My heart pounds so hard it hurts. I shake my head at him, starting to calm down.
“Madoc’s looking for you.” I turn and push through the door again. “Where’ve you been?”
He follows me through, into the front of the shop, but doesn’t answer. If his father’s looking for him, and Kade is home, then Hunter took the truck without permission. I’m sure he figures there’s not much more trouble he can get into after what happened tonight, though.
We walk through, and I flip more switches, checking for power, while Hunter kicks garbage and newspapers with his feet.
There are cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling as well as under the counter, and I can still smell the scent of warm sugar, probably from the remnants of old sprinkles and icing inside the display cases. It will be a wonder if I don’t have roaches to deal with, too.
The wallpaper has to go, but I catch sight of the floors, and as I brush away some paper and dust under my foot, I notice that the tile is a Moroccan mosaic pattern. Lots of color and so different from anything else around Shelburne Falls, that’s for sure.
That can stay.
I see Hunter finally lean back, sticking his hands in his pocket and resting on a wrought iron table.
“I’m going to buy this place,” I tell him. “I’m going to turn it into a pastry shop.”
He just stares at me, nodding, and I narrow my eyes on him.
“You don’t have anything to say?” I challenge. “No smart-ass remark?”
“You’re confusing me with Kade,” he retorts. “I think the world has enough shit talkers.”
I smile, turning my head away so he can’t see. He looks and sounds like he’s pissed, but I couldn’t appreciate the remark more. He’s absolutely correct. Enough talking and bullshit, and I’m thankful for his silence. I don’t need anyone else’s judgments, concerns, or negative feedback.
And when Jared, Madoc, and Jax have something to say tomorrow when they find out, I’ll tell them the same thing. Mind your own business.
Hunter leans down, picking up a chair that was overturned. “You need to make sure you have those blackberry swirl Brownies,” he says, leaning back down to collect trash and toss it into the bin in the corner. “They’re Dylan’s favorite. And the sugar cookie apple cobbler and those Samoa donuts you made with the Girl Scout cookies that time . . .” He trails off, letting out a sigh that sounds suddenly hungry. “I swear, you’ll have people lined up out the door.”
I watch him as he starts tearing flyers off the wall and throwing them away. I love that he isn’t hassling me.
Walking over to his side, I help tear the papers through their staples. “Were you saying good-bye to her?” I ask quietly, not looking at him. “Is that where you were at?”
He’s silent, but he doesn’t ask who we’re talking about. We both know.
“I’m just going to Grandpa’s,” he tells me. “I’ll get a summer job and earn some money before the school year at St. Matt’s starts. I’ll be home on weekends.”
“No you won’t.” I glance over at him. “You’ll make friends. Find reasons to stay in Chicago. We’ll see you less and less.”
I remember saying the same thing to Lucas nearly four years ago when he said he would be back. He was lying, and I knew it then.
But Hunter stares up at the wall, now bare, looking like he’s thinking about more than he’s saying. “I’ll be back,” he assures. And then I catch a small smile curling his lips. “There’s Rivalry Week, after all.”
Yeah. Rivalry Week.
I shake my head. That’ll be fun.
Epilogue
The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the city, and I stare west, barely feeling the day’s warmth soak through my suit jacket.
I hate this time of day. No meetings, no deadlines, no conference calls or site inspections . . . nowhere to rush off to. There’s too much quiet, and I don’t like quiet.
Looking out over the rooftops of the city, I tip my beer up and take a drink as I let the view soak in. The awe-inspiring designs of the skyscrapers, the day’s light reflecting off all the glass and setting the city aglow, the Persian Gulf looming behind me, the domes of the ancient mosques, and the smell of the spices and wares drifting up from the souks . . .
Dubai has been a place for me to sink myself into these past three years. It’s been an inspiration, giving me the drive and knowledge to push further and further into new territory of design. There’s been so much for me to learn and live up to, and I’ve been grateful for the noise and distraction. How could I ever go home after living in a place like this?
I set my beer down on the ledge of the balcony and reach into my breast pocket and pull out the compass Quinn gave to me before I left Shelburne Falls four years ago.
I look down at the antique brass heirloom, smiling at the thought of her. She was so innocent and curious, so angry and sad to see me go.
Making her mad at me wasn’t something I enjoyed—especially when I couldn’t explain to her why I needed to leave—but I had to admit, she was the only one who made me second-guess leaving. The only one who made me feel like I needed to stay. It had kind of felt good to know I’d be missed.
I can’t help wondering what she’d be like now. She’d be almost eighteen. Nearly an adult.
And here I am, nearly thirty, and still alone, burying myself in my work.