Chapter 33
I’ve been in Celestial for two days, and it’s surreal how happy I am to be back.
With summer behind us, crisp autumn air welcomed me home with open arms. I wandered around the downtown streets and browsed the farmers market for groceries.
I met up with Millie for dinner, and her guilt trip only lasted for about twenty minutes before she accepted my apology and filled me in on the latest town gossip—apparently, the couple opening the juice bar in the storefront next to the Artist Alchemy backed out at the last second and now everyone is scrambling to figure out what to do next.
I settled back into my house and took the world’s longest bath in my hard-fought-for bathtub.
I checked in on Little Chix and my girls and tidied up their coop.
I’ve done so much. I have not, however, seen Tate.
Although, it must be said, it’s not from a lack of trying on my part.
The texts that I sent him before I came home are still sitting, unanswered, in my phone.
A half-written paragraph that I’ll no doubt read and rewrite approximately fifty more times before I ultimately delete it is sitting in the text box below it.
I’ve driven past his house once and the football field twice.
I even sat at the bar at Crumb and Crust, nursing a glass of wine for about an hour longer than is socially acceptable, willing Tate to come in like he had on my very first night in town.
I’m desperate to see his gorgeous face again.
To see the way his onyx eyes go soft when they land on me.
To hear the way his deep voice says my name like a prayer.
It’s all I want, but the more time that passes, the more I begin to realize it might not happen.
I’m ready to come back, to try again, but that doesn’t mean he will be.
It sucks, but I’m still going to stay. I’m no longer running from what I fear. Been there, done that. I’m going to spend the rest of my life running recklessly into everything and everyone that I love.
Even if it really fucking hurts.
“I’m so sorry my client is late, Miss Starr.” Patricia checks her watch again. “They told me they’d be free to meet at three.”
The conference room in Moonlight Realty is exactly as I pictured it to be.
Patricia has forgone the clean lines and modern aesthetic my real estate office in Denver went with in favor of a more modern rustic look.
A giant iron logo is attached to the shiplap wall.
An old metal milk container has been repurposed as a vase, and vintage frames hold prints of houses they’ve sold.
Joanna Gaines would be proud.
“It’s not a problem. I don’t have anywhere to be.” I take a sip from the Moonlight Realty–branded water bottle she handed me when I walked in the door. “But since we’re waiting, I do have one question.”
Her pink-painted lips spread into a genuine smile, and she leans toward the table. “Of course,” she says. “I’m happy to answer any of your questions.”
“Is it normal for a meeting like this to happen?” I fidget with the plastic bottle cap. “Do buyers usually want to meet the previous owner?”
Thanks to all the rookie mistakes I made purchasing my house here, I’m sure it was abundantly clear to anyone paying attention that I was a first-time homebuyer.
When it comes to selling a house, though, I’m slightly more experienced.
I know every situation is different, but when I put my grandma’s house on the market, nothing even similar to this happened.
I didn’t ask the name of the family who moved in, and they didn’t ask about me.
We worked through our Realtors, signed the paperwork, and went our separate ways.
When it came to my house in Celestial, well, the house had been empty for so long that meeting with the previous owners wasn’t even in the realm of possibilities.
“Not often,” she says. “But to be fair, I haven’t sold many houses that had acquired such”—she pauses, most likely trying to come up with a more delicate way of saying my house was a complete shithole—“extensive upgrades and renovations. I think they just want a detailed list of what was done and to know more about what you had left to do. Easy, really.”
“Oh, okay. Easy,” I say. “Thank you.”
Easy, I repeat. This is easy.
I run through the list in my head. I repainted the walls and repaired the stairs.
The bathroom attached to the primary bedroom is brand-new, claw-foot tub and all.
Fresh paint, bold wallpaper, and new light fixtures abound.
The lace curtains Miss Margaret made for me frame the new windows in the living room.
Pink kitchen cabinets and gold knobs might be a bit of a hard sell, but if the buyer has vision—and taste—it shouldn’t be too hard to get them on board.
The list of what I’ve done isn’t too bad; it’s the things I had left to do that are harder.
Sure, I wanted to replace the air-conditioning unit, and the gutters were running on their last legs, but it’s the dinner parties I had yet to host that haunt me the most. The late nights sitting on my porch next to Tate…
the early mornings waking up with him by my side. The life we would build together.
I close my eyes and try to finish the list, picturing someone else completing it, but I can’t. Because it’s mine.
The person joining us today doesn’t need to come at all, because I won’t be selling.
“Patricia.” My voice shakes when I say her name. She’s been sweet enough, but I’m sure she won’t be thrilled when I tell her there’s not a commission to be made anymore. “I don’t think—”
“Oh, good!” She claps her hands together and jumps from the table. “They texted me and they’re walking in now.”
“Okay, but—” I try again, but Patricia is a woman on a mission. She’s gone from the room before I can say another word.
She leaves to go meet the new buyer in the front, and I square my shoulders as I wait. I know how hard it is to find a house that you love. The thought of being the person to rip it away from them makes my stomach turn, but this isn’t about a house for me anymore.
After years of searching, I finally found my home.
I hear Patricia’s loud Southern drawl as she approaches, but I can’t make out the voice of who she’s with.
She refused to give me a name—something about client confidentiality—but with how small Celestial is, I know there’s a good chance I’ll recognize the person I have to break this news to.
I brace as the door swings open, but nothing could have prepared me for who I see next.
“Tate?” The entire world falls away the moment a pair of onyx eyes lock on to mine. “What are you doing here?”
The air is too heavy to breathe. His scent infiltrates the room, and my body recognizes him instantly. My lungs struggle to inflate and my heart hammers in my chest.
I’ve been miserable in the month since I’ve seen him last. My hair is still recovering from weeks of not combing it. I’ve gone through more concealer than ever before attempting to disguise the dark circles under my eyes and stress pimples.
Tate has never looked better.
“Luna.” He nods tersely and takes the seat across the conference table from me. “Nice to see you again.”
All the warmth I knew and loved is missing from his eyes. The gentleness gone from his voice. It’s him, but it’s not.
Fire rages in my sinuses, and for the first time since I can remember, my eyes well with tears. Worst. Timing. Ever.
“It’s you?” My voice breaks, but I don’t hate the way it sounds. I couldn’t cry the last time I saw him, but even if he doesn’t feel the same way anymore, I want him to know I still care. That I love him. Even if I’ll never get the chance to tell him. “You’re the one who’s buying my house?”
I guess this is one way to make sure he never has to see me in Celestial again. Though I have to imagine there are more cost-efficient options.
He nods, his hard features and cool expression not giving anything away.
“Okay then.” Patricia shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Now that both parties are here, we can get started.”
I shake my head. “Can I have a moment with Tate alone first?”
Patricia’s eyes fly between me and Tate, and her hands fidget nervously with the stack of papers sitting in front of her.
“Umm…” Her gaze settles on Tate, and her shoulders relax when he tips his head up slightly. “Sure, you take as long as you need. I’ll be just outside.”
She stands up slowly and, much to her credit, keeps her steps even instead of running out of the room like I’m sure she wants to.
The door closes behind her, and I wait until the sound of her heels clicking against the tile begins to fade.
My pulse skyrockets with every second that passes.
I try to keep my expression as blank as the one Tate is wearing, but if I were to look down, I’m sure I’d see crescent-shaped cuts from my fingernails digging into my hands.
I’ve been waiting to see him for days—weeks, if I’m being honest—and now that I’m finally alone with him, I need whatever I say to him to be profound. Meaningful.
Instead, all I say is, “Hi.”
The word is barely a whisper, but somehow the single syllable gives away every bit of anxiety, fear, and regret gnawing away inside of me.
His jaw goes tight. “Hi.”
My body goes taut with the urge to run, but for once, my heart is louder. And it’s telling me that even if he can’t forgive me, I owe it to both of us to let him know how I feel.
“I was prepared to tell the buyer no.” I start in the middle of the conversation. “I was going to tell them good luck on finding another home and apologize to Patricia for wasting her time, but the farmhouse is mine. I was going to say no,” I repeat. “But I won’t say no to you. Not again.”