The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,76

much as what he did.

I want to forgive him. So badly.

I end every night with a prayer for the grace to let go of my anger. But it eludes me. And as much as I miss him, I can’t forget what he’d said about me.

I’ve spent the last month licking my wounds and clutching my pillow.

Every night it smelled less and less like Hayes.

And the chasm between us grew wider and wider.

Except for in one way, the way we always manage to find each other. And some nights, sleep has come only after I’ve called him, used his voice and my hands to make myself come and told him to fuck off before I hang up in his face. I’m still so hurt by him. Still so angry.

But, I do miss him.

Fiercely.

I just don’t know how to get over “fine to fuck, not enough breeding to bring home.” Every time I think about it, it burns.

“So, what do you think of our cosmopolitan suburban version of small-town America?” Remington asks. I stare back at him and smile, grateful my staring off into the distance looked like me admiring the scene instead of me daydreaming about my boyfriend.

I let my eyes sweep the street and smile.

“It’s incredible,” I say simply and honestly. The enclave of Rivers Wilde, carved out of three square miles in southwest Houston is the kind of place I used to dream about living when I was a kid.

We’re walking across one of a dozen foot bridges that straddle the man-made shallow fountain that cuts a straight line through the community. The left northwest corner is a commercial district. It’s a miniature of downtown Houston. Skyscrapers and shorter commercial buildings make up the ten blocks dedicated to the Wilde World Office Park.

On the other side of the bridge from where we are now, is the town square. It is the very center of the enclave. It’s flanked by two residential communities. On the left is The Ivy. It’s a golf course, country club, and a cluster of luxury condominiums in a cluster of sky-scraping high rises.

On the left, The Oaks is a suburban prototype of single-family homes that range from starter homes to million-dollar mansions.

The Market runs along the southern border of the enclave, parallel from the Wilde office park. It’s one huge indoor food market. There is a green grocers, spice markets, fish mongers, butchers, florist, cheese shops, the bakeries, everything has a kosher or halal options. The long lines that snake out of The Market’s every day are due to the food counter. Over 700 feet of space dedicated to deliciousness highlights why Houston is one of the places where the phrase “melting pot” is not an exaggeration. From Afghanistan to South Africa and everything in between, the world’s best cooks show off their cultural delights. And people line up to devour it. I had tamales today and they might be the most perfect thing I’ve ever eaten. They’re only open for lunch during the week, but all day on the weekends, and I can’t wait to visit.

“Irma’s been here since Rivers Wilde opened its gates. And now she’s a landmark in her own right,” Remington says when I tell him I want to go back. “This is the dream at work. It’s a community that’s designed to encourage interactions between people who might otherwise see each other as foreign or different.”

“That sounds amazing,” I say and wish I could find a more eloquent response to his words. But I’ve never seen a place like this.

“You’re actually in for a treat. Don, our resident Cajun, and Tommy, who owns the Vietnamese restaurant in the market, come together for a crawfish boil that the entire community turns out for.”

“Crawfish?” I grimace.

“You haven’t lived until you have these. Lemongrass and garlic meet Old Bay and jalapeños for the most delicious crawfish you’ve ever tasted.” He groans dramatically and pats his washboard flat stomach.

“Well, I certainly hope you have a gym here, because it sounds like unless I plan on buying a whole new wardrobe, I’m going to need it,” I laugh.

“Got that, too. Tae Kwon Do school, Barre, a dance school with classes that use everything from the ballet rail to a stripper pole. And if you just want to work out, there’s a regular old sweat-it-out-on-the-treadmill gym, too.”

“So basically, if you live here, you never have to leave?” I ask.

“Not if you didn’t want to. And that’s the point. To make home feel like enough. To create