He should go home, he knew, but he didn’t feel like being alone, and he couldn’t leave things with Annajane like this. He got out of the Chevelle, squared his shoulders and approached the inset entranceway to her loft apartment. The real estate listing sign had a cheery SOLD! placard attached. He scowled at it and pressed the intercom buzzer. Once, twice, three times.

He looked up and down the street. It was deserted. Sunday night in Passcoe. You could have fired a cannon down the middle of the street and not hit anybody. He put his finger on the intercom buzzer and left it there.

“What?” Her voice sounded tinny, but unmistakably pissed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really. Can I come up? I really need to talk to you in person. To apologize.”

“No. Go away.”

“Annajane?”

Silence.

He leaned his back against the faded gray brick wall and considered his next move. He was feeling desperate, not an emotion he was used to, especially when it came to women. Come to think of it, the last time he’d felt this shitty, this desperate, was when Annajane left him for good.

Mason rang the intercom buzzer again.

Her voice came on. “What?”

“Please let me come up,” he said, enunciating each word. “Just let me apologize in person, and then I promise not to bother you again.”

“All right,” she said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”

*   *   *

She heard his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. He knocked once. Annajane unlocked the door and looked Mason straight in the eye. “You’re a pig,” she said stonily. “And for your information, no, I am not pregnant. Asshole.”

“You’re right, I am a pig,” he agreed. “A swine.”

He stepped inside the loft and looked around. “This is really nice,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’ve never been in one of these places.”

“Walk around. Enjoy the view. Because I’m outta here come Friday,” she said, trying her best to sound mean. Why was it so difficult to be mean to Mason, even when he was being such a monumental jerk?

“You told me you were all packed,” he said pointedly, gesturing around the decidedly not-packed-up room.

“I lied,” she said. “So sue me.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Whatever.”

“Here?” He pointed at the sofa, which was covered with stuff.

She moved a stack of books from the sofa and gestured for him to sit, but she stayed standing, arms crossed defiantly. What she needed now was a position of power. “You were saying?”

“I needed to tell you face-to-face. What I said to you was inexcusable,” Mason said, sounding miserable. “I’m sorry, Annajane. I don’t know why I’m being such an asshole, when all I really wanted to do was say I’m gonna miss you. And not just because you’re great at your job and I’m worried about what’s gonna happen at Quixie without you. Sophie and I are gonna miss you, Annajane.”

He looked up and gave her that dopey sad-dog look of his.

She returned his look with steely resolve not to get sucked into the charm that somehow managed to ooze from every pore of his body with absolutely no effort on his part.

“Thank you,” she said tartly. “I’m sure the company will survive without me. I hate the idea of not being around Sophie, but Pokey has promised to send me lots of pictures. Was there anything else?”

“Well, I did have an idea. But probably you don’t want to hear it now. Because I’m such a major dickhead and everything.”

Momentarily putting aside the need for power, she perched on the edge of the armchair opposite his. “I’m listening.”

“It’s a gorgeous evening,” Mason said. “I actually came over here to ask you to come out and go for a spin in the Chevelle with me. Would you even consider that? For old time’s sake?”

She felt her heart thudding in her chest. The memories came rolling over her like a tidal wave. The two of them, riding through the night in the fun car, top down, headed for the beach, back to their lake cottage, or even just to the Dairy Dog for soft-serve ice cream. Anywhere at all. Against her will, she felt the corners of her lips tilting into something like a smile.

“Annajane? Is that a yes?”

She sighed, and tried to force herself to think about reality. Those golden memories of hers were just that. Memories. Tricky and totally unreliable. They should be packed away like all the books and old clothes she’d bagged up for giveaway to the Goodwill. From now on, she was going to live in the here and the now. Right?

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“What would Celia think?” She deliberately avoided the question of what Shane might think.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t care.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

He stood up and walked over to look out the window onto the street. It was dusk, and the street lights were just winking to life.

“What is this about, exactly?” she asked, afraid to hear his answer.

“Does it have to be about anything? It’s a gorgeous night. We’re old, old friends. Can’t you just come out and go for a ride with me? Just for the hell of it. I swear I’ll be nice.”

Annajane felt herself caving. What would be the harm in going for a ride on a beautiful spring night with an old friend? Old lover. Old husband. Whatever. She looked down at herself. She was dressed in tattered jeans with the knees ripped out, an old oversized Atlanta Braves jersey, and a pair of red Chuck Taylor high-tops. Her hair was pulled back in a headband. “I’m not really dressed to go out.”

He turned and smiled. “You look fine. Great, actually. Do I recognize that jersey?”

She blushed. Why had she hung onto this ratty old shirt? In fact, it was his jersey, as he well knew. His lucky jersey, he’d called it.

The first spring after they’d gotten engaged they’d driven down to Atlanta for the Braves home opener. Mason bought her a sun visor and himself a jersey at the game, but their team had lost steam early, and by the seventh-inning stretch, with the Braves losing eight to zip, they’d left, returning to their cheap hotel not far from the stadium, telling themselves they’d watch the end of the game back in their room. It never happened. At his request, she’d modeled his jersey for him, doing a slow striptease while Mason did his own X-rated play by play of her performance. For the rest of that summer, she’d worn the jersey for him every time they made love. His lucky jersey had nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with sex.

She should burn the jersey.

Yeah. Right.

Mason obviously sensed her indecision.

He held up the car keys and jingled them tantalizingly. “I’m parked outside. C’mon, Annajane, for once, don’t overthink things. Let’s just go for a ride, can we?”

“What the hell,” she said finally. She had all week to pack. It was, as Mason had said, a gorgeous night out. She shoved her phone in her pocket, grabbed her keys, and walked right out the door, with Mason following closely on her heels. She closed and locked the door in a hurry, before she could, as he’d put it, overthink things.

*   *   *

Annajane swept a film of cobwebs from the dashboard. “Wow,” she said. “When was the last time you drove this thing?”

Mason turned off Main Street and onto Seventh, rolling past Willard’s Feed and Seed, the Family Dollar Store, and a couple of boarded-up storefronts.

Seeing the vacant buildings made him sad. He could remember the name of every single business on that street. His father traded at Passcoe Hardware, and his mother always bought their school shoes at Fashion Shoe Shop, which she’d said was a joke, because the owners had zero sense of fashion. Cline Drugs was still hanging in there, but the soda fountain at the back was closed, and the last time he’d been in the store, the shelves looked more like a museum than a functioning store. His family had made a point of doing business at those stores because the owners were neighbors and friends. Passcoe was hurting, just the way Quixie was hurting. He hated to think about what would happen if Quixie left town.