Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Bellamy
The ice in my cup clinks together.
I stand beside Larissa, turning my head side to side as I try to see what she sees.
The hedges in front of us are overgrown, and the lawn needs reseeding. Patches of grass are missing, and the deep, dark soil is exposed.
Larissa moseys her way around the property. She has a notebook in her hand and a pencil in the other as she sketches ideas on how to transform and restore this once-magnificent property.
I follow my friend around like a puppy and drink my iced coffee. I have nothing to contribute to her vision, no creative ideas to plant a colorful row of flowers or a windbreak on the north—something she said to me when we got here that still doesn’t make sense.
But I tag along and tell her she’s a genius because that’s what best friends do. That and it’s better than sitting at home, wondering what Coy is doing like some lovestruck teenager.
I turn away from the row of bushes Larissa is inspecting—like I look at cake—and take in the back of the early 1900s home. It oozes charm with its tall windows and faded bricks. The inconsistent colors make it imperfectly perfect.
I sip my drink and imagine the house lit up for Christmas. I envision white lights glowing from inside and scents of roast beef warming the air. I’m certain music was played inside the walls, and I hope against all hope that they had cats. It’s definitely a house for kittens.
The French doors leading from the living room swing open, and a woman in a tailored pastel pink skirt suit steps outside. Connie, as she introduced herself when we arrived, ushers an older couple onto the patio.
Connie gives us a little wave before turning back to the prospective buyers of the home.
“Just imagine this backyard all neat and tidy. Maybe with a large swimming pool and a barbecue to the right.” Connie sweeps her hands through the air like Vanna White. “It would be fabulous.”
No, it would not.
The man and woman standing next to Connie seem to agree with me. And whether Connie knows it or not, she’s not convincing them to take a chance on this beautiful place that’s falling into disrepair.
I should stay quiet and let Connie handle her business. None of this is my concern. Luckily for me and sadly for Connie, keeping my mouth shut is not how I operate.
“Don’t put a pool there,” I say, walking toward the patio. “You’ll have leaves in it all the time. Besides, imagine having kids out here. You’d never get any rest.”
Connie narrows her eyes. Be patient, Connie girl.
I have no idea what I’m doing, but this house needs a family. And, dammit, I’m going to get her one.
I turn around and take in the vastness of the space in the backyard. Ideas of what I would do with this property spring to life. Even though I’ll never have either one, I let myself play.
“I’d do a pool over there,” I say, pointing to an area to the left. “Can you imagine the water reflecting inside on summer days? And you could do a fence around it—in glass. How fun would that be?”
Larissa side-eyes me from the rose bushes, and I give her a bright smile. I can only imagine what’s going through her head right now, knowing I don’t have the slightest clue about landscape or design or selling houses.
Yet none of that deters me. I’m on a mission.
“What else would you do?” the woman asks, stepping to my side. “What would you do over there?”
“My friend Larissa—that’s her over there,” I say, pointing at Riss, “she’s a landscape designer. I would have her create a version of a flower garden with minimal upkeep. No one wants to be out here pulling weeds.”
“Dear heavens, no, they do not.”
“And over here,” I say, sweeping my hands to the right in my own version of a Vanna White, “this is where I’d put the barbecue and a firepit.”
The woman’s eyes go wide as she turns to look at her husband. “You love to grill out, Herbie. That would be so nice to have right out the back door.”
I smile. “It would be perfect. The sun is blocked by the trees on that side so you wouldn’t have to melt out here in the summer.”
“I love it.” The woman sticks her perfectly manicured hand my way. “I’m Janet. It’s nice to meet you.”
“My name is Bellamy. It’s nice to meet you too.”
She smiles at me as though we’re old friends. “I love your ideas. They really make this estate feel more like home.”
“You know what I’d really love to do out here?” I ask.
“Tell me.”
“I’d put in an enclosed porch,” I tell her. “I’d extend it the length of the house and use lots of windows that I could open in the spring and fall and really enjoy the weather without the mosquitos.”
Janet clutches the strand of pearls around her neck. “I’m loving this. We could put your books out here, Herbie. You could write out here.”
“But you’d have to put in a fireplace. You’d have to,” I tell them.
Janet and Herbie exchange a look before she turns back to me.
“Do you work for the realty company, Bellamy?” she asks.
“No,” I say, trying not to laugh. “I’m just here with my friend. I totally just butted into your conversation. I probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“What? Oh, no. I’m so glad you did.” She spins around and takes in another full-circle view of the backyard. When she stops, she’s facing me. “Did you see the kitchen? What would you do in there?”
I think about the layout that I saw through the windows.
“I’d totally do a fancy range of some kind because it’s really the focal point of the space,” I tell her. “And I’d keep as much of the original woodwork as I could. It’s just so beautiful. You can’t get that quality anymore.”
Who am I? What do I know about the quality of woodwork?
I ignore myself and keep marching forward.
“If I could get recessed lighting, I would. And I’d love a big farmhouse sink,” I add. “They’re deep and would be handy when the grandkids come over.”
I don’t know where that came from or even if these people have grandkids. It just slipped out like the most natural thing in the world, so I roll with it.
“You know, we could use your mother’s antique range in there,” Janet tells Herbie. “It’s been in storage for so long, and it’s such a shame.”
Herbie looks over his shoulder toward the kitchen windows. “That would be a nice tribute.”
Janet and her husband pause, looking at each other. Connie starts to panic and jumps into the mix.
“I love these ideas, Bellamy,” she coos. “Do you have any for the upstairs?”
I haven’t seen the upstairs, so no. But, instead of saying that, I play along for the house’s sake.
“A house like this needs a feature wall—something moody and earthy as soon as you get to the top of the stairs,” I say, using a home makeover episode I saw once. “And lots of plants so the outside feels like it’s inside.”
Janet nods. “I love that. I can see it. I can feel it.”
Herbie crosses his arms over his chest. “Want to make an offer, Janet?”
“Could we?”
Connie springs to life. “I’m so, so glad you agree with me that this place is the perfect retirement home. Let’s head to that kitchen and get the offer going.”
Herbie wraps an arm around his wife, and they disappear inside the back door. Connie waits until they’re out of earshot before she leans toward me.
“You are good,” she says, nodding appreciatively. “Are you a realtor?”
“Me?” I laugh. “No. I literally know nothing about any of this. I just watch House Hunters.”
She laughs too. “I think you’ve missed your calling then. If you ever want to go into this business, you call me. Girl, you’re gold.”
I nod like I hear that sort of thing all the time. She flashes me a megawatt smile worth her seven-percent commission before heading inside to finish wooing her clients.
“Did she just say you’re gold?” Larissa walks up to me and tries not to laugh. “I’ve officially heard it all.”
“I knew I liked Connie from the moment we met her.” I make a face. “But I do wonder about her realty skills. How hard would it be to sell a house like this? You’d think you’d have a line of buyers begging for it.”
Larissa shoves her notepad and pencil into her crossbody bag. Then she sighs. As she looks up, she says, “This place is really something, isn’t it?”
“I think I fell in love with it today.”
“I get it. It’s the kind of house I dream about. I don’t think Hollis is this type of house guy, though.”
I arch a brow. “Are we thinking about a future with him? Because, if you are, I’m totally okay with that. I would wrap that boy up and put a bow on him if I were you and not me and I was into hot football player kind of guys.”
She bumps me with her shoulder. “We’re still so new, so I don’t know. We have to finish our senior years of college, and there are a lot of things to figure out. But …” She looks at me with stars in her eyes. “I can’t imagine my life without him.”
“Awwww.”
“Stop that,” she says, swatting at my shoulder.
“What? I think it’s sweet.”
She snorts. “Bellamy Davenport, you never think anything is sweet.”
I follow her lead. We walk around the side of the house and toward the driveway.
“So, friend,” she says as we approach her car. “I’ve given you all day to bring up your night last night, and you haven’t. Now I have to prod.”
“But do you? Do you have to?”
She nods. “Tell me. What’s going on?”
“Who even told you? I didn’t tell a soul. And I can’t imagine that Coy went home and called Boone right away.” I think about it. “Boys don’t gossip like that, do they?”
She laughs. “I think they totally do gossip like that, but I really had no idea that anything happened for sure. You were just in a great mood today, so I hedged my bets.”
“You tricked me!” I gasp. “You little devil.”
“I did trick you,” she says, still laughing. “But I like it. I like this version of you.”
Yeah, well, me too.
I’ve enjoyed having a reason to smile today. It has felt good to have a layer to my life that was fun and exciting. Getting little texts from Coy throughout the day has been a sweet distraction from everything else going on in my life.
And the sex? Fucking phenomenal.
I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of men, and I can admit that every element of last night was beyond what I—of all people—thought was possible.
I wasn’t sure if that was because it was Coy, and there’s so much history between us. I thought maybe that added an unexpected element that somehow leveled it up. Sent my orgasms flying. Sent me flying in some blissed-out state of happiness. Rejuvenated something deep inside me with every touch.
I felt loved.
But it wasn’t that. It wasn’t love. It was convenience or passion or a response to a situation with someone you know intimately.
It was that for him.
And I’m okay with that.
I think.
We make it to the front of her car and stop. We don’t open the doors or get in—just stand there looking at each other.
“We secured a peace treaty,” I tell her.
“Did you say a penis treaty?”
My jaw drops in faux surprise. “What has gotten into you?”
“Hollis’s penis, actually.”
“You’re such a child,” I tell her, laughing.
She sighs. “So what happened? What brought on the white flag?”
“He came over to see my dad. And I kind of was mid-meltdown, anyway …”
She furrows her brows. “You had a meltdown because he came to see your dad?”
“No. I think … I think it was more of a confluence of events that really brought it on,” I say, impressed with myself for knowing the word confluence.
“I was still mulling over seeing Coy at all.” And dealing with our kiss.
“Seeing him being nice always affects me because I forget so often that it’s possible. ”
“He’s not a bad guy, Bells.”
I know.
“I guess I was already overwhelmed by everything that’s going on …”
My voice trails off as I think of reading the letter from Dad’s doctor a few minutes before seeing Coy walk into Dad’s house. The date for his PET scan is in a couple of days and getting the pre-approval paperwork from his insurance company was enough to throw me completely off-balance.
But I don’t tell that to Riss. I don’t tell her much about my dad at all.
Cancer is a millstone on everyone and not just the patient. It has a way of trickling its venom to anyone that hears about it. The last thing I want to do is to spread the burden to my friends.
Besides, if Riss and Boone know just how bad it gets, it would put a shadow on every interaction we have.
It would be impossible to grab a drink or go get a pizza or paint our nails and watch trash television without them worrying if my phone is going to ring or if I’m going to cry or if it’s appropriate to make a joke.
It's hard to explain to people that life has to keep going on.
You don't have cancer pop up in your life, and all of a sudden, everything stops so that you can deal with it.
Days go by, jobs have to be performed, dinner has to be made—things continue to go, and it's nice to be able to have one space that you can escape to and have everything feel normal for an evening or a weekend.
And that's Boone and Larissa for me. And it's imperative that I don’t dirty that up.
“Anyway,” I say, getting back to the conversation, “I think I was just already emotional and in my feels. It’s fine. We’re fine.”
I can't say that without smiling, even though it doesn't actually mean anything. We’re fine implies there is a we. Even though that’s not true, it feels good to say.
He might have texted Suit back to fuck off. He might have promised me to always be there for me. And I believe that he meant both things. I know that he did. But it doesn't change the circumstances of our lives, and I really don't know how we could work around that.
That is, if he wanted to get around it in that kind of way.
I close my eyes and feel that breeze in my hair and the sun on my face. The birds chirp in the trees overhead. If I listen closely enough, I can imagine the sound of little kids laughing and, if I pay close enough attention, I can smell dinner cooking from the house in front of us.
It’s an odd sensation.
When I open my eyes, Larissa is watching me with a curious look.
“You know,” I say, opening the passenger’s side door. “If I ever did get crazy and decide to have a real relationship and get married and have a family and all of that someday—I think I’d like to do all of that in a place like this.”
I look at Larissa over the roof of the car. Shock paints her features. I get it. I’ve never said anything like that before.
“I’m full of surprises today,” I mutter, climbing in the car and closing the door.
I’m also full of a wistfulness that makes me uncomfortable.
If only my life would stop throwing me losses, maybe that wistfulness could become hope.
I sigh.
If only …