“Mine.”
“She was looking for something serious and it scared you away?”
Angie met Vic’s gaze. “Nope. The opposite. She made it clear she wanted it to be casual.”
“Well, then,” Vic said, hating the way her voice was thickening into something emotional. “That’s good, right? I mean, isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I thought I did too, but…I don’t think casual is for me, and that’s what’s pissing me off.” Angie took a sip of wine. The sound of a distant clock ticked. “I’m not relationship material, Vic, and everyone knows it. I’m sure the gossip mill at the hospital is having a field day with all of this. Angie Cullen sucks at relationships, but she’s good for a roll in the hay. And a roll in the hay is exactly what I don’t want. Even if that’s all I’m good for.”
“Whoa, wait a minute. Where is all this coming from?”
“Come on, Vic. It’s what I believe, and it’s what you must believe too. Hell, everybody.”
“No. Absolutely not. Nobody’s saying anything like that. The only thing I’ve heard anyone say is that you’re hot.” Vic hid her cowardice behind a long sip of wine. She didn’t disagree with that assessment. In fact, she wholeheartedly agreed, but she didn’t want Angie—or anyone else—knowing she was as shallow as all that. Nor did she want Angie to get the wrong idea. No. I am absolutely not hot for Angie Cullen.
Angie sulked into her glass, unaware of the guilty thoughts rolling through Vic’s mind.
“Look, I have the same feelings of failure,” Vic said soothingly. “My ego’s taken a massive hit too from what’s happened. Don’t you think I worry that I can’t do relationships either? That I’m a relationship failure?”
“Yeah, but you were married. You were with Karen for ten years. That doesn’t make you a fuckup like it does me. Brooke was the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I mean, have you heard of anything sadder? And it should never have lasted as long as it did. It shouldn’t have lasted past the first six months. God, Vic, I’m almost thirty-eight years old and I haven’t a clue how to make a relationship work. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.”
“Nah. I can out-pathetic you. Fucking up your marriage is a hell of a lot worse than fucking up your not-married relationship. Trust me, divorce isn’t pretty. But anyway, tell me where this is coming from. What exactly happened tonight?”
Angie confessed that it had all started with what Brooke said to her at the lawyer’s office. “And the worst thing about it is she was right. I don’t let people in. I don’t let people reach what’s really inside.”
“Maybe you just didn’t want to let her in. Maybe she wasn’t deserving enough. Maybe you never trusted her enough to completely give yourself to her.”
“Maybe.” Angie ducked her head and smiled something between gratitude and amusement. “You really are good for my tender ego, you know that?”
“Well, I’d rather we patch up each other’s pride than throw a pity party.”
“Good point.”
“But, Ange?” Vic gently touched her wrist. “If you want to talk to someone, I can give you the name of an acquaintance. She’s very good.”
“You mean a head shrinker?”
Vic smiled. “If you want to call her that. She’s a PhD psychologist.”
“I did a couple of sessions with one through the army after each deployment.”
“I’m not talking about something that you’re ordered to do as part of your debriefing or decompressing or whatever they call it. I’m talking about doing this for yourself.”
Angie studied the wine in her glass for a long time. “All right. Maybe.”
“Good. I’ll text you her contact information tomorrow.”
Angie heaved a dramatic sigh before sinking into silence, which Vic understood came with the territory. Angie needed room to process, time to make peace with the decision to see a therapist. She wouldn’t press her any further.
“There’s one more thing,” Angie said after a few minutes. “Can we not talk about Brooke and Karen anymore tonight? Actually, make it longer than tonight. Make it forever.”
Vic picked up her glass and clinked it against Angie’s. “Not sure I can promise the second part of that, but I can definitely promise the first part.”
They finished their wine in silence. Then Angie rose, signaling it was time to go. At the front door, she turned to Vic and said, “Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow?”
“Not a thing. Well, probably still wrestling with that pot in the sink.”
“Want to come house shopping with me? I could use another set of eyes. And a friend.”
Vic leaned against the doorjamb and didn’t attempt to hide her smile. “I’d love to. But I can’t promise good advice.” She tilted her chin toward the ceiling. “I’d probably talk you into buying some hundred-and-thirty-year-old fixer-upper.”
Angie smiled back. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Chapter Fourteen
Asking Vic to go house shopping with her had popped out of Angie’s mouth last night like the cork from a champagne bottle. It was strange, this spontaneity that seemed to grow like moss on a wet stump when she was around Vic. Worse, confessing things to her that she’d never said to anyone else, like her failure to let others inside. Where the hell had that come from? She rarely talked about her insecurities to anyone outside of family, because only she could fix herself; only she understood herself. But now! Now she was actually thinking about visiting that shrink Vic had suggested and had already decided to call next week and make an appointment (if she didn’t chicken out between now and then). She found herself trusting Vic that it wasn’t such a terrible idea. That she could be better, and that it was time to start trying.
“So,” Vic said beside her, affecting a cheery tone. They were driving to a three-bedroom townhouse in a gated community. “You never finished telling me how your date with Julie went.”
“Oh, right. After the part where she said she just wanted a casual thing.”
“Did you let her down gently?”
“Not really.” Angie giggled at the memory of what she’d said to Julie before leaving the café. “I told her I wanted my next relationship to end in marriage and that I wanted three kids. Maybe two if I compromised.”
Vic’s hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t!”
“Actually I did.” She didn’t understand the devilish impulse that had come over her, but she’d decided to go with it. It’d been the most fun she’d had in weeks. “I thought she was going to start hyperventilating.”
Vic laughed. “Well, I guess you don’t have to worry about her asking you out again.”
“Nope. It was either that little gem or tell her that I’m working on a novel where the main character is an ER doc who happens to have blond hair and is a babe.”
“Okay, wait.” Vic’s face began to pink. “You’re making this up, right?”
“Which part? Marriage or writing a book?” Angie deadpanned.
“Jesus, Ange. I think you might be serious about both.”
“Actually…I think I am.” Now she was scaring herself. Confessing that she wrote fiction and that she wanted to get married one day. And maybe have kids! Why don’t you just tell her you want to fly to the moon while you’re at it? Lately she seemed to possess the knack of making women run away from her. Which was a good thing in Julie’s case, but not so much in Vic’s.
Vic remained speechless as Angie maneuvered the SUV through the heavy Saturday afternoon traffic. She’d probably said too much. Yeah, definitely she’d said too much. Time to backpedal.
“I’m not actually writing about an ER doc, so you don’t have to worry that I’m, like, watching every move you make or taking notes or something. I haven’t even started my novel yet. So far it’s only short stories. Scraps of paper where I scribble down something that occurs to me.” Okay, now Vic was going to think she was ridiculous. “I mean, it’s just for fun. It’s not like I think I’m the next
Jonathan Franzen or Stephen King or something.”
“Why not?”
“Why not what?”
“Why can’t you be a great novelist, if that’s what you want to do?”
Angie pretended to fiddle with the navigation unit on her dashboard. “I don’t know, I…It’s just something I fool around with, you know? In my spare time. For fun.”
Pursing her lips in concentration, Vic stared through the windshield. “I see. And do you just fool around with being a paramedic? With being a soldier? With making wine?”
“No, of course not. I had to learn those things. Commit to them.”
“So learn the craft of writing. And then commit to it.”
They’d reached the address. Angie pulled into the driveway, which was constructed of textured cement dyed the color of clay. The townhouse was new, two stories, vinyl-sided in a light mossy green. It had a long porch that reminded her of leafy streets on warm summer days, and a big wooden door with stained glass inlays.
“Wait, Ange,” Vic said. “If you want to be a writer, then I think that’s awesome. And it’s not something you should diminish or excuse or apologize for. If you want to do it, then don’t let anything hold you back. Not self-doubt and not other peoples’ opinions.”
Not used to talking about her writing, and certainly not used to Vic’s brand of honest encouragement, it took a moment for Angie to accept that Vic was genuine. And that she was right. She’d never let fear, or what other people thought, stop her before from doing the things that were important to her. “All right. Thank you, Vic.”
“For what?”
Angie shrugged. “For believing in me. For kicking my ass when I need my ass kicked.”
Vic smiled. “It was a gentle kick, I hope.”
“It was.”
They locked eyes, and Angie could feel the force of mutual appreciation. They wanted, needed, to believe in each other, needed like oxygen this permission to be true to themselves, to be honest. She didn’t often get that from people in her life and definitely not from Brooke.
Vic broke the spell with a collegial pat of her arm and said, “That’s what friends are for. Come on, let’s go see if this place is as nice inside as it is outside.”
Friends, Angie repeated in her mind as a shadow crept into her heart. She had friends, other friends besides Vic, but none of them touched the parts of her that Vic touched. She imagined a snicker of cynical amusement from her buddy Vince if she ever told him about her dreams of being a writer. From her parents or her brother Nick, it would be more like humoring her in a way that would almost, but not quite, be condescending. But Vic. Vic seemed somehow to get her, to cut straight through her doubts and insecurities and affectations. Vic made her not only more aware of herself, but unafraid to be herself. It was a gift Vic had, and Angie was grateful.
The realtor, a perfectly coiffed woman in her sixties, greeted them in the foyer. She handed them each a sheet with all the home’s particulars: square footage, cost of utilities and taxes, and other details. She was the chatty type, barely stopping for a breath as she extolled the virtues of living in a gated community.
“Of course, the nice part about it is that it’s couples only, so it’s very social without worrying about single people who like to party and make a lot of noise.”
Angie glanced at Vic for confirmation that she’d heard correctly. “Couples only?” She didn’t remember seeing that in the fine print.
“Oh yes, but I can see that’s not a problem for you two.” The woman’s exaggerated wink swept them both up. “How long have you two been married?”
Vic drew closer and wrapped her arm around Angie’s waist. “Only a few months.” She gave Angie a squeeze. “Does it show?”
“Oh, absolutely! I can see that you’re newlyweds, it’s written all over your faces. Now, if you’d like to take a look upstairs, I really think you’ll find the master bedroom and en suite to your liking.”
“Wait, one more question,” Vic said to the woman, and Angie cringed at what it might be.
“Yes, dear?”
“Children. Are they welcome here? Because, well, we don’t have any yet, do we, sweetie pie?” She planted a loud, smack of a kiss on Angie’s cheek that audibly sizzled like a branding iron. “But we certainly plan to.”
“Oh, children are most certainly welcome here. It’s a lovely neighborhood for kids.”
Angie’s stuttering kept time with her beating heart. “I, ah, we, ah, I mean, c-can we…” She gently removed Vic’s arm from around her waist and began backing toward the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I think you’d better sell this place to somebody else.”
In the car, Vic burst out laughing. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry, but I so could not resist that. You should have seen the look on your face. It was absolutely priceless.”
Angie shook her head. She had to admit, Vic had gotten her good. “Sweetie pie? Newlyweds? Children?”
“Well, you said last night you want to get married someday. And maybe have kids.”
“Geez, I didn’t think it would happen that fast.”
“Since we’re on this marriage and children kick, don’t you think I should have met your parents by now?” Vic batted her eyes teasingly.
Angie backed her SUV out of the driveway. There were two more homes on her list. “Yes, as a matter of fact you should.” Time to call Vic’s bluff. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving next week?”
“Seriously?”
Ha, got ya, Angie was about to say, except she suddenly wanted nothing more than for Vic to join her and the rest of the Cullens for their Thanksgiving feast. “Yes. I’m deadly serious.”
* * *
Vic hadn’t been this nervous since taking her marriage vows. Before that it was her state medical board exams. You’re only meeting the family of a friend, she reminded herself. A friend, not a girlfriend. It was a game she was playing with herself, a useless game, because however she wanted to label it, it was not the same as if she were going to a family dinner at Olivia’s or Julie’s. It was Angie. Angie who gave her a small ache in her chest lately whenever she thought about her. Angie who, whenever she touched her, sent an involuntary shiver of excitement through her.
“Hi,” Angie said at the door, her face lighting up and mirroring none of the tension Vic was feeling. “Glad you made it. Did you bring your appetite?”
“God, I can’t think about eating right now,” she whispered, stepping into the foyer. “I’m too nervous.”
Angie quirked an eyebrow at her. “Don’t be. It’s not like—”
“I know.” But it sure as hell feels like it.
“Well, hello there.” Angie’s mom. Had to be, because she was the spitting image of Angie, only heavier and her brown hair was shot through with silver. “I’m Suzanne Cullen. Lovely to meet you, Dr. Turner. Welcome to our home.”
Vic shook Mrs. Cullen’s outstretched hand. “Please, call me Vic. And thank you so much for having me.”
“Yeah,” Angie supplied with a barely suppressed grin, “she’s been so excited, she said she’s starving.”
Vic’s eyes lobbed darts at Angie and she mouthed I’ll get you for that.
“That’s wonderful, Vic. We’re delighted you could join us. And please, call me Suzanne.”
“Will do. Oh.” She fumbled with the bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath in her hand and passed it to Angie’s mom. Cheap, but the best she could do for a last-minute flower purchase on a holiday.
“Oh, thank you, dear, you didn’t have to bring anything. And since you’re hungry, follow me to the kitchen. That’s where all the other hungry people have gathered. I think they’re waiting for scraps to fall out of the pots or something.”
Angie’s dad, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and thick silver hair, greeted her in the industrial-sized kitchen that featured a six-burner gas stove as well as a grill and three wall ovens. His smile was easy, his handshake firm. “Don’t even think about calling me Mr. Culle
n. It’s Roger. Or Dad. I’m happy to answer to either.”
Dad. A prick of emotion burned in Vic’s throat. She didn’t have a father. Well, she had a biological father somewhere, but she’d never met him and hardly knew a thing about him. Growing up, it was just her and her mom. Until her mother cast her out for being gay.
Claire stepped forward. “It’s nice to see you again Vic. Welcome. And this guy…” She gestured at a tall, good-looking man who bore a striking resemblance to Angie, “…is my husband Nick, Angie’s brother. And now that you’ve met us all, you don’t have to be nervous,” Claire continued. “Come on. Nick, pour this woman a glass of wine, would you?”
“Happy to,” Nick said after shaking Vic’s hand. “White or red?”
A quick scan of everyone’s glasses told Vic they were drinking white. “I wouldn’t dream of breaking with the crowd. White it is. You have a beautiful homestead, by the way.”
“Thank you,” Angie’s parents said in unison.
“It’s been a labor of love,” added Roger. “Like anything worthwhile.”
Nick handed Vic a glass of wine. “Don’t get him started about the farm or you’ll be here all night.”
Fine with me, Vic wanted to say. It would beat the hell out of returning to her empty, drafty house, and she was interested in the winery—how things actually worked, because it was a bit like magic to her, the concept of planting grapevines and turning them into fine wine. “I promise not to overstay my welcome if you all tell me more about your farm. And the wine you make is spectacular, by the way. How many varieties do you make?”
It was awhile before Vic could get a word in edgewise after that, which suited her fine. She much preferred to listen. And to watch the Cullens talk about their greatest joy, which was the family business, but also to watch how they related to each other. They had a gentle way of teasing one another and of seamlessly seguing between subjects. There was a flow to the conversations, an underlying consciousness that none of them wanted to monopolize or be the center of attention. If someone had been left out for a while, Claire or Suzanne or Roger would reel them in by asking a question or including them somehow. Everyone got equal airtime, equal consideration of their opinions. Which totally threw Vic. She didn’t know families could get along so well. Karen’s certainly hadn’t. Karen, her parents, and her four siblings were often squabbling—picking fights, taking sides, throwing down ultimatums. Vic could never keep up with who was on good terms and who wasn’t.
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