Only in Your Dreams (The Mountains are Calling #2)

9. Grey

We end up at the drive-in. Buddy’s is a little drive-up burger place, only open during the warmer months. When a hot dog or burger seems like the perfect way to end a day spent in the sun, and you can order ice cream cones that drip down your fingers, but you don’t mind because it’s summer, and it’s all a part of it.

My aunt used to bring me here when she’d pick me up for a sleepover at her house when we were both out of school for the summer—her teaching middle school science. Buddy’s is where most of my favorite memories from childhood take place, where Holden and Finley and I used to end up after football games after school started, and where I want to be now. With her.

After Buddy—a man in his early seventies who’s hanging on to the smallest patch of white hair on his mostly bald head—comes out to take our order, I turn in my seat to face Finley and say, “Tell me everything about this bookstore.”

She laughs, a soft, almost self-deprecating sound. “There’s not much to tell. I had a very far-fetched, romanticized idea of opening a bookstore. It will probably never happen.” She pauses, eyes going stern. “And don’t you dare mention this to Mom or Wren, or they will never let it go.”

This makes a smile touch my lips, but it’s doused quickly. “Why do you say it will probably never happen?”

She gives me an incredulous look. “Owning a business is hard . Owning two is almost impossible. Owning a business you know nothing about actually is impossible.”

I roll my eyes. “You read all the time.”

“Reading a lot doesn’t mean I know how to run a bookstore.”

“Read a book about it. Starting a Bookstore for Dummies. I’m sure they have it. Let me look.” I reach for my phone, but she puts her hand on mine, stopping me. It sends bolts of lightning running up my arm, feeling her skin on mine. Such simple contact shouldn’t affect me like this, but it’s Finley. And things have never made much sense where she’s concerned.

“It’s too hard, Grey. I can’t do it.”

I pin her with a look, feeling equal parts stern and tender. “You can do anything, Fin. You’re the smartest person I know.”

Her expression changes then, turning into something soft and vulnerable, like she’s surprised by my statement. I can’t fathom why. Finley likes to downplay her intelligence, but I wasn’t lying.

She may have learned to garden from her mom, but I remember the books about flowers that she would check out from the library, the flower shows she would attend in the city, the business classes she took at the community college. She built Unlikely Places from the ground up, all on her own, and it’s flourished.

“This is different,” she says finally.

“How?”

She seems to struggle with the words for a moment. “I knew what I was doing with Unlikely Places. Everyone trusted me, and I trusted myself. I’m the flower girl, you know?” She pauses, eyes catching on mine. “I don’t know how to do this, and everyone will immediately hop on board and want to help out, and if I fail, I’ll let everyone down.”

Her words slice through me because I can see where she’s coming from, but I also see what she doesn’t—her competence, how good she would be at this, how everyone’s confidence in her is well-placed.

I don’t get a chance to respond, because Buddy is back, knocking on the window with our order. Rolling down the window, I take our drinks and the paper bags of food, grease already seeping through the bottom, and hand Buddy a five-dollar bill as a tip.

She takes half of it from me. She digs into one of the bags and pulls out food, then places it on every free surface in the truck—the console between us, the dashboard, the cupholders. We definitely ordered too much, but that’s just the way to order at Buddy’s.

“I can’t believe they got it out so fast,” she says, popping a fry into her mouth. “It looks like the whole town is here.”

I nod and punch my straw through the lid of my drink.

“Wait,” she says, sounding like she’s had an epiphany. “Do you think we need to make out in the bed of the truck so everyone sees us?”

I roll my eyes, although my head is filled with all kinds of tempting images. “Yes, Finley, because that would seem very natural.”

“I don’t know what you’re into,” she says with a shrug. “Maybe you’re an exhibitionist.”

“I’m not.” I refrain from telling her that I’d do whatever she asked of me. “You know, for as much as you bust my balls about my dating life, you’ve seen very little of it.” Because truly, there hasn’t been that much. Sure, I’ll go out on dates with women here and there, but it never goes anywhere. Not when I run into Finley after and am reminded of everything I’m missing.

“That’s because you never go out with anyone more than a handful of times. You’re a playboy.”

I cut my eyes to her, taking a drink of my root beer to give myself time to form my thoughts. “Is that really what you think?”

She doesn’t answer for a long moment, fiddling with the straw of her own drink and watching me carefully. “Should I not?”

Based on everything, she probably should, and I hate that. I hate that in my attempts to get over her for more than a decade, I’ve also ruined any chances I could have had with her. She is not a dater . She’s had one long-term boyfriend after another for as long as I’ve known her. She dated the same guy throughout high school, and they only broke up because he went away to college. And then she was with someone else for a year and a half before they parted ways on good terms. There was one more person before Gus that I really thought was going to be the one, but when they broke up, she admitted to Holden and me that something never felt quite right between them, that as well as they got along, there was always something missing.

Meanwhile, I dated my way through this town and the next and the hordes of tourists that visit each year, hoping to find someone who would make me feel the way she does. And I burned every hope of a bridge between us in the meantime.

I don’t know how much I want to share with her, how much I can say without baring my entire heart and my deepest secret, so I finally say, “I’ve been looking, Finley, just like you.”

She blinks, takes a deep breath. Looks at me as if she has never seen me before. I feel laid bare, exposed, vulnerable.

I can’t look at her anymore, so I let my gaze trail out the window, the paper bag crinkling as I reach inside for more fries. She was right when she said the place is packed; it feels like the whole town is here. Yet we feel so utterly alone in the cab of my truck. Just Finley and me and this overbearing love for her that I don’t think I’m doing a good job of keeping hidden anymore.

You , I think. You. You. You.

The quiet is interrupted by the notes of some sad country song about looking for love crooning through the truck speakers. When I look back at her, she’s holding her cup out across the console to toast. She’s got a smile on her face, one that’s soft, understanding. Like she finally cracked open my chest and saw my deepest desires carved right there on my heart.

“We needed an anthem,” she says, and a laugh escapes me. “To finding the one of our dreams.”

I knock my Styrofoam cup with hers, the sound as hollow as I feel.

The sky is just beginning to lighten from deep, starry blue to the color of the ocean on a clear day when I show up at Holden’s the next morning, ready to run. I didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning, and when I finally did drift off, I woke up from a dream of Finley, just like all the others. But this morning felt different, more personal, more difficult to wake up from, after the conversation we had last night. For the first time, I think she sees me as more than her older brother’s playboy best friend. She peeled back one of my layers last night, and I’m terrified that she still won’t like what’s underneath. It has me feeling jittery and guarded and on edge.

Luckily, Holden is already all of those things. He’s quiet as he makes his way out of his house, pausing to stretch when he reaches me on the street. He eyes me questioningly when I don’t say anything. I usually talk enough to annoy him, and then he sets off at a brutal pace to shut me up. But this morning, I’m the one who tears off down the street the second he’s finished stretching, not making any conversation.

It feels good to run, to make my sides burn and my lungs ache. I’m tired of the constant gnawing sensation in my chest, the throbbing loneliness and jealousy when I see all the people around me finding what I want. I push myself harder, wanting to drown out the emotional pain with a physical one.

I hear Holden’s footsteps pounding on the asphalt behind mine, not quite keeping pace, but close enough for me to know he’s there. I need to run faster, to outpace my thoughts and my best friend, who is always able to see right through them.

Instead of turning toward town, I head in the opposite direction, toward the mountains. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep up like this, heading up the steep incline of the mountain roads, but I push myself anyway, thankful for the stinging behind my ribs, the soreness in my thighs.

It’s not until we’re surrounded by trees, the incline getting steeper, that my pace starts to flag. Until Holden catches up with me and passes me. We don’t usually run like this. We usually run side by side, occasionally making conversation but more often than not spending time in our own heads. But this run is different, and so I’m not surprised when Holden keeps going far past the time we would usually turn around, farther and farther up the hills.

I’m going to regret this run tomorrow, when I can’t walk, but I’m grateful for it today. It’s like I’m leaving all my messy thoughts and feelings back in town, and every step against the pavement takes me farther from them until my heart and mind finally start to feel clear, like clouds drifting out of the sky after the rain.

Holden makes a sharp turn off the road, disappearing down a path that weaves between the trees that I’ve never noticed before. It’s just big enough for a car, but I’m still surprised to see tire tracks in the hard dirt, deep grooves that must have been made on a rainy day, when the earth was damp.

I keep following him through the trees, and he’s far enough ahead now that I can’t see what he’s looking at when he comes to a stop. I’m panting when I reach him, but a gasp still rips out of me when I notice the view.

It’s an overlook. It’s like dozens of others lining this highway through the mountains, but this one is off the beaten path, tucked away from the eyes of prying tourists and visitors, like it’s a secret. And one I hope no one else discovers. It feels too special.

Holden is standing with his hands propped behind his head, right above the knot of his bun, breath heaving. His gaze slices in my direction. “You want to tell me what that was about?”

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

I don’t know how to tell him what’s bothering me. That it’s his sister , and I’m in love with her but she never even thinks of me.

“Is this about Finley?” he asks.

I push off where I’m bent over my knees, standing up straight. “Why would you say that?”

He stares at me for a long moment, eyes so similar to Finley’s that it feels like I’m right back in the cab of my truck, once again being dissected by a Blankenship, unable to hide my thoughts.

“I know there’s always been something…” His hand circles in the air like he’s looking for the words. “Something between you two.”

I blink at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

His expression flattens, like he’s said something obvious and he’s annoyed that I need him to repeat it. When in actuality, I think I’m going insane, hearing things he never said.

“You guys are always,” he pauses, “like, at each other’s throats. There’s all this sexual tension between you.” He says this like it pains him. Then his eyes sharpen on me, looking horrified. “You guys don’t fool around, do you?”

A laugh barks out of me, still breathless. “No, most definitely not.” At least not when I’m awake.

“But you want to.” He says this so matter-of-factly that the laugh dies in my throat, choked off.

I can feel heat creeping up my chest, into my cheeks, like a sunburn. I was hot and sweating before, but now everything inside me burns, the way it does when I’m putting out fires.

“It’s not like that,” I say, but I can tell by the look on his face that we both know this isn’t true.

Holden shrugs, dropping his arms to his sides, and turns to face the wide expanse of mountains before us. I’m surprised we ran far enough to end up wherever this is, at least five miles outside of town. Getting back is going to be a bitch now that all the heated adrenaline has seeped out of me.

Keeping his eyes on the view, sunrise now fully cresting over the mountains, Holden says, “You could, you know.”

I tear my gaze off the hazy purple, orange, and pink sky.

“If there was something between you two, I wouldn’t want you to hold back on my account. She’s thirty-one. She doesn’t need me to play protective older brother anymore.”

I wonder if he remembers that first summer he came back from college, when he caught me staring at Finley one too many times, noticing the way she didn’t look like his little sister anymore, but like her own full-grown person. I know he has to remember calling me out on it—that’s when Finley heard me calling her annoying, after all. Overcompensating so that Holden didn’t suspect my feelings. But I wonder if he’s noticed it all along, if he’s been watching for the better part of fifteen years, or if I convinced him that I wasn’t interested as well as I seem to have convinced her.

“There’s nothing between us,” I say, and it’s the truth, no matter how much it stings. “And even if there were, she’s as much a part of this town as the mountains.”

Holden’s gaze slices over to mine. “And you’re not?”

I never felt like I belonged in this town until I stepped in the Blankenship’s home my freshman year of high school, but I can’t bring myself to say that, to bare myself that completely. I’d hate leaving it, but I found my place here, and I’m sure I could do it somewhere new too.

“I’m good at not getting attached,” I say with a bitter smile.

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the side of my face, before he shakes his head and looks back at the view. “That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”

He’s right, but my throat is too thick to say so. My heart is still beating too fast from the run, and sweat is drying on my skin in the wind. Every part of me feels too wired, too frayed, too raw. So I stay silent, and thankfully, he doesn’t say anything for a long time.

We watch the sun fully crest over the mountains, blanketing the world in light, washing away my bad attitude. I feel like my soul has gone through the shredder.

Finally, when my feet are starting to go numb, my limbs aching with the waning adrenaline, Holden says, “I’m not running back. I’m too old for this.”

It makes a laugh crack out of my throat, echoing over the mountains. I think I see a faint twitch of his lips.

“I’m calling Wren and telling her to pick us up.”

“Oh, thank God,” I say. After he makes the call, I ask, “So how did you know this place was here?”

“It’s mine and Wren’s spot,” he says, and that soft look that seems to come over him any time he talks about Wren or June crops up on his face.

I give him a pointed look, raising my brows, feeling a smirk twitch on my lips. “Your spot for what?”

He rolls his eyes. “To look, jackass.” A pause, and then, “And occasionally that.”

I laugh, feeling lighter than I have in a long time, especially when my grumpy best friend even cracks a smile.

I’ll miss this if I go to Maine.