The first few nights here were great, like an LA detox. I was satisfied letting the last few loose threads of my old life fall away in the balmy air, but now I need some companionship. I’d bother Edith, but she’s out with friends. She has more of those than I do even though she’s 104. Meanwhile, I’m here, alone, pretending to do yoga—which, by the way, is extremely difficult to do considering I have no yoga mat. Not only are there a few gaps in the floorboards, there are splinters too. It’s hard enough convincing myself to work out on a Friday night without having to worry about being impaled by a jagged piece of timber.
So, yes, I’m very eager to run out and become a third wheel on their date, but then I remind myself that they probably want their alone time. Christine drove in to visit him, and more than likely they’re going to head up to Jack’s room and have wild, haven’t-seen-you-in-weeks sex. Oh god, what if I can hear them? I don’t even have a TV or radio I can blast to drown it out. I’ll have to sing hymns to myself. Oh please no.
I’m still in the middle of yoga, wondering if it’s worth risking another drive in the clunker-mobile just to escape the imminent sounds of sweaty copulation, when I catch their voices and realize something is off. They aren’t laughing and teasing. They just sound…sad.
For the record, I want to be a good person. I want to close the windows and let them argue privately, but it’s hot, and I’m bored, and as long as I angle myself against the side of the window just so and keep most of my face hidden, they should never even realize I’m here. I feel like a child with one eye open, watching TV during naptime.
I spot Christine as she steps out of his truck and shakes her head.
“God, this is the weirdest breakup ever,” she says. “We’re supposed to be shouting at one another.”
Say whaa?
And then Jack says, “I’ve never shouted at you.”
My mouth drops open. Is that a joke? How is that possible?! I’ve been here a week and he’s shouted at me so much I’m not even sure he can speak at a socially acceptable volume.
She dabs at her eyes, wiping away tears, and Jack pulls her into a hug.
Oh wow, this is sad. I lean forward. Poor, poor Christine. I wish I had binoculars.
It’s such an awkward exchange, and still, I can’t look away. Mostly, I’m amazed at how gentle he’s being with her. He’s rubbing her hair! It’s like the moment you bump into your teacher at the grocery store—all of a sudden, he seems like a normal guy.
After a little more back and forth I can’t really hear—I think it’s boring logistics about the breakup—they hug again and then he opens her door for her. I have never in my life witnessed such maturity, such restraint! They’re smiling, for crying out loud! Christine is laughing, and Jack makes her promise she’ll text him when she gets home safe! This must be one of those “truly mutual” breakups I’ve only heard about in books. I wouldn’t know how that feels. I left my husband in the middle of the night and didn’t even have the sense to pack two pair of underwear. Compared to them, I’m a petulant child running from her problems.
Christine drives off after that and then Jack stands outside of his farmhouse, momentarily frozen. I have no clue what he’s thinking. I have no clue if he initiated the split or if he was just dumped out of the blue. All I know is that in this moment, my heart goes out to him. I stand by the window watching him for a few seconds, waiting to see what he’ll do. Then, without thinking of the consequences, I decide I’m going to go make sure he’s okay. I was just talking to myself about how I needed to make some friends, and consolation is what friends do best!
I change into my jeans and the white blouse I haven’t worn since first arriving on the farm. I check my reflection in the mirror over the sink and am pleasantly surprised by what I find. My tan skin is even and slightly flushed from yoga, my hair is up in a high ponytail, and a few wispies soften the look. I check my teeth: straight, white, and mostly free of the food I had for dinner. I could probably use some mascara or something, but there’s no way I’m dolling myself up just to go check on Jack.
I turn, heart racing. I have no clue what I’ll say when I see him. Do I act oblivious about his breakup? Or do I cut to the chase, admit I heard it all, and offer my condolences? It’s not like it really matters what I decide to say—chances are, I won’t even have time to get any words out before he storms off and slams the door in my face.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans then head outside, surprised by the little pep in my step. The world always seems so much more pleasant after spending time in the shack. I’m excited to see Jack, and maybe he’ll actually be friendly for once. I glance to the spot where he was frozen a few minutes ago, but he isn’t there anymore. Then I hear gravel pinging off metal and jerk my gaze in the direction of the main road. He’s in his truck, heading back down the gravel drive. His red tail lights fade in the distance, and then he’s gone.
Shit.
I wonder if he’s going after her. Maybe. At the very least, he’s leaving here. He probably has other places to be on a Friday night, a local drinking hole or something. I am back to square one, alone and bored, and worse, I am now fully dressed. Thank God I didn’t fuss with my hair or do my makeup.
I laugh it off and look around, cheeks burning. It’s one thing to know I almost put myself out there, quite another to do it in front of anyone else. My gaze snags on a cow standing near the pasture fence, staring at me, probably embarrassed to be near me.
“No worries! I didn’t really want to talk to him anyway!” I shout over to it. “False alarm.”
It doesn’t move, just keeps slowly munching on some grass, judging me.
“Oh, because your Friday night is so much better. Pfff. Yeah, okay,” I taunt.
The cow turns then and walks away, as if it, too, cannot wait to get away from me.
“Good talk!”
Okay, now I’m just shouting into the void. No one, not even the cow, is listening.
Get a grip, Meredith!
I march right back into the shack and lock the door. Good. This is better—a night of no distractions. I have a ton to do. I need to roll up my pretend yoga mat and fold that t-shirt over there. Really, it’ll take me all night to decide if I like the twin bed where it is or if maybe I want to switch it up. I could put the bed against that wall, or that wall, or that wall. The possibilities are endless. Phew. Honestly, I’m booked. If that cow could see me now.
* * *
Thank God I made plans with Edith for Saturday morning. We’re going into town to shop at a thrift store, and then she’s going to take me to her favorite lunch spot. I’m so excited, I’m ready and waiting for her out in front of the farmhouse fifteen minutes before we’re due to leave. I spent all morning getting ready as if we were going to the Oscars. I showered and gave myself a blowout with the Cold War-era blow dryer Edith lent me (I needed a break from the ponytails) then I applied a little bit of makeup from the bag I had stashed in my purse for on-the-go touchups.
I put my jeans and white blouse back on since no one saw me in the outfit last night (cow not included), and then I slip on the loafers I’ve been avoiding for the last week. Thankfully, my blisters have morphed into calluses. In the end, I look nearly like I used to back in California: poised and polished. Who cares that I’m wearing the only outfit I actually own, or that I put it on in a dingy shack? By the time I get back from the thrift store, I’ll have a few more options for clothing, and hopefully a few things to soften this place up.
I have all of my cash on me, safely stashed in my wallet. I don’t plan on spending all $500, instead capping today’s purchases at $75. A week ago, I wouldn’t have blinked at spending that amount. Now, it makes my stomach ache. It’s nearly one-fifth of my entire savings. Too bad I really don’t have a choice. I need some more clothes, and while Edith’s sneakers have worked so far, I need a pair that actually fit.
The rest of the cash is going straight to the bank. I’m opening up my own account today—one Andrew has n
o claim to. $425 might not be much, but it’s better than nothing, and more importantly, it’s all mine.
The farmhouse’s screen door swings open and I glance up with a smile, expecting to see Edith. Jack strolls out instead. He has a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a to-go cup in the other. I’m surprised to see he’s still wearing his pajamas: loose gray sweats and a white cotton t-shirt. Usually by this time, he’s already been working for a few hours, and this weekend version of my boss is an intriguing sight. His hair is slightly rumpled. His expression is soft, almost as if the effects of sleep haven’t totally worn off yet. He almost looks sweet, but I know better.
He stands there, squinting to keep the morning sun from blinding him while he surveys me.
I check for signs of a broken heart: puffy eyes, downcast gaze, slumped posture.
I see chiseled features, broad shoulders, and a face that looks well rested and tan. He looks like he’s never slept better.
“Edith told me to get you coffee,” he says by way of greeting.
Oh. I was planning on getting some in town, but now that I think about it, that’s not really an option. A $5 cup of joe is now a luxury, not a necessity.
I meet him halfway and reach for the to-go cup.
“That was nice of you,” I say, holding it up in thanks. Even if it was Edith’s idea, it was still a nice gesture.
He shrugs and brushes me off. “Probably put too much creamer in.”
The coffee is the exact shade of light brown that I prefer.
“Looks good. I can’t even tell you spit in it,” I tease.
“Your hair looks different.”
I jerk my gaze back up to find him staring down at me with a confused expression. His head is tipped to the side, and from this angle, the morning light is sparkling in his eyes so they look more golden than brown. I’ve seen that exact shade once before, on a lion at the San Diego zoo. He had his face pressed right up to the viewing glass and I forced myself not to look away. Looking at Jack from this perspective feels eerily similar.
“Did you cut it?” he asks.
I resist a smile. “No, I’m just wearing it down for a change. I finally had time to style it this morning.”
“Oh.” He nods and averts his gaze, turning toward the pasture and sipping his coffee. It’s probably the closest thing to a compliment I’ll ever get from Jack. “Been meaning to get mine cut.”
“I think it’d look good a little shorter.”
He takes another sip of coffee, and I catch myself staring at his profile…not just staring at it, totally transfixed. It’s the strong jawline and the scruff—he’s a type of handsome I’m not quite used to. Andrew was good-looking in a pretty way. Jack’s sort of handsome makes my stomach twist tight and my hands get a little clammy. He notices me staring out of the corner of his eye and I jerk my gaze away quickly, narrowing my attention on a meadow in the distance. Yup, flowers—thought that was what those were.
Edith—bless her heart (as she’s taught me to say)—chooses that moment to join us outside. She pushes open the screen door with Alfred hot on her heels. The golden retriever gets one look at me and bounds down the stairs for a greeting. Oh god, I’m about to be trampled to death. Goodbye, cruel world. I brace myself, holding the to-go cup out in front of me to keep hot coffee from spilling all over my white blouse, and then I pinch my eyes closed, thinking it’s best not to look death straight in the eye.
Jack must foresee the incident a moment before it happens, because he emits a loud, sharp whistle. I peek just as Alfred’s attention jerks to him and in a flash, he sits and stays, happy to obey his owner.
“Good boy,” Jack says, patting his head.
Damn. “I really need to learn how to do that whistle.”
“Jack, please tell me you’re going to get a haircut today,” Edith interrupts with a disdainful shake of her head. “You look like a damn hipster.”
Hipster? Edith is full of surprises.
“Plannin’ on it,” he says as she waves me over to her truck.
“Let’s go,” Edith says briskly. “If we don’t get there early, the thrift store’ll be overtaken with old biddies, and we still need to stop by the bank on the way.”
Edith seems to be oblivious to the fact that she is technically a biddy herself, but I sure as hell don’t point that fact out to her. I just keep my lips zipped and dutifully hop into the passenger side of her truck. Jack waves us off from the porch before he pats his thigh to summon Alfred and they both turn back for the house.
We stop at the bank and somehow turn a task that should take 20 minutes into an hour-long affair. Edith knows everyone. Every employee inside the branch stops to chat with her, which inevitably leads to an introduction with me, “Helen’s little sister”. As a newcomer in a small town, they want to know it all: where I’m from, why I’m here, blood type, SAT score. I get it, and while I’m careful to sidestep their personal questions, I’m still happy to chat. I’ve had very little in the way of human interaction for the last few days, so I will happily accept the company of Lisa, the rambling teller, and Dotty, the elderly manager, with their bouffant hair and southern accents and nosy niceties. By the time we leave, I feel like I’ve made a whole group of new friends. This must be what it feels like to have a girl squad.
When we arrive at the thrift store, I expect the same kind of greeting, but other than the short white-haired man with the coke-bottle glasses behind the counter, we have the place to ourselves, and boy, do I clean up. I was expecting California prices, but these tags have me feeling like I can walk out and buy a Coke for a nickel.
“EDITH! THESE SHORTS ARE FIVE DOLLARS!”
She yanks them down from where I’m hoisting them over my head, looks at the fabric, and shakes her head. “We can talk him down to three.”
Am I dreaming? How is everything so cheap?!
I find a few fitted t-shirts I can wear while working and snag two pairs of denim shorts. I even toss in some pajama shorts and two sundresses, one of which is a little fancy. I have zero places to wear a dress like that, but it’s too pretty to leave on the rack. After that, I stumble into a section of the store filled with bras and unopened packages of underwear, and I’m shaking with excitement. Sure, they’re Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities, but the entire pack costs $3.50, and if I buy them, I won’t have to wash the same freaking pair over and over again.
I basically acquire an entire wardrobe for $18.25, and then we head to the back corner where home goods and knickknacks are piled up, one on top of another.
I crack my knuckles, accepting the challenge. By this point, I am a scary good negotiator.
“Hey Robert! Robbie! There’s a little stain on the corner of this rug. I’ll take it off your hands for $5!”
Between you and me, the stain is minimal and nothing I can’t scrub out once I get home.
“How bad is it?” he hollers back, too lazy to get up from behind the counter.
“I think it’s blood! It’s probably evidence from some horrible crime—”
“Fine! I’ll give ya half off.”
I turn to Edith, eyes wide. “Edith,” I hiss. “That’s six bucks!”
I add the blue Moroccan-style rug to my growing pile of purchases, along with a little antique lamp and a worn wooden stool I want to use as a bedside table. It looks artfully distressed, which makes me laugh. I know people back in Beverly Hills who pay interior designers thousands of dollars for furniture like the stuff I’m finding in this hole-in-the-wall shop.
When I happen upon an antique mirror that looks straight out of an Anthropologie catalogue, I bring out the big guns. It was originally marked at $25, and I wear Robert down to $10 (“Think of it as a new-in-town discount!”). Edith throws me a conspiratorial thumbs-up, and I decide to call it a day. I feel like I’m basically robbing the place at this point. Besides, the cute picture frames (4 for $1) we pass on the way to the register aren’t necessary. Edith tries to convince me to get them, but I tell her we have
enough stuff as is. In reality, I’m just too embarrassed to tell her I have no one I’d want to fill them with. My parents? Hard pass. A ripped-down-the-middle photo from my wedding? Yeah, I’m good. I seriously consider just keeping the generic stock photo of a family enjoying a beach day. It’s tempting, but too sad even for me. Plus, the kid’s eyes follow me wherever I move—no thanks.
We load up my purchases in the truck and then I hop in, ready for lunch.
“What are you doing?” Edith asks, standing out on the sidewalk with her hands on her hips.
I pause in buckling my seatbelt. “Aren’t we going to eat now?”
We better be. All that deal-making really worked up my appetite.
“Yeah”—she points across the street—“the diner’s right over there.”
I chuckle and hop out of the truck. Small towns, man. It’s crazy. Every place we’ve gone to this morning has been located in the town square—a sight I haven’t really admired until now. It’s another adorable movie set, just like the ranch. There’s no other way to describe how old-world and quaint everything is. The buildings are historic and stately, but they’re filled with antique shops and clothing stores, a bakery, a coffee shop, a dentist, and a handful of boutiques that are probably more hobbies than businesses. I spot an independent bookstore and make a mental note to stop there after lunch. We pass a bustling restaurant, but Edith shakes her head.
“Love that bistro—best chicken salad in town—but I’m in the mood for something greasy.”
We continue around the square toward the diner, passing a gourmet cookware store and a wine tasting room. People are everywhere, strolling through the shops and enjoying the late-morning weather before the blazing sun hits full force. Quite a few of them are gathered in the center of the square, where a well-manicured park surrounds a gleaming limestone courthouse. There are kites in the air and adorable children running around giggling. Parents are smiling. In one corner of the park, beneath a shady oak tree, an ice cream vendor sells chocolate-dipped cones as fast as he can make them. It’s all so cute, it feels slightly like the start of a thriller. Any minute now, we’ll all look up to the sky as a meteor or UFO spells our doom, or a horde of zombies will rush in and start gnawing through cowboy boots.
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