I Thought of You - Chapter 1

I Thought of You
Chapter One Sneak Peek

If I give you today, there will be no tomorrow.

Price

Two months ago, I slid a handwritten note onto the nightstand next to a white tissue box and a gold-framed photo of a blue-eyed Himalayan cat.

I can’t do it. Please forgive me.

Can’t or won’t?

“Can’t” made me weak. “Won’t” made me selfish.

Either way, it was with an insufferable and unavoidable pain that I’d come to that conclusion.

Conclusion or decision?

Hell, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Nothing could prepare a person for that kind of moment. But they’d left me with no choice. Well, that wasn’t true. There was always a choice. Was mine an unforgivable one? That was hard to say. After all, they were my people. I would have died for them, but not like that.



* * *



My new place doesn’t have a picture of a Himalayan cat on the nightstand, my favorite black weathered recliner from college, or a warm body waiting for me in bed.

It’s a fully furnished two-bedroom home in Austin, Texas. It’s all very Pottery Barn. There’s a tufted crushed velvet sofa in twilight blue, mid-century wood tables with fake flowers in vases, and marble bookends flanking a collection of everything from Stephen King to Margaret Atwood.

Wood floors.

Modern rugs.

And a few contemporary pieces of framed art—red poppies and birch trees on cobalt canvas.

In the primary bedroom, above the bed, there’s a photo of a young boy on a bicycle with a yellow lab chasing him down a sidewalk. The boy looks like a younger version of myself.

Maybe it’s that I had a yellow lab.

Maybe it’s because my parents made me ride my bike everywhere while my friends were in their rooms gaming.

Maybe it’s his twiggy arms and legs and wavy brown hair in a mess. Since then, I’ve added muscle and discovered that a little hair gel goes a long way to taming thick, wavy hair.

Whatever it is about that boy in the photo, it’s comforting.

Before five in the evening, I add a blue Honda CRX to the driveway. It has a dent in the rear bumper, which complements my new life and motto: Perfection is overrated. My whole life has been overrated. For a decade, I’ve been the happiest, miserable overachiever. It’s a complicated oxymoron that makes sense if one takes a step back to see the whole picture.

However, I’m six weeks into remedying that situation—well on my way to underachieving the hell out of my life.

Now, there’s only one thing left to do. Find her.



* * *



Scottie Rucker looks exactly as I remember—wayward, cinnamon-brown hair just past her shoulders. Bangs brush her eyes, always a quarter inch too long. When she laughs, her head shakes, and her chin lifts to flip those unruly bangs away from her gleaming eyes of gold and brown.

Always hopeful.

Always pleasant.

I don’t have a single memory of her that’s less than perfect. Even our breakup felt like fate because she said all the right words. The world makes sense with Scottie in it. And right now, I need things to make sense.

A whoosh of cool January air whistles when a customer exits Drummond’s General Store, leaving me and a handful of other customers milling around the aisles of industrial shelving surrounded by white shiplap exterior walls with sliding ladders. This place bleeds nostalgia.

There’s a vintage soda fountain with a draft arm, an ice cream cabinet, and rows of syrups. Bulk goodies—everything from fireballs and taffy to Tootsie Rolls and Bit-O-Honeys—line the far end of the bar with sparkly red swivel stools. A stand with fresh floral bouquets anchors one end of the register, while a display for local artisan-made goods anchors the other.

“Let me know if you need help finding anything.” Scottie’s melodic voice floats through the air.

Twelve years ago, I met her by accident at a modern-day apothecary a few blocks from Independence Hall in Philadelphia the summer between my junior and senior years of college. My dad conned me into working at his law firm for the summer in hopes I’d consider changing my major. But I’ve always been a numbers guy: mathematics and economics.

And Scottie’s always been the girl who wears healing stones instead of diamonds and thrives on thirty minutes of meditation in the morning instead of eight ounces of coffee.

A torrential downpour around two in the afternoon on a Thursday in June sent me dashing into the corner apothecary. To avoid being an asshole using her place of business for cover, I emptied my wallet on miscellaneous shit I’d never heard of, including a Tiger’s eye bracelet that was supposed to help me achieve wealth and vitality while protecting me against negative energy.

Perhaps it did, at least for that summer. I still have that bracelet.

Halfway between the chips and canned goods, I glance at her, and I feel like time is transporting me to that day in Philly.

A pleasant smile touches her lips as she drops her gaze to the abandoned receipt on the counter, only to do a quick double take.

I hold her gaze, letting this moment sink in. A slow-growing smile steals her glossed lips. Recognition takes on a whole new meaning. I feel alive.

She slides around the counter, her Birkenstock clogs scuffing along the black and white lattice vinyl tile. “Are you real?”

With a tiny laugh, I nod.

“Price Milloy,” she says my name with a content sigh.

“Scottie Rucker.”

“What are you doing—”

I interject by holding a finger to my lips. “Shh. Stop interrupting the universe.”

Her eyes widen. “Did you steal my line?”

“I’m just quoting the most profound person I’ve ever known.”

She snorts. “So much gibberish.” Throwing her arms around my neck, she whispers, “My god, it’s so good to see you.”

It’s like she knows exactly what I need.

Twelve years get erased in a single breath.

With my face buried in her hair, I inhale. She never wore perfume from a department store, always an essential oil concoction she made—vetiver and amber. On occasion, she wore patchouli.

She steps back, beaming with a face-splitting grin. “What brings you to Austin?”

“I live here.” I lie (sort of), knowing it’s the first of many to come. Technically, I am living here while I see her. She’s why I’m here. It’s not as creepy as it sounds. On the surface, it’s mind-bendingly complicated. Yet, at its core, it’s as simple as I’m here for her.

More on that later.

“No kidding? Wow! Have you lived here long?”

Less than forty-eight hours.

“Hmm … I’m trying to think how long it’s been.” I scratch my chin. “Six? Seven months? What about you?”

“I’ve been here ten years. I needed a change and decided to try Austin. No job. No place to live. I just packed a few bags and headed south.” A slow grin creeps up her face while she shakes her head. “I can’t believe we’re running into each other. It’s been so long. Are you married? Kids? I want to catch up.”

Another gust of wind announces an older couple entering the store. Scottie shoots them a grin before turning back to me.

“Catching up sounds amazing. Can I take you to dinner tonight?”

“Oh! Tonight? That’s soon.”

I shrug. “Carpe diem.”

Her soft lips rub together for a beat. “Why not?”

“Wonderful. Give me your address. I’ll pick you up around six?”

“Eight.” She fiddles with her hair. Yet another thing that’s not changed about her. Always fiddling.

“The store closes at eight. Until I get someone else hired, it’s just me. If that’s too late—”

“Eight it is. Write down your address.”

“It’s here.”

“Here?”

She jabs her thumb over her shoulder. “I live in an Airstream behind the store.”

Things make sense now. The only address I found for her was this store, which I assumed had an apartment above it.

“Then I’ll see you at eight.”

“Let me give you my number in case something comes up and you need to cancel.”

Nothing will come up. I’m here for her.

The rented house.

The vehicle.

It’s all for her.

I don’t have a phone, at least not one I plan on using anytime soon. It’s just for emergencies.

She jots down her number on the last customer’s abandoned receipt.

“Perfect. Then I’ll see you in,” I peek at my watch, “five hours and twenty-seven minutes.”

“Price Milloy.” She shakes her head. “I’ll be pinching myself all afternoon.”

I grab a small bunch of bananas from a basket and set them on the counter because not buying something feels weird.

She weighs them and hands me the change. “Five hours and twenty-five minutes now.” I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me with such wonder and sheer happiness in their eyes. In truth, it hasn’t been that long, but life has messed with my recollection of those moments.

I steal a few extra seconds to return what I hope feels to her like the same expression.

Coming here was the right decision.

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