, a guy I know all too well strolls through the front door, his faded blue jeans and dirty t-shirt snug around the hard shape of a man who spends his days hauling hay and wrangling cattle. Wade Mitchell pulls up a stool at the bar, drags off his grimy baseball cap, and hits me with a crooked smile that would be sexy if it were on anyone else’s face.
“The usual?” he asks.
I’ve already got a chilled glass wedged under the tap for his favorite draft beer, and once it’s filled and got a heavy head of froth, I set it down in front of him with less care than I usually take. Let him drink from a wet glass.
“You need to stop harassing me, Wade,” I say, wiping my hands on a dishcloth that I tuck into the waist of my apron.
“Who’s harassing you?” He looks around the bar like he’s searching for someone before slurping from his glass. The froth catches on his thick mustache, and when I bite back a grin, he cocks an eyebrow like he knows what he’s doing and gets a thrill from making me smile.
Wade Mitchell is not charming. He’s not.
“It’s the weekend, and I’m here for a drink,” he says. “Same as everybody else, only I’m here all alone, and I enjoy your company.”
I respond with a flat look. “I’m not going to sleep with you, Wade.”
He runs a hand over his mouth to hide a shit-eating grin, wiping away the foam at the same time. “I’m just here for the beer, Poppy. Nobody said anything about sex.”
My stomach rolls with something I can’t name—not quite shame, not quite regret—as I think back ten years to the night I let this guy take my virginity. I knew it wouldn’t be special. I knew it wouldn’t mean anything. I also knew I wanted to leave my hometown as a real woman and that I’d never have a shot with the guy I really wanted to be with. Eighteen-year-old Penelope thought it’d be better to do it with her high-school boyfriend than a stranger—or worse, save it for someone special who might never turn up. I was young and stupid. I thought I knew it all, and I was determined to get my first time over and done with so I could go out into the world with one less thing to worry about. I don’t believe in regrets, but choosing Wade Mitchell to be my first wasn’t my finest moment.
In my defense, I thought I’d leave Aster Springs and never see him again. In a plot twist nobody saw coming, I’ve poured him a beer every Saturday night since he started showing up in September. If this were anyone but Wade, his persistence might be flattering, but it is Wade, and no matter how polite he is now, I can’t go forgetting that this is the same guy who cheated on me once, dumped me twice, and treated me like a doormat for the two years we were together. I’m not that stupid. I know he’s only hanging around because he wants to get in my pants, but I’ve given him nothing but months of lukewarm conversation, and he still shows up every week without fail.
It’s not romantic. It’s not.
Out of nowhere, Daisy pops up and perches on the stool beside Wade. She pointedly ignores him as she sets her elbows on the bar and leans over like she’s got a secret.
“Can you take a break? I’d sit here and talk to you, but there’s a weird smell.”
Wade grunts as Daisy wrinkles her nose, waving her hand in front of her face as she pretends to fan the air, and I shake my head with a smile as I remove my apron. There’s no love lost between the two of them, and Wade glowers as he keeps his focus forward, drawing deep on his beverage.
“Grab a table while I ask Mona to take over here,” I say. “I’ll swing past the kitchen and meet you in five.”
Daisy spins away from Wade and beelines for a booth that’s just been vacated as I hang my apron on a hook on the wall.
Wade pulls out his wallet and drops some cash on the bar—enough for the beer and a generous tip. “I guess that’s the end of our date, then?”
I tuck away my tip and then open the register. “It wasn’t a date, Wade.”
He returns his cap to his head, stands, and winks. “Whatever you say.”
I make a point of not watching him leave as I wave at Mona for her to take over at the bar, then pass through the kitchen to collect plates of wings, fries, and salads.
“No,” Daisy says as I set the tray with our dinner and two tall glasses of root beer on the table.
“What?” I scan the tray. The food’s not fancy, but I know for a fact these dishes are her favorite. “Do you want sangria? I can—”
“No.” She reaches out a hand to stop me from walking away. “I mean, yes. I don’t know why I have to go without the hard stuff just because you can’t drink on duty. But no , don’t go thinking sexy thoughts about Wade.”
“I’m not!” I slide into the worn, brown-leather bench seat of the booth, then add with an ashamed mumble, “But he’s persistent.”
“Persistent does not equal worthy,” Daisy replies, setting out our plates and drinks. “Persistent does not equal decent. Persistent does not equal mutual respect, stimulating conversation, or even multiple orgasms. In fact, Wade plus persistent equals one giant, circus tent of a red flag.”
My shrug has no fight in it. “You’re right. I know.”
“You’re starting to hallucinate.” Daisy picks up a chicken wing and tears off a sliver of meat. “It’s the dick-tox. It’s driving you to distraction.”
“I know there are good reasons for us swearing off men for a year, but we’re only halfway through, and I’ve already lost all perspective.” I stretch out a hand and lower my voice, amping up the melodrama so Daisy knows I’m joking—just. “I’m this close to dating Wade Mitchell. Wade Mitchell .”
Daisy clasps my hand in hers, responding to my theatrics with a performance of her own. “You can do this, sweetie. What you need is toys. Good ones. Great ones. High-powered, ruin-you-for-all-men, pass-out-when-you-come toys . You do not need to ride your high-school ex.”
I snort and take back my hand, picking up a fork and starting my salad. “Do you have any idea how paper-thin the walls are at Mona’s place? I do—unfortunately—and whether it’s toys or the real deal, I don’t have enough privacy to have a good time.”
Daisy cocks her head as she licks hot sauce from her fingers. “Are you sure that’s all this is with Wade? Sex? Because if it is—”
“I’m not breaking my promise,” I tell her firmly, knowing it’s the right thing to say when her shoulders drop with relief.
Our no-men-for-a-year agreement is one of the reasons we returned to Aster Springs last summer. We spent so many years apart, traveling the States and the world, searching for some sort of happiness, only for each of us to hit major heartaches at the same time. Daisy needed a break from love, and I needed a break from high-risk emotional situations, so we came home.
I needed my best friend, and my best friend needed me.
But also…it’s not just about sex for me. It’s about being alone, and I know what Daisy will say if I admit that out loud. She’ll try to tell me I’m too good for Wade. That I can do better. That I deserve more. But isn’t he here every week to spend an hour with me? Hasn’t he been patient and funny? If it was only about sex, wouldn’t he have given up by now?
In the past ten years, I’ve never done better than Wade. Who’s to say I ever will?
Daisy suddenly sits up straight and sends me a wide-eyed incoming expression, so I’m already on guard when a familiar blonde woman breezes past our booth in a cloud of perfume, then breezes back again like she’s only noticing us now.
“Oh! Hey, you two!” She crosses her arms and smiles brightly. “Fancy seeing you here.”
It’s Hannah Casey, followed by Rachel McHugh and Morgan Sullivan. Three women who used to be our best friends in high school—until they weren’t.
“Hey, Hannah,” I reply. “My mom owns the place and I work here every weekend, so it’s not that strange to run into each other, is it?”
Hannah blinks her brown eyes a few times, and one lid twitches with irritation before she laughs like I’m the funniest person she’s ever met. “Oh, of course! Not strange at all.”
Daisy picks up her soda and takes a sip. “Really going to need something harder than this,” she mutters around the straw.
“You both still here?” Rachel asks.
Daisy glances at our table. “You mean still here in this booth?”
“I mean here in Aster Springs,” Rachel explains. “We were sure you two wouldn’t last the summer, and now it’s January.”
I stick a fry in my mouth. “Didn’t know you were keeping tabs.”
“Oh, we’re not.” Hannah shoots her friend a dirty look. “We’re just making conversation. Do you girls want to get a drink next weekend? You know. Catch up on old times.”
Daisy and I swap a loaded look that almost undoes me, and I clear my throat as Daisy takes another swallow of her drink.
“We’ll check our schedules and get back to you,” I say.
“All right. In the meantime…” Hannah shifts her body ever so slightly toward Daisy, effectively putting her back to me. “I’ve been meaning to call you, Daze. How’s your brother doing?”
Daisy sets her glass down with a careful hand. “My brother?”
“Yes. Dylan. He must be working so hard raising that little girl all on his own.”
“What makes you think he’s on his own?” Daisy asks.
Behind her back, Morgan and Rachel exchange a curious look, and I roll my eyes as I pluck up another French fry. Here we go.
Hannah tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she leans in with curiosity. “So, is Dylan seeing someone? Because the last I heard, he was single.”
Daisy crosses her arms under her breasts and leans back in her seat, giving the impression of looming even though she’s sitting while Hannah stands. “Why do you want to know?”
Hannah lifts one shoulder and laughs lightly. “Just making conversation.”
“And how about Finn?” Rachel asks. “We barely see him around town since he returned from service, but we’re almost certain he hasn’t dated anyone locally. He’s still single, right?”
Daisy’s mouth flattens. “I really couldn’t tell you.”
“And Chord?” Morgan adds. “Is he still dating that gold-digging fashion designer? They’re such an odd match. It won’t last much longer—right?”
“They’re very happy together,” Daisy replies shortly as one leg begins to bounce under the table. “And she’s not a gold-digger.”
“Really?” Morgan frowns for a silent moment, then shakes her head. “I don’t buy it.”
“I’m not sure what else to tell you.” Daisy’s tone is flat enough for me to know she’s at her limit. “Now, if you’re done insulting my friends and grilling me for information about my brothers’ love lives, Poppy and I were in the middle of a conversation, so you three can just f—”
“You don’t have to be so harsh,” Hannah snaps.
Daisy glares up at her. “And you don’t have to be so transparent. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Don’t pretend to be my friend just to get to my brothers.”
Hannah returns Daisy’s hot stare with a frosty look down her nose. “Now I remember why it’s so hard to like you.”
Daisy snorts as they walk away, and I wait until they’re out of earshot before I reach under the table and steady her bouncing with a hand on her knee. “Are you okay?”
Daisy shakes her head and scoffs under her breath. “I’m fine. I just— Ugh! I hate the way those girls make me feel. Like the only reason I’m worth their time is because I’ve got three hot brothers. Why do I let their stupid shit get to me? Shouldn’t I be over it by now?”
I shrug. “High school leaves scars.”
“Yeah, well, it’s stuff like this that makes me more determined to go ahead with our plan to put Dylan’s life back on track. Can you imagine the look on Hannah’s face when Dylan’s finally off the market?”
Daisy rubs her palms together, and I dip my chin in surprise. “ Our plan?”
“Our plan. My plan. To- may -to. To- mah -to.” Daisy grins. “Phase one is already underway—you’re Izzy’s new nanny. That’s going to give Dylan more time to take care of himself, which will naturally lead to meeting new people and falling in love.”
I manage to swallow my mouthful of root beer without choking. “You want Dylan to fall in love? That’s phase two of your plan?”
“Yes. Izzy needs more than a mother who only visits two or three times a year, and Dylan needs a real partner. Someone to love him and support him and make a life with him. Someone who’ll stay .”
I choose my next words carefully, hoping Daisy only hears my concern for Dylan and not the despair of imagining him in love with someone else. “Isn’t that the kind of thing Dylan needs to work out for himself?”
Daisy shakes her head and holds up a hand, a single digit raised as she starts listing reasons why it’s reasonable for her to interfere in her big brother’s personal life.
“One: he doesn’t know how. Two: he works too hard. Three: he’s too busy with Izzy and the restaurant to find a minute for himself. And four: he’s lonely. He’s been lonely for years. If we don’t step in now, nothing will ever change. I don’t want that for my brother or my niece. They deserve so much more, and it’s up to us to make sure they get it.”
I think about why my best friend is back in Aster Springs, and though I promised not to talk about it unless she brings it up, I’m intuitive enough to suspect that this obsession with Dylan’s love life has something to do with Daisy’s breakup with her ex.
“Daze,” I say gently. “Are you sure this fixation on Dylan’s happiness isn’t just a way to distract you from what happened last year with…you know?”
Daisy shrugs and swirls a fry through the little pot of ketchup. “What if it is? Is that such a bad thing—if it makes my brother happy?”
I manage not to frown. “No, I guess not, but—”
“Can we not talk about this now?” she asks. “Please?”
I watch her for a moment longer, noting the tightness around her eyes, and nod softly. “Sure.”
“Good.” She pulls out her phone and opens her notes app. I squint at the letters, but they’re upside down and make no sense. “I made a summary of all the things we’re looking for in Dylan’s perfect match.” Daisy clears her throat and reads. “She needs to be smart—to keep up with Izzy if for no other reason, though we know Dylan is attracted to intelligence.”
“Yeah.” I tuck my hands under my thighs, and my shoulders curl in as I measure myself against Daisy’s criteria. Like I need all the reasons I’m a bad match for Dylan written down in black and white. “She should definitely be smart.”
“She needs a stable job and real, solid roots in the local area—but nobody from high school.” Daisy shudders dramatically. “I can’t live with someone like Hannah Casey as my sister-in-law, but no flight risks either. I don’t want another woman drifting in and out of Dylan and Izzy’s lives.”
“Stable,” I repeat, because—of course—the love of Dylan’s life should be someone who plans to spend the rest of their days in Aster Springs. “Someone who lives nearby. Got it.”
“She must want kids and have some kind of maternal quality about her.”
“Makes sense,” I agree, putting a tally against my name as if it matters.
“And she must be mature with a sensible, responsible, dependable outlook on life.”
My face involuntarily contorts, and Daisy responds with an uncertain look.
“This is about what’s best for Dylan, remember?” she says like she’s reminding both of us. “He shouldn’t have to deal with someone else’s bullshit, and this list is for Izzy too. I won’t approve of anyone who isn’t a solid, reliable influence in her life. That little girl has been through too much already.”
I hold up my hands, palms out. “You’re right, but this perfect woman sounds a little…”
“Boring?”
A beat of silence passes, then another, as we contemplate the wisdom of Daisy’s scheme, but then she visibly straightens and nods to herself.
“This is about what’s best for Dylan and Izzy, and the last thing they need is mess and instability. Dylan needs someone he can rely on. Someone who can help him raise his child. Trust me. I know what I’m doing. He’ll thank me when I’ve introduced him to Miss Right.”
I reply with a relenting shrug. “So, you’ve got a plan, and you’ve got a list. What do you need me for?”
“You’re the nanny,” she says. “You’re already doing everything you need to do—giving Dylan time to focus on himself. He can’t keep using a busy schedule as an excuse not to put himself out there. Whether he likes it or not, it’s time for Dylan to get on with his life.”
“Great.” I reach for my soda, gulping it down to wash away the sour realization that it’s now my job to be with Izzy while Dylan spends time with other women. Dates them. Touches them. Kisses them. More.
I want Dylan to be happy. I do. And I want Izzy to have a real family. But if there’s anything more painful than loving someone I can’t have, it’s got to be standing on the sidelines watching him fall in love with a woman who is nothing like me.