“Scout’s honor. I have a trophy somewhere.” I pull out my phone, scrolling through old photos until I find the one I’m lookingfor. “Boom. Carving champion. Need me to zoom in so you can see it?”
“Pfft.” She glances at the photo of teenage me holding a genuinely impressive pumpkin carving trophy. “Oh my goodness, you weren’t kidding.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Aw, look at that baby face. You were so adorable. I’d have had a crush on you as a kid.”
“I was fifteen andveryserious about my pumpkin art. So, I’m going to kick your ass at carving pumpkins.”
She’s laughing again, and I save this moment in my memory. “I forgot you were competitive.”
“Babe, you have no idea. Not to mention, I always win, and I always get what I want.”
“Noted.”
Julie’s wearing one of my hoodies; her hair is messy from the wind, and she’s giggling about pumpkins while the world tries to break her.
“You’re so pretty,” I whisper.
She grins, and her phone buzzes with a security alert. We check it together, and it’s the back-door sensor. There’s nothing on the camera. I lean over the railing to glance at the back door.
“Nothing there,” I tell her.
“Must’ve been the wind,” she agrees.
“Or a ghost,” I say.
“I can handle a ghost all day, every day,” she tells me with a snicker. “I’d prefer it over Craig.”
Once the sun sets, we return inside and shut the balcony doors.
As we’re getting ready for bed, Julie puts on some ’90s pop and starts dancing around her bedroom.
“Dance with me,” she says.
“To the Backstreet Boys?”
“Yes. I want itthisway.”
So, I give her what she wants.
She spins under my arm, and I dip her dramatically. We’re ridiculous, and it’s perfect.
After several songs, we collapse onto the bed, both smiling.
“I needed that,” she whispers, kissing me.
“I know you did,” I tell her.
Craig can send dead flowers. He can lurk in the shadows. He can even try to break her. But he’s already failed because Julie Loveland doesn’t break.
She keeps living.
29
JULIE
“We can go back,” Nick says for the third time as we walk toward Cozy Coffee.
