Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

  Samantha chuckled suddenly as the drunken pendulum of her emotions swung yet again. “But here’s to big dreams, little sister. Here’s to you!”

  There was a weak chorus of “Hear, hear” and “Cheers” from the few remaining guests.

  Jo forced a smile and made some joke that she couldn’t remember later, but that smoothed the mood a little—though everyone except Callum, Samantha, and Dave still left immediately. No quiet conversations into the late hours then. That was okay. She was suddenly wiped out anyway, the happy adrenalin she’d run on all night, drained.

  Dave grabbed the crock of apple cider she’d put down. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Oh, yeah. Totally. That’s just . . . Samantha.”

  “I’ll help clean up.”

  “No, no, it’ll take hours—”

  “I insist, m’lady.” Dave ducked his chin as he spoke, smiled in a way Jo figured other women would’ve found charming, and disappeared into kitchen.

  Separated from her by the table—and by something else, something growing bigger by the minute, though Jo still couldn’t comprehend what it was—Callum stood staring at her. Her eyes locked with his. She wanted to say something, but felt rebuffed by his blazing expression of what? Hurt? Anger?

  He placed his hand on Samantha’s shoulder. “Let me give you a ride home. I came with Dave. I can drive your car back for you.”

  “Really, you’d do that?” Samantha simpered. Jo was going to have fun harassing her about this—or maybe she wouldn’t joke about it. Maybe she’d try, again, to get her sister to see it was time to do something about her imbibing. Still, the night could’ve been much worse, given Samantha’s history—and then it was.

  Samantha moved forward, swaying unsteadily on those damned heels of hers. She reached out and clutched Callum’s arm, tittering. A flame of jealousy sparked through Jo with an intensity that shocked her. She’s just trying to keep her balance, she thought, but could only see Samantha’s pretty hand buried in Callum’s soft sweater.

  “You don’t need to go out of your way. Samantha can crash here.”

  “In one of the rooms with holes in the floor?” Callum asked, a glint of something sharp in his voice.

  Jo winced. What the hell was his problem?

  “You’re sooo sweet, Callum,” Samantha cooed. “Let me just skip to the lady’s room and freshen up.”

  Skip? Jo would pay to see her manage that. If Samantha didn’t fall on her face before the night was through, just trying to walk normally, Jo would eat her words.

  Samantha, completely belying the amount of alcohol she’d ingested and her recent bumbling, deftly—and sexily, Jo observed grumpily—slid her heels off one by one, picked them up by their ribbons, and yes, fairly skipped out of the room.

  Callum and Jo were alone.

  Something metal clanked against something else metal in the kitchen.

  The ticking of the clock on the wall, a noise that should disappear unless focused on, was deafening. Or was that the sound of her heartbeat? Was it that audible?

  This is stupid, Jo thought. She took a few tentative steps toward Callum, and he met her at the end of the table—the place he’d spontaneously taken her hand—what, a mere week ago, really?

  She was close enough to touch him, and she wanted to, how she wanted to! But their past, distant and recent, and his rigid posture, made her refrain. He tilted his head, studying her.

  He smelled of expensive aftershave, and though it smelled good, it was no vanilla and butter. Something in Jo’s stomach tightened—apprehension, not lust. There was something wrong. His nearness felt different than it ever had before.

  He ran his fingers lightly down the side of her face, tracing a line from her temple, over the slope of her cheekbone, across the hollow of her cheek—stopping by her mouth. His touch lingered for a moment and he leaned in. Jo was sure he was going to kiss her again. The tightness in her stomach relaxed into a warmth that tingled through her lower parts. Good grief, how she responded to him.

  For one stupid, stupid moment she dared to hope that she’d been wrong, was paranoid, that maybe everything was fine between them. She lifted her face.

  Then he whispered, “I should never have kissed you. And I wouldn’t have if I’d known you were seeing my best friend.”

  Wha—the word half formed in her mouth, but only a surprised sound escaped.

  “It’s a small town. Even if I didn’t know Dave personally, did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “But—”

  With impeccable timing as usual, Samantha called, “Callum, I’m ready,” and her footsteps, soft and confident, padded down the hallway.

  Callum, who’d pulled back at the sound of Samantha’s voice, bent near again. But Jo—whose heart, dammit, was beating more furiously than ever—wasn’t fooled this time. She stepped away.

  Increasing the distance between them didn’t protect her from his furious words, however.

  “You led me on,” he growled. “You shouldn’t have kissed me back.”

  Jo barely slept. The bed felt wrong. Her blankets were first too cold, then too hot. It was too dark. If she put on a light in the hall, it was too light. She made herself chamomile tea with milk—and then had to pee. Despite her tired muscles and absolutely-past-spent emotions, she couldn’t turn off her brain.

  Should she have confronted Callum then and there? His attack—okay, “attack” was a bit strong—but his misguided notion was so far off base that at first she’d struggled to understand what he was getting at. When she did realize what he was saying, Samantha was there, clamoring for help finding her jacket, and then Dave appeared on the scene, asking where she kept the dish soap—weird in and of itself because it was in plain view by the sink.

  Dave.

  He’d seemed hurt when she pushed him out the door the same time Callum and Samantha left.

  “I’m wiped, Dave. Thank you so much for all your help. I’m just going to do the rest tomorrow,” she lied—though not intentionally. At the time she hadn’t known she wouldn’t be able to sleep and would proceed to clean in a wild frenzy of irritation and nerves.

  She frowned and rolled over again as she recalled Dave’s parting words and his touch on her arm. “I had a great time tonight. I don’t want it to end. Do you want to finish it off with a night cap or something?”

  Callum scowled even more darkly at the suggestion. But his response wasn’t why she’d practically pushed Dave out the door, or was it? Would she have invited Dave to stay a bit and unwind with her? Probably, actually. It would’ve been fun to talk about the good parts of the night with someone, and might’ve lessoned the impact of the bad parts that threatened to overwhelm the fun memories. So all in all, maybe it was good that Callum had clued her in about Dave’s going public with his misinterpretation of their relationship—even if Callum was an idiot and asshole for the way he did it. She kicked herself for not heeding her suspicion in the coffee shop and dealing with Dave overtly, instead of trying to hint.

  And what emotion creased Callum’s forehead when Dave finally gave in and left—pleasure or confusion? And why did she care what it was? Stupid! She punched her pillow and folded it, then rested her cheek on the cooler side. Callum should’ve asked her directly if she was seeing Dave, not just assumed. He should’ve asked if she’d kissed him back—oh, crime of crimes!—when she was dating someone else. She had less than no desire to be with someone who jumped to conclusions. She didn’t have time to waste with someone who wasn’t upfront with himself or others.

  So about her and Callum and the tiny torch she’d been carrying for him again against her better judgment?

  “Consider it burned out, baby,” she mumbled. “Burned out.”

  She finally fell into a fitful sleep around four in the morning.

  Chapter 12

  On the eleventh call, Aisha got lucky. She said her piece, aiming for a casual, optimistic tone, striving to keep the futility she was starting to feel a
bout the process from leaking into her words.

  The woman’s voice on the other end of the connection was hesitant and wary, as if anticipating some sort of scam. “I don’t know . . . you might be looking for my second cousin. I heard she had a baby that she gave up for adoption. . . .”

  Aisha tried not to hyperventilate with anxiety or excitement she wasn’t sure which—and really they were pretty much the same thing, weren’t they? She paced, phone pressed so hard against her ear it kind of hurt, and gave the woman her birthday.

  The brief pause before the woman answered made Aisha feel somehow sure her details fit. “It’s possible, I guess,” came the reluctant affirmation.

  Don’t sound like a psycho; don’t sound like a psycho! Aisha commanded herself twice, then took a long steadying breath and put a smile into her voice. “Thank you so much for your help. I know it’s a long shot, but do you by any chance have a contact number for your cousin?”

  “Second cousin,” the woman corrected, making Aisha decide the two women weren’t close. She did provide a phone number though—and a possible address. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. It’s been a long time since our paths crossed—and she moves a lot.”

  Aisha scribbled the information onto a pink sticky note, then ended the call and sank shakily into the couch. She had a lead. Her first real lead.

  Chapter 13

  Samantha and Jo each got a large breakfast blend coffee at the Starbucks kiosk—and Samantha popped a couple of ibuprofen. Jo balanced her to-go cup carefully on the grocery cart, while she dug for a quarter to unchain the thing from the rest of the long line. Finally set, caffeine in hand, shopping cart ready for action, they made their way into the busy store. It was packed. Had everyone in town left their weekly shopping until Sunday afternoon? Jo sighed. Seemed like it. She slammed items into the metal buggy as loudly as she could. The canned tomatoes and tins of chickpeas clanked satisfactorily.

  “Do you mind, Jo, seriously?” Samantha moaned. “You’re killing me. My head feels like it was ran over by a small truck last night—then stuffed with gauze and glass splinters.”

  “Very descriptive, Samantha. And good. You deserve it.” Jo put the largest box of spinach spaghetti noodles she could find into the cart, gently this time. No point breaking perfectly good pasta because of her sister.

  “Okay, so I had a little too much to drink last night. Sue me.”

  Jo shook her head. “How about we call a truce? I’ll give you half the value of the property, not just a quarter—but lend it to me. I’ll buy you out in three years—for a way higher amount than you’ll receive if we sell now.”

  Samantha pressed her French-tipped fingers against her temples. “You’re persistent. I give you that.”

  Jo consulted her list and grabbed a jar of marinated artichoke hearts. “Anyway, I didn’t ask you to join me just to nag you some more about Uncle Ray’s.”

  “You didn’t? Well, too late.”

  Jo ignored the jibe. “Last night, before you became a slobbering idiot—”

  “Ouch, was I that bad?”

  Jo scrunched her face almost sympathetically. “No,” she finally said. “You were pretty bad, but I’ve definitely seen you worse.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Samantha laughed and didn’t wince; the painkiller and caffeine must’ve kicked in.

  “You should send Dave and Callum thank you cards. They headed you off before you really got going.”

  Samantha studied the label on a box of heat-and-serve mattar paneer, then tossed the package on top of Jo’s growing pile of groceries. “Did I mention the gap between the window and the wall?”

  “Yes.” Jo gritted her teeth.

  “And the holes in the floors?”

  “Yep.”

  “The issues with the roof?”

  “Uh, no—”

  “And what about the crazy ass bats in your belfry?”

  “What?—oh. Ha, ha, very funny.”

  “So consider yourself lucky.”

  Yeah, lucky, Jo thought as they turned into another aisle and Samantha picked up a jug of unsweetened cranberry juice.

  Jo stopped rolling the cart and fidgeted with her coffee cup. “Do you remember that guy I was madly in love with the two years I went to school here?”

  “Yeah, vaguely.”

  Jo reached for a box of oatmeal.

  “Oh, wait, don’t tell me, it was Dave? I didn’t realize you guys had a fling—but it’s more than obvious he still has a thing for you.”

  “No, not Dave. We were acquaintances, that’s it. And if he has a ‘thing’ for me now, it’s completely one-sided.” Jo regretted bringing the topic up at all. “Do you need anything else here? I’m ready to hit the produce section.”

  “No, I’m good, and don’t change the subject.” Samantha commandeered the cart and steered toward the fruits and vegetables.

  Jo trailed behind and didn’t say a word.

  “I told you the minute we laid eyes on Dave that he—” Samantha stopped moving so abruptly that Jo careened into her. The coffee she was holding sloshed, but thankfully didn’t splash Samantha. Jo would never have heard the end of it.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute! If not Dave, then who—Callum?” Samantha was so loud, several shoppers turned to stare.

  “Shhhh,” Jo hissed.

  “So it is Callum! Are you kidding me?” Samantha’s stage whisper was barely better than a yell. “Callum Archer was the big catch who slipped away and broke your heart?”

  “Don’t cheapen a fishing metaphor by sticking him into it.”

  “I can’t believe this. What stupid small town bullshit and dumbass luck. The lawyer I happen to pick is some guy you used to roll around in the hay with—and now you’re resuming your relationship?”

  “Would you forget about yourself and your plans for five minutes?” Jo paused by a bin of tomatoes. “And no, we’re not together, not even close.”

  She continued to browse, while filling Samantha in on the details of her and Callum’s reacquaintance. She didn’t entirely trust Samantha to be unbiased—but what could she do? She needed to talk to somebody.

  “So that’s it,” Jo finished with a shrug and a lame recap. “We had a great time, we ran into each other by accident a day later—he kissed me—then nothing. He surprised me at the river, was super sweet—then acted off. Then he attended the party with Dave and acted super off, like I’d betrayed him or like I’m with Dave or something. I don’t get it. What do you think?”

  Samantha plucked a red grape from the bunch Jo had selected, wiped it on her denim-clad leg, and popped it into her mouth. She didn’t comment until they were almost at the check out. “When you ask, ‘What do you think’ . . . do you mean in general about the two of you so far, or about whether I think his kiss meant anything—”

  “So you don’t think it meant anything? Shit, I knew it.”

  Samantha shrugged. “I’m sorry . . . and maybe it did, but maybe it was just a heat of the moment, spontaneous I-had-a-good-time-let’s-try-on-a-kiss-for-fun thing.”

  Jo twisted a strand of hair around her finger as they got into line. That was a possibility. She sighed. Was she the only old-fashioned fool left in the world, who still took a kiss to mean something, to mean a lot? It hadn’t felt like a casual kiss, but she’d be first to admit she was the furthest thing from knowledgeable on the subject these days.

  The line rolled forward and Samantha followed suit. She and Jo were shoulder-to-shoulder now, and she glanced at Jo sympathetically. “Or maybe it was for old time’s sake. You said it yourself, you guys were pretty hot and heavy back in the day.”

  Jo wanted to say, It wasn’t just about lust (Though there’d been plenty of that too, she admitted in her head)—we were going to get married, but the words and her belief in the truth of them, apparently even now from the way it stung to think about—were too embarrassing.

  “And maybe it just felt like more to you than it meant to him because of your past. All
your old emotions stirred—but his were untouched because they’ve been, as he proved back then, different than yours all along.”

  Jo nodded. Samantha with her typical razor-sharp astuteness cut through all the bullshit and emotional blah-blah-blah that always snagged Jo.

  They finally reached the counter and started putting their groceries onto the conveyor belt.

  “I’m sorry if that hurts, and I could be totally wrong. Maybe he felt everything you did—excitement about starting anew, trying again, this time as adults—but he just got scared.”

  “That’s kind, but I suspect you nailed the truth with one of your other guesses. Totally explains why he was being so weird. I was probably embarrassingly transparent and my instant doe-eyed interest freaked him out.”

  The cashier greeted them, and Jo ended the conversation with that thought. She was tired of talking about it anyway, and hated that a big part of her had hoped Samantha was going to say, “Are you kidding? He’s crazy about you,” and then use her considerable talent for cutting to the quick to show why that was true.

  “Still want to do lunch?” Samantha asked on their way out of the store. “I’ll buy.”

  “Sure, why not?” Jo shrugged. “Do you want to stash the bags in my truck, then walk somewhere?”

  They were almost at the small Indian restaurant they’d mutually agreed on, when Samantha broke into Jo’s glum thoughts. “You could always ask Dave.”

  “What do you mean? Ask Dave what?”

  “Well, you and Dave are friendly, right?’

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And he and Callum are good friends?”

  Jo walked up the concrete wheelchair ramp instead of taking the stairs and held the door open for Samantha. “Apparently.”

  “So ask Dave out right. Did he or did he not give Callum the idea that you and he—Dave, I mean—are a couple?”

  “Oh.” Jo stopped in the doorway. “Maybe that is what happened.”

  “Yes, maybe,” Samantha agreed, but then her voice took on a warning tone. “But regardless, my other suggestions are still plausible. I know you loved Callum once—but you were kids. You have no idea what kind of man he grew up to be.”