by Roya Carmen
“You mean I’ve always been a bit paranoid?” I joke.
She laughs. “A little,” she concedes. “So, what will it be today?”
I look down at the display, ravenous. It all looks so good: chicken salad, pastrami on rye, roast beef and cheddar, egg salad. I can’t seem to make a choice.
The place hasn’t changed a bit in the last twenty years. Its walls are still lined with old books and a myriad of antiques and knick-knacks. The ice cream bar still beckons children on hot summer days. The same offerings are on display; sandwiches, pastries, banana bread, blueberry pie and the occasional yummy Ukrainian dessert. Eclectic plates and coffee cups, stacked on an old rustic sideboard, still draw the eye.
Back when I was in high school, I would always be here at Hanna’s. I’ve always loved books. This place was my haven. Gabe would always hang out with the cool kids at the mall, the arcade or the movies. And sometimes I’d join them, but I often preferred to retreat here. I worked here part-time and every summer for years. I know the place like the back of my hand.
Mrs. Kovalenko, or Hanna as I like to call her, a sweet little old lady, still owns the shop. She must be in her seventies now, and she and I have been friends for ages.
I smile up at her, digging into my bag. “I’ll have the chicken salad on whole wheat with a side garden salad and an iced tea, please.”
“Coming right up,” she says as she reaches into the refrigerator for the chicken salad. She makes all her sandwiches fresh which is why they’re all so yummy. “But you did always have a great imagination. I remember,” she tells me as she grabs a loaf of bread, “when you used to make up your own stories for story time,” she goes on as she spreads the chicken salad with a skilled hand. “The children loved them.”
I smile at the memory. “They did.”
“Speaking of children, how are your girls? They must be happy to be on vacation.”
“Yes. They’re thrilled. My neighbor is looking after them today. We’re doing well.” Yes, everything is peachy, I want to tell her. Everything is great with the little exception of my paramour’s secret baby, nestled in my womb, craving a pickle. “Could you give me an extra pickle?”
“Sure. For you,” she says with a wink, “anything.”
Hanna doesn’t know about the drama that is my life. No one knows. Sometimes I wonder how I will tell everyone when I start showing. Will I tell them I’m carrying Gabe’s child? I could do that with some but not with others. The people closest to us know Gabe had a vasectomy not long ago. It was public knowledge. Our torrid lifestyle will have to become public, whether we want it to or not. I get a headache just thinking about it. Part of me does want to run away out west to California or Arizona, somewhere no one knows us.
The place is dead — which is one of the reasons I enjoy coming here. It’s so quiet, and especially on weekdays. I think Hanna barely gets by, but I can’t imagine her giving it up. For her, it’s a labor of love. I think she loves this shop as much she loves her own children. Just a few customers have popped in for a take-out lunch. I enjoy a peaceful lunch and read a chapter of Wuthering Heights. I need to fill my mind with fictional drama from an era gone by, anything to keep me from obsessing over my own drama. I bite down on the straw in my iced tea as I devour chapter six. I’ve read it many times before but it never gets old. I hear the telephone ring but I don’t pay much attention.
Hanna scurries to the counter, worked up into a frenzy. “I’m sorry, Mirella. I think I have to close up shop,” she tells me, already turning off coffee machines.
I jerk up from my seat. “What? What’s going on?”
“My daughter’s boy, he was mountain biking and got injured.” She rushes past me and puts away some food in the refrigerator. “He’s at the emergency room.”
I’m not quite sure what to say. “I’m so sorry. I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
“I really don’t want to close—”
“Listen,” I say, a hand on her shoulder. “I can take care of things here. I’ve done it a thousand times.”
She stills and stares at me for a second. “You have. Are you sure?”
“I would love to,” I tell her and the idea of it brings sudden excitement. “It’s not exactly bustling today. I’ve got it.”
She pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank you.” She spends the next five minutes going over everything I need to know, and then scurries out the door.
“Please, keep me updated,” I call out as she makes her way out.
I suck in a long breath. I have done it a thousand times before, but that was ages ago. I just hope I remember everything. But, on the plus side, the noon rush is all over with — all three customers have come and gone. I put on Hanna’s quirky apron and turn the coffee maker back on and check the filter. I wipe the counter, hoping no one shows up, because I’m not sure if I remember how to work the cash register.
The doorbell clangs and my heart leaps in my chest.
Damn it.
I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I can do this.
I open my eyes to greet my first customer.
My stomach drops…does a complete gold medal-worthy nose-dive.
“Hello, Mirella,” he says simply, as if it’s just another ordinary sunny summer day. As if him standing there in front of me is not odd at all. The last person I expected to see walking in that door was Weston Hanson.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is so small I’m sure I sound like a little barn mouse.
His gaze travels across the rows of kitschy knick-knacks and old books, and finally settles on my blue and yellow polka-dot apron. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
You’re surprised to see me?
He eyes me, confusion clouding his features. “Do you work here?”
I look down at myself, standing behind the counter with a funny apron on. I can see why it would appear so.
I smile up at him. “I’m just helping out a friend.”
He leans in closer, too close. So close, I can smell him. His amazing scent hasn’t changed.
God…
“You’ve been helping out a lot?” he asks, not really waiting for an answer. “You’ve been here quite a few times this past week.”
I jerk back. “How did you know that?” I ask, confused. How would he… “Have you been following me?”
He looks away and bites his bottom lip — a dead giveaway.
I gasp. “That guy. That creepy guy in the grey sedan…what is wrong with you?”
I can suddenly hear the sound of my heart hammering in my ears.
“It’s not what you think,” he says. “I swear. I’ve tried to call you on your cell, but you never answered. And I just wanted to speak with you in person,” he explains with those familiar beautiful soft green eyes. “You are a hard woman to pin down… alone.”
My breath catches at his words. God, the last thing I need right now is Weston Hanson pinning me down. I blink, trying to shake the thought away and take this all in. “So, you were just trying to pin me down…alone.”
He leans over the counter and edges in closer. “Yes,” he whispers. “Exactly. I was hoping to get a hold of you without your girls,” he clarifies, “just so we could talk.”
And suddenly, my eye is drawn to his fitted navy tee, and the smooth curves of his chest. My gaze travels to the smooth skin of his neck and I can almost taste it… smell it. The hint of stubble on his chin is just as it used to be, barely there. I can recall the wonderful feel of it on my skin. And when my stare reaches those delicious lips of his, I shake my head a little, and back the hell up. “So, Mr. Hanson, what can I do for you? What would you like to order?”
His smile is impish. “Nothing. I’m not here to eat.”
“Well, you walk in, you need to buy something,” I scoff. “This place doesn’t run on cheeky smiles and sunshine.”
“Fair enough,” he says and pulls out his wallet. “I’d like a roast beef sandwich and a Coke,” he says, slapping down a twenty on
the counter. “Keep the change,” he adds, his eyes fixed on me.
I want to hightail it out of there. I want to be anywhere but here. But I can’t exactly leave, can I? And I can’t very well kick out a paying customer.
“And throw in a pickle,” he adds as he makes his way to one of the bistro-style chairs. I’m brought back to the two pickles I just had, and the life in my belly. I look at him and wonder if this is my chance to tell him.
He sits at one of the small tables, looking as splendid as ever, in fitted light pants, and cool fancy European looking loafers. He stares at me, willing me to come to him.
I grab a can of Coke from the refrigerator and one of the pre-made sandwiches in the display (no freshly made sandwich for him) and work my way from behind the counter. I reluctantly walk towards his table and take a seat across him. “You were kidding about the pickle. You don’t even like pickles. You didn’t really want a pickle, did you?”
A wide smile stretches across his face — the kind of smile he gives me when I’m amusing him. “Yes, Mirella. I was kidding. I was testing you. You have a good memory too.”
We sit in silence for a beat. This is so like him, I can’t help but think. He shows up unexpectedly to speak with me, and he expects me to start the conversation.
“Well,” I start. “You know you’re important when not only do you outsource your cooking, cleaning, car detailing, but also… your creepy stalking.”
He laughs and his eyes don’t leave me.
“Who was that guy anyway?” I ask. “A friend of yours?”
He smiles, seemingly amused. “A private investigator actually.”
“Yep, you must sure be super busy…”
“Mirella,” he sighs. “You’re the one who called me. You wanted to tell me something. Now, I’m not sure what you wanted to say, but it’s been driving me crazy.”
He’s right. I did call him.
“That day in that little coffee shop when you told me you wanted to end things, I couldn’t think straight,” he confesses and part of me just wants to reach out to him and tell him I’m sorry.
“I couldn’t imagine ever being able to let you go,” he goes on. “I think that’s the reason I reacted the way I did. But I knew it was what you truly wanted. And I wanted to give you what you wanted. Everything you’ve ever wanted, I’ve wanted to give to you,” he says, venturing a look up at me, his eyes so vulnerable.
I feel myself weaken and I need to turn my gaze away.
“And I also knew it was for the best…for all of us,” he goes on. “That’s when I vowed to do anything in my power to stay away from you and move on with my life.”
I’m still not looking at him but every inch of me is reluctantly glued to him, to his words.
“I’ve started seeing my therapist again. And she’s helping me. She truly is.”
“I’m so glad to hear this, Weston,” I tell him, thinking that at least one of us is getting desperately needed help. I don’t even know if a therapist could help me at this point. I know I’m completely fucked-up and it most likely goes back to the day my mother left me.
“She’s helped me realized that I’ve been using you as a coping mechanism,” he explains, still staring at his uneaten roast beef sandwich, “like some might use drugs, or alcohol. She says I’ve been using sex.”
The word shocks me. But I’m glad he’s discovering these truths — truths I’ve recently been discovering too.
“But I tell her it’s not just sex with you,” he goes on and his gaze fixes mine again. “She doesn’t seem to understand that I truly love you.”
My heart sinks. He hasn’t let go. “So you’ve been arguing with your therapist?” I ask. “I think that’s a bit counterproductive.”
He smiles. “I know.”
God, that smile.
Please stop smiling.
“But whatever this might be with you,” he carries on. “It’s true. I’ve been using you to deal with my past, the memories I can’t face, that I don’t want to think about. When I’m with you, you’re all I think about, Mirella. You make me so happy. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
I can’t imagine. I’ve never been in his shoes. I’ve never suffered such a tragedy, such insurmountable pain. My throat tightens and my eyes well up at the thought.
Please don’t make me cry.
“She says I need to let you go and move on. And on this, I completely agreed with her. And I was trying. I was doing so well, finally moving on. I threw myself into my work, and spent more time with Lizzie and Ashton, as she suggested. I was making so much progress,” he says, lifting his beautiful eyes to mine, “and then, you called.”
I know. I know I shouldn’t have called.
“I didn’t even hear your voice. Just the sight of your name on my display completely did me in, Mirella. It crumbled all my efforts. I was right back to square one.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. But I know ‘sorry’ isn’t enough.
His beautiful eyes are fixed on me when he says, “Perhaps you just wanted to tell me you missed me.”
I have missed you.
He leans in close to me. “Please, tell me why you called. I want to know.”
No, you don’t. Believe me.
I smirk at him like a petulant teenager. “I’m sorry. I just…”
I can’t tell him. I know I should. He should know. He’s this child’s father. But I know that as soon as I say the words, everything changes — all our lives. And I know I need to tell Gabe first. He deserves to be the first one to hear this.
I close my eyes and lean back on the chair. I can’t do this right now. “I’m sorry, Weston, could you please leave?”
“No,” he says. “I’m not leaving until we discuss this.”
He wants to know why I called. I know he won’t let up until I’ve told him why I called him that day.
I press my hand against the small, almost nonexistent bump, the fabric of my apron rough against my palm. I just can’t do it. I can’t tell him yet.
I suck in a deep breath. “I called you because I missed you, Weston. I’ve missed your voice,” I tell him as I close my eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
Everything I’m telling him is true. I have missed him. I’ve craved him. And seeing him like this today, I crave him even more. I want to reach out and tuck my head under his chin and breathe him in. “You should go,” I say, my words quiet. “Please…”
He shakes his head and takes my hand in his. “I don’t want to go, Mirella.”
The feel of his hand on mine does things to me — things I don’t want to deal with. I jerk my hand away and get to my feet. I really wish I could get the hell out of there.
“Please go,” I plead again, and scurry away. I’m not sure where I’m going. But as I make my way to the back of the store, I try to find refuge in the narrow aisles. I press my face against a row of books lined up in the cooking section. I close my eyes, not wanting to deal with this situation. The old smell of books reminds me where I am, and why I’m there, trying to run away again. Maybe, I should just turn around and face my problems, for once in my life.
CHAPTER SIX
Familiarity is a wicked bitch.
I feel his presence behind me. I don’t turn around. I don’t want to face him. Because if I do, I’m afraid I’ll say too much. I walk slowly away from him, attempting to make a subtle escape. I trail my finger along the spines of the books lined up meticulously on the shelf. I’ve reached the gardening section.
I feel him edging closer behind me…closer still. My body stills when his hands press against my hips. He rests his chin against the top of my head. I don’t move. I’m completely frozen. My heart pounds so hard, I wonder if he can hear it.
“You smell just like I remember,” he tells me, his voice soft.
“Weston…”
He presses his mouth on the crook of my neck; the warmth of it consumes me fully. “I’m sorry, Mirella,” he says. “I know we’re done. I’
ve been doing so well staying away from you.”
I still can’t bring myself to turn around and face him. I still have no words.
“Why did you really call me? That’s all it took for me to completely fall apart again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, the words so small. I truly am sorry. I shouldn’t have called him that day. But I was so unhinged. Now, I regret it so much.
His face is still buried in my hair when he tells me, “I didn’t come here for this, but seeing you like this today…it’s been so long since I’ve touched you.”
His words sear. They heat every inch of me. I’m on fire. I’m out of control again, possessed by lust for this man I just can’t seem to let go. I know I can’t be with him. I realize to be with him would be cheating. He no longer has my husband’s permission to touch me. Yet, I don’t pull away. I don’t move an inch.
“I know,” I whisper. I still don’t turn around. I just stand there half hoping this moment will somehow resolve itself to a wonderful, simple conclusion. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be wanting this.
But I do. So much.
The feel of his hand toying with the hem of my skirt almost does me in. “Is this okay?” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.
My body, my emotions betray me. All I want is for him to touch me. “Yes…”
As he sweeps my hair gently over my shoulder, his fingers graze my skin. His touch feels so amazing. I know I’ve been rendered completely powerless, devoid of any common sense. He presses his hot mouth gently against the back of my neck. “Is this okay?” he asks again.
And again, I whisper, “Yes…” Even if I know it’s not okay — it’s all wrong.
He slides a hand under the soft pink cotton of my skirt. His fingers glide against the outside of my thigh. “How about this?”
I don’t reply, but an unexpected soft moan escapes from my mouth. I close my eyes, practically melting to the floor. And I remind myself to stop wearing skirts.
According to all the pregnancy books I’ve read, pregnancy-related horniness doesn’t really kick-in until the last trimester, but damn, if I don’t want him right now, right here, in Hanna’s Bookstore. I am repulsed by my behavior but I am so aroused, I completely dismiss it.