closeness I’d had with her. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. She made it so easy to share things about me that I’d never shared with anyone. She made it so easy for me to be myself. She made me want to be a better version of that self. More patient. Less angry. More hopeful. Less bitter.
She made me want to loosen the reins and open myself up to new possibilities—a different kind of future.
I didn’t want this lonely life for myself. I wanted to eat meals she cooked and do the dishes for her when she was done. I wanted to hold her during thunderstorms and tell her everything would be all right. I wanted to hear her chirping like a robin in the morning and telling dirty stories at night. I wanted to admit I’d been wrong, tear down my walls, and build something new with her right beside me.
But was I ready for the kind of change she would bring?
I stared at my ceiling in the dark, as if the answer was written there, and by morning I’d be able to see it.
“Wait—Blair was here? Today?” Panicked, I looked around the garage’s newly renovated waiting room like I might have missed her in the crowd. All morning I’d been smiling absently at the people milling around, shaking hands with old and new customers, fielding compliments on the new look. But I was totally preoccupied with thoughts of Blair. She should be here, I kept thinking. This doesn’t feel right without her.
The event was a huge success, as far as I could tell. From the moment we’d opened the doors, we’d had a steady stream of people in and out. The Bulldog Pub had a little sidewalk stand out front serving sliders and fries, and my ’55 Chevy was parked at the curb, where kids could climb in the back or get behind the wheel and have their pictures taken. The new logo Lola had designed was painted on the side of the truck in fresh white paint, and every time I looked at it, I wished Blair could have seen how great it turned out, since it had been her idea.
Everything had been her idea.
She should be here. This doesn’t feel right without her.
“When was she here?” I demanded.
“Not here at the garage,” my mother said. “She came to the house this morning to drop off the pies and the cake. Just look at these beauties.” She gestured toward six apple pies that did indeed look delectable. “It’s like Betty Frankel rose from the grave. To think Charlie had the recipe the whole time!”
“I don’t understand,” I said, caring less about the pies themselves than the woman who’d made them. “Blair baked these?”
“Of course she did. And the cake too.”
I looked at the cake—a large, rectangular cake covered in sky-blue frosting and decorated with a vintage red Chevy truck with our new logo on the side. I thought my mother had ordered it from a bakery or something. “Blair made the cake?”
“Yes. Your sister can tell you the whole story. She drove up to visit Blair on Thursday.”
“But you saw her this morning?” I asked, following my mother into the break room, where she grabbed more cups for the coffee in the lobby.
“Of course I saw her.”
Agitated, I trailed my mother back out to the front, where she stacked the cups on a table. Music from a live band up the street filtered in through the open door. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”
She gave me a look. “Now you want to talk about Blair? After almost two weeks of telling me to mind my own business?”
“Yes. Now I want to talk about her.”
She faced me and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want to know?”
I shifted my weight from foot to foot, agitated. I felt like a swarm of bees was under my skin. “How did she look?”
“Beautiful.”
“Was she . . . did she seem okay?”
“She seemed fine. We didn’t chat long because she was in a rush to get back up north to her job.”
“She likes it up there?”
“She said she loves it.”
My chest ached. Maybe she didn’t even miss me. Maybe she loved her new life so much, she never gave me a second thought. Maybe she’d even met someone new already.
The thought made me feel sick. How had I let her go?
“Did she ask about me?”
My mother huffed. “No, she didn’t. And I don’t blame her. After