“Really? You didn’t? No idea? Have you heard nothing I’ve said for the past few weeks?”
“You’re right,” he conceded. “All the clues were there. Your mental health has been clearly wobbly for some time now. So now we have to undo this huge clusterfuck of a mistake we’ve made.”
I did appreciate him including himself in the clusterfuck, even though I knew a part of him was just vain enough to be miffed that his plan wasn’t going as swimmingly as he’d thought it would. It has to be said, some of his crazy day plans had turned out pretty well, if only because they really had been so unlike me.
So the guy wasn’t dumb. And he probably had better ideas than I did at this point about how to correct this catastrophe.
“So what do you want me to do?” I asked, thinking there was no way I could hit the road; I was still drunk, though less so. But having second thoughts and a headache didn’t mean a person was sober.
“Talk to Burke,” he said again. “Hammer it out and get over him once and for all. I’ve got to go, but I swear, Quinn, if I hear one more profanity-laced shriek from your direction…”
“You’re miles away from me right now.”
“Exactly. That’s how loud you were.”
I laughed. “Okay, point taken. I’ll let you know what happens.”
We hung up, and as soon as the connection was gone, so too was my conviction that he was right. Actually, maybe it wasn’t even my conviction that was gone. I definitely wanted to feel better about things than I did right now. It was just that, while a moment ago I’d felt like, Yes, I will call him and we will hash this out, now I was all, But what if he doesn’t want to talk to me again because I’ve been such an immature idiot?
He would certainly be within his rights to not want to talk to me again, particularly if he’d heard about my antics the day before.
But the bottom line was still the bottom line, and that was that I needed to clear things up with him. Actually—and, hey, maybe the fact that I came to this revelation proved that Glenn’s plan had been sound on some level—what I really needed was to come to peace with the past. Not keep being pissed off about it, or even more fired up because I’d found out it was true. I just couldn’t stand on that soapbox for long before it started to splinter under my own weight.
I’d done plenty of objectionable things myself. Maybe not to Burke but certainly since Burke. I’d done things I wouldn’t want my mother to know about. And she was the one who always taught me to live in a way that left nothing deliberately hidden—to never say anything to anyone, and especially to never write anything to anyone (like in an e-mail or on Facebook) that I wouldn’t want my grandmother or next-door neighbors to see. Because these days anyone and everyone could end up with access to communication you thought was private.
Admittedly, that lesson had come up with my mother when I’d written something about a teacher to Lincoln Stennet in third grade and he was a whiny little suck-up who showed it to the teacher and created this big situation where my parents had to come in for a conference and I had to pay penance by sitting in the Seat of Shame in the corner, five yards from the closest desk, for the rest of the month.
And all I’d written was that her breath smelled like old people, and it did. It was horrible to stand in front of her, especially if you’d done something wrong enough to warrant a lecture or you needed a long explanation for a math formula. That didn’t get me a pass, of course, I was still in trouble. But the lesson was well worth the punishment because not only did I learn you couldn’t trust that weasel Lincoln Stennet, obviously, but also that once you put something out there you’re never entirely safe from it.
Lincoln went on to major in corrections, by the way, and is now the warden at the Lorton prison in Northern Virginia, so I guess his character was set up from the beginning.
The longer I sat there, thinking about my nefarious elementary school past and all the other things that had nothing to do with solving my problems in the present, the more uncomfortable I became. Because I knew what I needed to do, and ignoring it—denying it—wasn’t going to make it go away. It was going to just feed the discomfort and make it worse.
I knew what I had to do.
So, not without a lot of apprehension, I took out my phone and dialed.
It rang so many times I thought he wasn’t going to answer, and a part of me was relieved. I tried, it said. This must be a sign.
But then he did answer, right when I was sure it wasn’t going to happen.
And that voice—wow, how that voice could still get to me. I can’t even describe it. “Deep” sounds so Jim Nabors, and it wasn’t operatic like that at all. Just very masculine, with the slightest rasp of boyishness on the edge.
“Hi,” I said uncertainly. God knows if he’d heard anything about my behavior.
Bad idea, I thought suddenly, painfully aware of my headache. This was a stupid idea.
“Hi,” he said back, in an equally questioning tone.
Which could have meant anything or nothing.
Including that he didn’t know who the hell I was.
“It’s Quinn,” I clarified.
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay. Well. I’m sorry to bother you so late.” I looked at my clock. It was 7:48. Those weren’t streetlights outside, it was twilight. “But…” I was suddenly at a loss for words. But what? I had no right to ask him for anything. “I was wondering if maybe you could come over to the shop? And talk?”
There was a long silence.
So long I thought he’d hung up.
Then he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath waiting for his answer. “Oh. O-okay.”
He exhaled. “I don’t mean to be hurtful, I just think we’ve said everything we can say. If we push that now, someone’s just liable to get hurt.”
Someone was already hurt, and he knew it. That was what this was all about. He just didn’t want the liability for it anymore.
And I didn’t blame him.
“It’s probably best just to leave well enough alone,” I said, as if I agreed.
“Right.”
“So … I’ll see you at the wedding, then.” This time I’ll see you at the wedding.
This time, since it’s not ours.
“It’s just a week or so away,” I added, sensing, in the silence, that he was thinking of something else as well.
“Oh. Yes, I guess I will see you there.”
“Assuming you don’t stop it, since that’s what you guys like to do, stop weddings, break dreams,” I said, intending it as a joke but hearing its idiocy in real time, right along with Burke. God, what was wrong with me? Could I just push every bruise? Touch every nerve? Make sure no wound went unsalted? “I mean, god, I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he said.
“Honestly, I was kidding, I just … wasn’t thinking.”
All it took was for Burke to do something slightly unpredictable—saying no when I really hoped for a yes—and I was completely rattled.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I understand.”
“I hope so. I really didn’t mean to be insulting.”
“I’ll see you at Dottie’s wedding, Quinn,” he said pointedly. And only then.
I nodded, even though we were on the phone and he obviously couldn’t see me. “See you then.”
Chapter 24
I spent the next week trying to get used to my new reality, which was that my old reality was still exactly the same but now it was clouded by the knowledge that it was the same because I had doggedly remained the same, or at least kept my life so routine as to not really be able to distinguish one week from another in memory. In some cases, even the years were the same—I couldn’t remember whether an event had occurred five years ago or seven, because the surrounding scenery in my mind was unchanged.
I can’t say that Glenn’s “days” didn’t help. Certain
ly they had brought this truth into sharp focus for me. Of course, some days were better than others. Bikram yoga class had been interesting, and it was conveniently timed to allow me to sweat off five pounds of champagne from Day Drunk Day. Also, it effectively kept me in the back room finishing Dottie’s dress the next day, nursing a hangover, while Becca dealt with the customers and just tried not to laugh at me every time I had to communicate with her.
No Caffeine Day was exhausting. Ask a Stranger for Directions but Pretend You Think You’re in North Carolina Day was, I thought, covered by that stupid Improv Acting Class Day. Amish Day, when I used no modern conveniences except those that I absolutely couldn’t avoid, made me laugh, and allowed me to get a lot of needlework done.
And I straight up refused to do Kiss a Stranger on the Cheek Day, and Glenn reluctantly agreed, persuaded by my argument that it was the kind of thing that could get a person arrested.
Two days before Dottie’s wedding, a slight young woman with glossy dark hair, an exotic almond shape to her eyes, and deeply tanned skin came in and asked if I used Bell and Gardener threads.
“Yes…,” I said slowly, surprised. No one had ever come in here demanding a particular thread manufacturer for a dress.
She looked relieved. “Do you have any Ivory number four that I can borrow?”
This made no sense. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“I’m sorry, I work across the street”—she flung her arm toward the door—“and I’m making a dress that has to be ready in an hour and I ran out of thread because it got tangled in the bobbin.” She shrugged helplessly.
Taney.
“Are you Taney?” I asked, trying not to look as if I were asking a movie star for her real identity.
She looked surprised that I knew her name. “Yes.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” I said, perhaps a little too bold. “You like making dresses?”
“Oh, yes.” Her face lit up, completely innocent. “That is my passion.” There was a long hesitation before she added, “But…”
“You know that’s what we do here, right?”
She nodded. “That’s why I thought you might have the thread.” She looked around the shop with a smile. “I thought surely a place as fine and beautiful as this uses the best products.”
That threw me off. “Thank you,” I said uncertainly, and suddenly I didn’t know whether to give her the thread or not. I didn’t want to help her employer, but she was obviously the one who would take it on the chin if she “failed” to deliver on time. “I’ll get the thread,” I decided. It wasn’t like I didn’t have enough. I used it all the time.
I went in the back and got it, then handed it to her, holding her gaze for a moment as she took it. “Taney, do you enjoy working there?” I nodded toward her shop.
She looked down. “Yes, of course.” But I knew she didn’t mean it. “They have been very good to me.”
What could I say? Nothing. Just the small, meaningless pleasantry of, “Good luck finishing the dress on time.”
* * *
Which took me to Tell Someone Three Truths You’ve Never Told Before and One Lie Day.
The magnitude of both the truths and the lie hadn’t been outlined, so I thought this would be easy, but I also recognized it as a potentially valuable breakthrough point. And even though all day I pretended to myself that I was trying to think of who I would choose to be the recipient of these revelations, I knew what I was going to do. Or at least what I was going to try to do.
Turned out I didn’t even need to call him; he came to me, showing up magically and unexpectedly, the Brigadoon of men.
It was half an hour past closing time, and I almost didn’t notice him out in the dark and did a double take that must have looked sitcom-like from the outside, with me inside under the lights.
He was leaning against his car out front, facing the shop. I opened the door and stood in the doorway, looking at him. “What are you doing, Frank?”
“Stalking.”
“Any reason?”
He shrugged. “Came to make sure you’re all right, since the talk of the town is you’ve popped your clutch. Apparently concern about that is another formula for an otherwise normal person to turn into a creeper.”
I had to smile. “It can happen.” Truth. Prior to Glenn’s insane plan, I’d never been one before, and I didn’t know if Frank knew about that, but I decided it was best not to acknowledge it. Just in case.
“I know it.”
“Want to come in?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Are you going to come in anyway?”
He heaved himself off the car and came toward me. “Can’t see as I have much of a choice.”
“No one’s forcing you.”
“Trust me, I’ve got no choice.”
I locked the door behind him and asked, “Can I offer you anything? There’s about half an ounce of orange juice and a pretty old leftover salad from Barker’s Grill in the fridge.” Truth. Lame, but true. And I wouldn’t normally tell anyone I had gross old food in the fridge because I kept forgetting to take it out on trash night and I couldn’t let it sit around in a trash bag inside before then.
“Tempting, but no, thanks.”
I turned down the lights, but the alarm system had a default that always kept the place dimly lit so that no one would feel free to break in and feel his way around in the dark, taking stuff until the police arrived. Which, in our town, wasn’t always all that fast. In some ways, Mayberry was alive and well.
“Let’s go in the back anyway,” I suggested.
He followed me back and I closed the door behind us.
It was no bedroom back there, with bolts and bolts of fabrics and supplies and unopened stock boxes, but because we also worked in the back, there was a comfortable sitting area with a long plush sofa, a couple of easy chairs, and a TV.
But we didn’t get that far before I turned to him and said, “I’m sorry I’ve always let you down.”
He laughed, clearly surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“You were always nice to me and I always let you comfort me and fix me and I never gave anything worthwhile back to you. I don’t know why you’re nice to me at all.”
“Because I love you, Quinn.”
This time I was the one who was surprised. “What?”
“You heard me. I’m not waxing rhapsodic about it, not hitting my knees and begging you to hand me a crumb. I don’t want crumbs. I’d rather starve.”
“I’m not offering crumbs, but still, I don’t blame you.”
He quirked a smile. “Good.”
There were no words beyond that. Because there was nothing else to say. And there was definitely nothing else to do.
So how it happened that one minute we were making noise about all the nothing we had between us and the next his mouth was on mine and I was clutching his shoulders and pulling him closer, I don’t know.
The urgency was immediate.
Ten minutes ago, I’d been the person I’d grown very familiar with being; practical, carrying on, a little limp maybe, but without dramatic ups and down. Now the man whose betrayal had been creeping around the back of my mind was nowhere, and here was Frank. His tongue was in my mouth, and I was parting my lips to bring him deeper but feeling like he could never get deep enough. I could not get close enough, I needed to be him in order to feel close enough. This wasn’t the act of friends, not old friends, not new friends, not any sort of generic comrades. To anyone else in the world, we would have looked like lovers at an eagerly anticipated romantic reunion.
The soldier back from a long hardship deployment, maybe.
And that’s what it felt like. It had been a decade since our two hot nights, and clearly neither of us had forgotten, and that amped up the urgency tenfold.
For all its wild inappropriateness—and there was no question that this kiss was wildly inappropriate, given everything between us that was too messy to over
come—it felt exactly right.
Every time our lips touched, I remembered his taste, and a single kiss brought back those nights I thought I’d all but forgotten. It was like having a favorite ice cream again or something. A flavor nearly forgotten but immediately remembered and loved.
The same was true of the smell of his skin. I am cursed with an unusually good sense of smell; if I weren’t doing what I was doing for a living, I probably could have been a “nose” for one of the finest perfumers in Paris, and I could smell the soap on his skin, but also the him underneath the soap, and it wrapped me in a sense of peace and well-being. It was only the familiarity, I tried to reason; though our time together had been brief, he reminded me of running away from pain and feeling safe in the arms of a strong man. But it was more than that. I could feel it.
So much more that it scared me. Because there was no halfway with this man. No push-and-pull, no games. However nice he’d once been—and however nice he really still was—Frank Morrison was no boy, and he was not playing games.
So I was on a cliff.
“Stop,” I said feebly against his mouth.
He slid his hands around my rib cage. “I don’t want to.”
“I do.” I kissed him again.
“Do you really want me to?”
“You were never able to read me.”
“Bullshit. I know you better than you know yourself. You just never allowed yourself to see that, when you were wrapped up in that other situation.”
That other situation.
Burke.
How could it be that Burke suddenly had no pull on me? That thinking his name or picturing his face didn’t matter in the heat of this moment?
In a way, that was a relief.
For a long moment, we just kissed some more. I couldn’t stop. It was crazy. I loved it and hated myself for loving it and giving in to it. Even though it was ridiculous for a grown woman to have so little self-control as to be pining in different ways for two different men.
Right now, though?
Chose the Wrong Guy, Gave Him the Wrong Finger Page 25