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“No, she’s not.” The woman’s expression doesn’t change, not even when a noise comes from the back of my throat. “Yeah, it’s dramatic if you ask me, but who knows what I’d do if I was screwed over like that.”
“I’m here to say . . .” I was a d.i.c.k because I was scared to f**king death about what Sam would do to Sienna if we were together. That even I lose control sometimes. I decide against it. “Look, if you talk to her, just tell her to call me,” I say.
The woman nudges the door closed until there’s only a crack in it. “You don’t have to shout it. I’ve already told you she’s not in here, but yeah, I’ll let her know.”
I bet she f**king will.
As I drive home—my car unusually silent because I mute the satellite radio—I add one more regret to my short list.
Sienna doesn’t call or text, though at first I expect her to.
A year and a half after my night with her, when I’m so burnt out that I can’t come up with good music to save my life, Kylie suggests a change of scenery.
“Go home to Atlanta,” she suggests over lunch, and I shake my head. Samantha is in Atlanta, and I won’t be within 100 miles of her.
“Nashville,” I tell my sister.
Kylie asks me a thousand questions about why I’d choose Nashville of all places, none of which I provide an answer to. But a couple months later when she brings me a listing for a foreclosure—a luxury cabin owned by some construction company owner’s widow who can’t pay the big a.s.s house payment anymore—I tell her I want it.
When I put in the bid, I think of the woman with the red hair and wide blue eyes from Nashville who flushed every time I spoke to her.
Sienna.
My fourth regret.
I hadn’t gotten to make things right with her.
