Wedding Bands

by Ev Bishop

  The oven’s timer beeped and he opened the glass door. Garlicky tomato sauce and the aroma of melted cheese, onion, and spicy meats and shrimp made his mouth water. Weird. He was even going to be able to eat now. And he arrived at another conclusion, too.

  Jo wasn’t like Nina. She just wasn’t. No way. Callum pulled the pizza out, and let it rest before slicing it into fat wedges. Dave was out to lunch. If Jo was like Nina, thinking of her would not calm him down. Even if he was an idiot, he refused to believe his subconscious would be tricked.

  “What are you doing in here, bro?” Brian hollered from the doorway.

  Callum jumped. “Making you knuckleheads food.”

  Brian held up his hands. “Whoa, okay. Don’t shoot.” He disappeared again, and Callum grabbed napkins.

  Who knew what Dave had actually said when he talked to Jo—and whatever it was, it probably came out wrong. Besides, like he’d just been contemplating, they didn’t know each other very well anymore. Jo could’ve meant her comments, cold as they sounded, merely as practical truth. They had been dumb, or he’d been anyway.

  He arrived at another decision, and it made him smile. So what if he was starting at a lower rank in her heart than she already had in his? He’d known that was the case forever, ever since she’d ignored his letter asking her to wait for him all those years ago. But she was back. And she hadn’t seemed completely closed off to him when they reconnected. Maybe she exaggerated her disinterest to Dave, feeling odd about him bringing it up like they were kids in school. It was okay that she wasn’t smitten. He was up for the challenge.

  Feeling a lot better about the night, he grabbed the platter of pizza and hollered at Dave to come carry the plates.

  “What are you, my wife?” Dave grumbled.

  “You wish you had a wife, loser,” Callum said.

  “Like you don’t.”

  “I don’t just a want ‘a’ wife, no.”

  Brian, who’d piled into the room along with Dave, stopped mid-step to the counter. “You have someone specific in mind?”

  Callum grinned. “Maybe.”

  “Who, you old dog?”

  “A gentleman never tells. Grab the chili pepper flakes, will you?”

  “Dude, really? You’re not going to tell?”

  “The game’s started, man. Hurry up,” Dave called over his shoulder as he left the kitchen, plates in hand, and Callum realized that yes, it really had. Indeed. And round one would involve two things. First, him manning up and doing his own talking. Second, determining, once and for all, what kind of person Josephine Kendall had grown up to be. And he wasn’t going to lie. He couldn’t wait to put time into finding out.

  Chapter 16

  Jo studied the final bedroom with a critical eye and sighed. This was the room she’d used the random summers and two marvelous school years she’d lived with her uncle. It was unbelievable how much it had declined in the time since. But maybe her standards were lower then—or maybe, so desperate to have a home life of any kind, holes were a small price to pay. Samantha hadn’t been lying. Gaps around the ancient single-paned window showed daylight, and today—Happy Winter!—a windrow of powdered snow lined the baseboard. She had hoped the snow would hold off until December, but no such luck.

  She shook her head. Yep, this room was absolutely the worst of the lot, but the others weren’t much better. Samantha was right again. No one could stay in the place as it was. Hard work, applying order to the chaos, and the kind, forgiving glow of soft lighting had gotten the living room and kitchen to a lovely state, as the guests at the dinner party would attest. And the room Jo slept in was fine, not spectacular, but closed to the elements, at least—as was the one Uncle Ray had always used. But the rest of the place? The more she got a handle on Ray’s copious piles of stuff, sorting and selling and hauling it away to the dump or Goodwill, the less easy it was to ignore problem areas. The ramshackle state of the house became more and more obvious.

  Her and Samantha’s attempt to be civil and get along, despite their opposing goals, continued to be contrived and fumbling, but it was no wonder Samantha gave her whole-hearted blessing and permission to remove the junk. It only furthered her cause. It didn’t necessarily get Jo closer to her goal of a bed-and-breakfast, but it did get Samantha closer to hers: a saleable property.

  Jo grabbed the notebook she used to jot down things that needed done and approximate costs. What she needed was a partner, though she couldn’t believe she was even considering that route again. But it would be different this time—a formal business arrangement, with a written up contract and crystal clear black and white terms. And maybe “partner” was the wrong word. Backer was better. She needed someone with cash. She knew she could give them a good return on their investment. She knew it.

  The best way to fix the snow-pouring-into-the-house issue would be to install a larger window, in a frame that wasn’t falling apart with dry rot, that fit the hole properly—but she didn’t think she should spend her money on new glass just yet. . . . She’d cover it with plastic for now. She was reaching for her measuring tape, when the phone rang.

  “Hello, Jo?”

  Callum’s low voice on the other end of the line did more than sidetrack her from her immediate goal. It tightened her stomach with anticipation, then made her furious for having that reaction.

  “Jo?” he purred again.

  She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. “Yeah?” she said.

  “Are you okay?”

  Like a hunter could actually care for the meat he chased—but dang, if he didn’t sound sincere. She needed to be very careful around him. She didn’t have his leathery heart. “I’m fine, Callum. What’s up?”

  “Uh . . . ” Mr. Smooth hesitated for a moment, perhaps slowed by the coolness of her tone. “I, well . . . I used your suggestion last night. It was really helpful. Thanks.”

  “And what suggestion was that?”

  “Um, you know, to breathe.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I was having one of my stupid anxiety attacks and usually nothing helps,” Callum spoke very quickly and Jo empathized, though it was the last thing she wanted to do. “But then I remembered in my office, how you managed to help stave it off—”

  “Being told to breathe is nothing genius. Everyone says that. It’s useless. It was just luck that time.”

  Callum laughed and Jo’s breath caught in her throat at the sound of it. “That’s exactly what I thought, ‘Take a deep breath’—totally unhelpful. But it was the way you said it, followed by “Just try,” like it wasn’t a win or lose, succeed or fail thing. You were so casual about it.”

  Jo slid down the wall until she was seated on the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped one arm around her shins. “And that helped?”

  “It was brilliant!”

  She chuckled, just a little.

  “I’m serious. I recalled what you said, started pondering how the heck it had worked, and then, practically before I realized it, I’d stopped freaking out.”

  “I’m glad.” And she was. She wouldn’t wish anxiety attacks on her worst enemy and Callum wasn’t her enemy. He was something infinitely more dangerous—someone she liked too much. Still. She closed her eyes. “I’m glad,” she repeated. “Very happy for you. Sincerely. But I have to go. I’m in the middle of something.”

  “Sounds fascinating. What?”

  Jo sighed. “Measuring windows.”

  “I have the day off. I could help.”

  She wondered at the lines he used. Surely offering to help with reno prep wasn’t a lady-killer’s usual repertoire, but maybe that was what made him so good at it? That he seemed above suspicion.

  “No thanks. I’m good.” Good at being alone for the rest of my life, thank you very much! She thought of his face, though, and his ridiculously good smell, and only half of her was fooled by her adamant inner declaration.

  “Okay . . . you’re right. I shouldn’t pretend nothing happened
. I’m sorry, Jo.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I was a jerk, and I’m sorry I hurt you—and put a damper on your party. I just . . . I thought you had a thing going with Dave, and, as I’m sure he told you, I was jealous. I acted like a testosterone filled idiot. It won’t happen again. I was, I am, ecstatic you kissed me back, for whatever your reasons were. I think that’s what made me crazy. I thought we were, you know. . . .”

  “No, I don’t know. Thought we were what?”

  “Hitting it off, maybe like old times.”

  Jo picked at a thread of denim that had worn through a thin part on the knee of her jeans. Like old times. Like when she waited and waited and waited to hear from him, ready to go anywhere with him, have a life with him, only to be worse than crushed?

  She had to give it to Callum though. Despite all Dave had told her, she couldn’t hear a false note in his sweet words. It was now or never, but she needed to be clear—and could only hope he got the message quicker than Dave who had already called five times and left three messages today. Thankfully she recognized his number and let them go to voicemail. She realized she was stalling. Why was she worried about potentially hurting Callum? He was the one with all the power to inflict pain because she was one who, stupid and shocking and slightly pathetic as it was, still cared for him. Her high school “sweetheart.” What a loser she was!

  “Look, Callum, I know it’s exciting, two new women—‘fresh meat’ so to speak—in a small town and all that, but, well, I can’t speak for Samantha. . . . She might give you a whirl, but not me. I’m not in.”

  There was a second’s silence. “Um, I don’t know what you think I was asking, but I’m not interested in Samantha. At all.”

  Well, like he would admit he was pursuing both of them. Of course he wouldn’t. She gave a small derisive snort before she could help herself.

  “Sorry?” he said.

  “Callum, you, me . . . We want incompatible things, and that’s all right. Different strokes and all that.”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Different strokes? Wow, the eighties are still alive and well.”

  She shook her head, couldn’t hold back a small smile. “I like those lame old reruns, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said, but she wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with: that it was all right for her to like retro sitcoms, or that they wanted different things. She was only further confused when he spoke again. “Can we at least be friends? Don’t tell me you’re so well connected already you couldn’t use someone to gab with occasionally, or to bang nails and take orders. . . .”

  Jo’s heart hurt. She did want a friend, other than Samantha who had a definite fun side but who thought pretty much every activity Jo really enjoyed was disgusting and/or too much work. And she was making other acquaintances that would hopefully grow into friends, true . . . but so far Callum was the easiest and most natural to be herself around.

  You’re setting yourself up for another big fall, part of her brain warned—but a softer, more soothing inner voice contradicted the advice, Ah, you can handle it.

  “Are you still there?” Callum asked.

  “Do you promise not to try and change my mind about being just friends?”

  “I can’t promise, no, but I’ll do my best. That said, should you feel moved to seduce me, let me just say—”

  “No,” Jo replied more firmly to his teasing than she felt. “No flirting either.”

  “Yes, like I was saying . . . I would have to say a very stern, ‘No,’ to any seduction attempts because we’re just friends, so gosh woman, stop jumping all over me like that. I mean it. I said, no. Quit it!”

  Jo giggled.

  “Hmmm,” Callum murmured. “I think I changed my mind. I vote for a little bit of flirting.”

  Oh, yeah, this “just friends” thing she was pretending was possible was already working really well. “Fine,” Jo said.

  They hung up after making plans for the next day. Apparently Callum had worked in construction during the summers of his university years and kept up his skills with random do-it-yourself projects—which explained his shoulders and made him a very handy new . . .

  Friend, she reiterated in her head, remaining on the floor a moment. She repeated the reminder aloud. “He is just your friend.”

  *

  Friends. Well, it was better than not friends and for a moment that was exactly what Callum had been sure she was going to say—in stronger words.

  Her comment about her and Samantha being new “meat” nagged him. Had he somehow implied he felt like they, or women in general, were interchangeable? Nothing could be further from what he thought. He considered calling her back to ask about it, but decided not to. Maybe Samantha had mentioned flirting with him, and Jo had thought it was two-sided and wanted to confirm there was no interest on his part before they pursued a friendship.

  For the first time in a long time he couldn’t wait for Sunday, even though it meant the workweek would arrive more quickly.

  You have a bad attitude, Archer, he said to himself, then surprised himself with the thought, Dad’s right about that at least.

  He decided to make calzones with the leftover pizza dough and toppings he had in the fridge. They’d be an easy, quick lunch to reheat at Jo’s the next day. As he washed his hands in the bathroom sink, he met his own eyes in the mirror and his observation about his attitude came back to him. It was time to change. Past time, actually. It wasn’t fair to ask Jo to be friends—or anything else—with someone as lazy, cowardly, and stuck in a rut as he was.

  Oh, lighten up. You’re not so terrible, something whispered into his consciousness. It was almost a shock to have his thoughts say something positive.

  He was at the counter, rolling out dough, when he realized the encouraging voice in his head had been Jo’s. As if cued, the phone rang and he saw Jo’s name on the call display.

  He wiped his hands on his twill apron and grabbed the phone.

  “Hello again!” he said, knowing and not caring that his excited tone revealed how thrilled he was to hear from her.

  “Hey, Callum,” she said softly.

  His old standby negativity crashed back, full force. She’d reconsidered. Of course she had.

  “I’m so sorry,” she continued, fulfilling his doom and gloom prediction. “But I can’t be your friend. I just can’t.”

  He was about to let it go. He didn’t need to be rejected over and over. It was like asking to be repeatedly hit by a car, or to have your head slammed into a brick wall again and again. She wasn’t into him—and he didn’t want to add pressuring someone to conjure up feelings that weren’t there to his list of personality flaws.

  Yes, he was about to let it go all right. Except that he couldn’t—not until he knew he’d done all he could, been as honest as possible, about how he really felt. The few times he’d spent with her had been more fun, less stress than anything he’d done in . . . well, almost since they’d first broken up.

  “Thanks for understanding. I’ll see you—”

  “Wait!”

  For a second, Callum wondered if he was too late because she was so quiet, but his phone showed the line as active.

  “What?” she finally said.

  “Come on. I won’t make it difficult. I promise.”

  She laughed wryly. “Just being friends is never difficult for one person.”

  What was she saying? Could she possibly mean it would be harder for her than him to stay mere friends? His heartbeat spiked in happy, hopeful excitement—then he calmed himself. No, she probably meant it would be easy for him to feel friendly toward her, but she’d have to work at it. Did she hate him so much?

  “Take a chance,” he said. “You never know. I might surprise you. Besides, I never thought you’d avoid something just because it’s difficult.”

  Jo snorted. “I don’t know if that’s a good quality or not, but for better or worse—” She broke off, stammering, “I didn’t mean that m
arriage wise.”

  “Of course not, of course not.” Was she thinking he wouldn’t be able to forgive her for ignoring his proposal? He wanted to end the confusion right there, to announce, “Hey, by the way, I forgive you for breaking my heart all those years ago,” but it seemed too weighty a comment for a conversation establishing if they could even manage to be friends.

  “So?” he asked.

  Silence.

  “What if we stow the issue for bit?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What if we don’t decide anything yet? We don’t need to make some firm declaration of friendship—or of anything else. What if I show up tomorrow to help you and happen to bring lunch? I mean you’ll need to eat sometime, right?”

  Jo was silent yet again. How he wished they were having this conversation face-to-face, so he could at least read her body language.

  “And down the road,” he continued, nerves making him speed-talk, “if hanging out is uncomfortable or not good in some other way, say the word and I’ll move on. Despite how I might seem right now, I can—and will—take no for an answer. This is just me wanting to make sure you know how I feel, full disclosure and all that. I really like you, Jo, and it’s confusing because I don’t know if my feelings are just transference from before, or if they’re real.”

  He thought he heard a quick, almost pained inhale of breath from Jo’s end and rushed on so he’d have everything out before she hung up. “I don’t want to pressure you, but it felt like, I mean the few times we’ve visited, I thought . . . you seemed to have feelings too. It’s terrifying and may be years too late, but let’s just see.”

  There were a few more beats of quiet, then Jo spoke and Callum’s blood surged. “Well, you know how I hate to eat . . . but I should keep my strength up. I do have a lot of chores.” The smile in her voice made him lightly punch his leg. Yes!