I watch him until he’s nearly at his front porch before I come to my senses and shut the door as quickly as I can.
Then I lock it too.
Maybe it’s to be safe.
Maybe it’s to keep people out.
Or maybe it’s to keep me in so I don’t go jogging after Boone Mason.
That man has probably had his fill of Jaxi Thorpe and the chaos that surrounds me for one night.
Four
Jaxi
“How are things going?” Libby asks.
I snuggle into the oversized, plush sofa in Libby’s living room. A candle flickers on the coffee table, sending a slightly spicy, semi-sweet aroma of baked apple cobbler through the room. I burrow into the softest blanket known to man.
“Nice house,” I tell her.
She laughs. “I expected you to say nice neighbor, not nice house.”
I grin both at her statement and at the thoughts of Boone that roll through my mind.
“Yeah, well, he’s not bad either,” I admit. “His house, though? He’s a mess, my friend.”
“That he is. But he’s a bachelor, so isn’t it to be expected?”
I roll my eyes at her sneaky way of imparting information to our conversation.
Libby and I are more different than we are alike. I have dark hair, and she has light. I’ve worked my behind off since I got my worker’s permit in high school at fifteen. Libby, on the other hand, has never held an actual job. The biggest difference between us, though, is this: I’m a pragmatic, and she’s a romantic.
It’s not that I don’t believe in that kind of love, that level of it. I do. I want to. It’s a lovely concept, and I’ve even tried my hand at it a time or two. But it’s hard to buy into an idea—to a way of thinking—when everyone you’ve ever tried to love hasn’t loved you back.
Some of them haven’t even tried. Others were supposed to love me, like my parents, but if what they demonstrated was love, then that’s not something I want.
It has occurred to me that maybe I’m the problem. I’m the common denominator in my relationships, after all.
But any way you cut it, these types of situations don’t work out for me. I’ve not given up on it … but I’ve given up on it. It takes too much effort that will ultimately end in heartbreak to be worth the risk. Besides, I’m good on my own. It’s less stressful to only have to worry about myself.
“How’s San Diego?” I ask, pulling the blanket tighter around me. I wiggle my right foot out of the side. “Is it all sand and sun and spicy margaritas?”
Her laugh is hollow and more than a touch sarcastic. “I’m sad to say that I wouldn’t know. You’d have to, you know, go to the beach or to dinner to know that.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Me either.” She sighs. “Ted has been working in San Diego for, what? Five months? Six? And he loves it here. It’s all he talks about. He’s been dying for me to join him so he could show me around. Now I’m here and he working all night and sleeping all day.”
I shrug. It’s weird to me, for sure. But as soon as I open my mouth to say as much, I rethink it. It’s possible my opinion is tainted by the fact that I’m not on Team Ted. Even if I’m right, it’s not going to help Libby for me to plant seeds in her head. So, I recalculate.
“Maybe he’s tired,” I say. “He has been working a lot, right?”
“Yeah. I’ve barely talked to him the last two weeks. But he seemed so excited in a Ted kind of way for me to get here.” She pauses. “Maybe my expectations were too high.”
“Or maybe he’s finally relaxed because you’re there and his ducks are in a row,” I offer, trying to help her stay positive. “Where are you now?”
“Sitting by the pool by myself.”
“At least there’s a pool.”
“I have a pool in Savannah.”
“That’s true.” I rest my head against a pillow with buttons sewn on it. I’m fairly certain it’s not for use but rather for decoration, but what Libby doesn’t know won’t hurt her. “Just try to relax and have fun. I mean, I’m here to take care of your plants—”
“Don’t you dare touch my plants!” she says with a laugh. “I mean it, Jaxi. I don’t want my little succulents to end up like the poinsettia you murdered at Christmas.”
My laughter rumbles through the air.
I close my eyes and think of the poor little poinsettia my boss at the hardware store got me for Christmas. It was an adorable sentiment from Mr. Kapowski. Unfortunately, I can barely keep myself alive most days, and that cute little red-petaled plant with weird gold glitter on it died before Christmas even came—much to Libby’s dismay. She forced me to post daily updates on its health on Instagram so she could monitor it. It was hysterical.
“Keep it up,” I tell her, “and I’ll love your plants to death while you’re gone. They’ll get water every day, baby.”
She gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”
A smile lingers on my face. “You’re right. But only because you’re the only friend I have.”
She snorts, but she knows it’s true.
Libby and I lived down the street from each other for a handful of pre-teen years. She is the daughter of my stepdad’s brother, and we bonded quickly and easily over books we found in her grandmother’s attic and the fact that neither of us really fit in at school. It was the best time of my life. We called each other cousins, even though we weren’t genetically related.
“I’m your only friend by choice,” she says. “It’s not like you really try.”
“I do too. I mean, I …”
My voice drifts off as if it refuses to lie on my behalf.
Libby and I both know that she’s right.
I tried to make friends when I was younger, but other
