by Remy Rose
I’ll be fine.
Chapter 32 ~ Madeline
October 15
It’s Thirsty Thursday so I am out with Delaney, because as she says, this is what people do. They go out. Last night, she persuaded me to go to Zumba with her. I both love and loathe her for pushing me, because there have been days lately that just getting out of bed is an effort.
Everything has a sense of hollow automaticity. Get up, shower, make coffee. Feed Murphy. Pet Murphy. Get dressed. Put on a smile at work. Come home. Feed Murphy. Pet Murphy. Lather, rinse, repeat. On better days, I pull on my lined windbreaker and fleece headband for a five mile run, putting one foot in front of the other in a dull, joyless rhythm, counting the telephone poles as I pass and focusing on each frosty breath so I won’t think. Even baking feels mechanical. I made homemade cinnamon rolls for the office yesterday, and there was no usual pleasure when I peeked in the oven door and saw them puff up into thick golden spirals, no little burst of mouthwatery satisfaction when I drizzled homemade icing over the top.
But I keep going, keep doing, because it’s all I can do.
And despite my best efforts, I keep missing Jack.
Laney and I are at New Moon in downtown Ellsworth, listening to a local country rock band and drinking margaritas. The lead singer is undeniably attractive, with thick brown hair to his shoulders and muscles bulging beneath his tight white t-shirt. Laney keeps nudging me whenever he looks over at us.
“Not interested,” I tell her.
“How can you not be? Look at him. Even I have to admit he’s sex on a stick. And he’s in a band.”
“If you’re so into him, why don’t you go for it?”
“You know I don’t get involved with men. I’m not as brave as you are.”
“I think you mean not as stupid.”
“No. I mean brave. You took a risk, but you had every reason to think it would be a good thing. No strings-sex with your insanely attractive carpenter? I want to be you when I grow up. If I grow up.”
I smile in spite of myself and tilt my head in the singer’s direction. “You can be. Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”
Laney giggles, shaking her head. Her curly blonde hair is pulled back in a high, breezy-looking ponytail, and with her red flannel shirt and snug jeans, she looks like a teenage girl. She’s both gorgeous and adorable, and I’m not the only one who’s noticing. A tall, blond man in a rugby-striped sweater and jeans sitting at a high-top across from us is looking at her. “Looking” is really too mild of a term; this guy is staring like he’s trying to memorize her cell structure. He’s even better-looking than the country singer: catalog cover-worthy, broad-chested, with his sleeves pushed up to reveal strong biceps. Golden is the word that comes to mind as I study him: his skin, like he’s been somewhere tropical; his hair, a shade darker than Laney’s.
He is clearly into my BFF, who is clearly not aware he’s watching her as she sways back and forth in her chair to the music.
“Hey.” I poke her gently. “You seem to have a fan in Golden Boy over there.”
Puzzled, she wrinkles up her nose at me. “What are you talking about?”
I tilt my head slightly in his direction, and Delaney turns to look. Her reaction is immediate. A vivid pink blush races up her neck to her cheeks. I’m instantly intrigued, because Laney doesn’t get flustered over guys. Ever.
“Jesus, Maddie.” She sweeps her gaze back to me. “Give a girl some warning next time, will you?”
“I thought that’s what I was doing.”
“I didn’t know he was staring, and I didn’t know he looked like that.” She seems to be struggling to compose herself. “I mean, he’s not really my type. If I even had a type, which I don’t. He looks too—too perfect. Like a walking Malibu Ken doll.”
“I wonder if he’s anatomically correct. Maybe you can take him out to play.”
“Ughh, stop! Seriously.”
I am grateful for this distraction, to be focusing on something other than my aching heart. “Why are you so keyed up, Lane?” I tease.
“I don’t know. I’m not,” she snaps. “Look away. Nothing to see here.”
“I beg to differ. This is a first.”
“Well, it’s going to be the last. This is fucking ridiculous. I don’t even know him. It’s just some weird, exaggerated reaction, I guess...probably because I haven’t been with anyone in so long.” Her eyes are round, anxious. “Do you think that’s it?”
She is genuinely agitated about this—so much so that I want to comfort her rather than tease her. I’m just about to reply when I’m interrupted by someone approaching our table: Sean, our newly-hired agent at Maine Coastal. He’s extremely likable, tall and lanky with an easy smile and kind eyes. He has the perfect temperament for an agent—in tune to his clients’ needs and eager to help without being pushy. Angie has noted on more than one occasion that he seems to be “highly-appreciative” of me as a boss. I know what she’s trying to sell, and I’m not buying. Nothing against Sean—it’s just that he’s not Jack.
No one is Jack.
“Hey, Madeline.”
“Hi, Sean. Great band tonight.”
“I know, right? The drummer’s a buddy of mine.”
I have the very distinct feeling that the tables have turned, and Delaney is now eyeing me with interest. I’m not flustered, however, because you can’t get flustered when your heart is closed. “Under construction” is what Laney calls it. Which leads me to think renovation, and then…
A poke in my side from Laney. I introduce her to Sean, and he pulls a chair over to sit with us. It’s loud in the bar, people singing along to the band’s version of Margaritaville. Sean is saying something to me but I can’t hear him. I lean in closer, our heads almost touching, just as the last person I expected to see tonight walks in.
Jack. Decker. Is. Here.
My heart does a flip-twist, and then clutches as I realize he may not be alone. Within seconds, I can confirm that he’s with someone, but it’s a guy—short and rugged with a beard, both of them scoping out the place.
He sees me. Recognition, surprise flashing across his face, and then a fierceness I haven’t seen before.
What is that about?
And as soon as I think the question, I know the answer.
He thinks I’m with Sean.
There’s a glowing in my chest from the realization that Jack is jealous. Because in order to be jealous, you have to actually care.
He cares.
“Um, Maddie?” Laney lifts one perfectly-shaped eyebrow and smiles at me anxiously. “Sean was just asking you a question.”
I snap my attention back to Sean. He’s looking at me with puzzlement and a hint of embarrassment, since it’s obvious I haven’t been listening. I apologize without giving an excuse, thinking it might make it worse if I said something like, my former lover’s standing over near the doorway, and all I can think about is his mouth and hands and—
“No worries, Madeline. I was just asking if I could buy you and Delaney a drink. Unless there’s something in my Maine Coastal contract that prohibits it.” He grins, and damn, I really do feel badly, because he’s so nice and eager.
I laugh and tell him there’s nothing against it in the contract, but I’d feel like I’d have to pay him more if he starts buying his boss drinks, and I really don’t want to pay him more. He laughs, too, and I’m vindicated for not listening earlier.
When Sean turns to look at the band, I get Laney’s attention. JACK, I mouth. Her eyes widen, and I’m trying to figure out how to discreetly let her know where he’s standing.
Only I don’t need to worry.
He’s not there anymore.
Quickly, I scan the New Moon crowd, my eyes flicking over a palette of plaid shirts and fringe-y vests and fall-colored sweaters.
He’s not there.
A raw, gnawing ache begins to spread in my stomach. Did I imagine him? No. I couldn’t have dreamed up the way he looked at me, what I saw on
his face. Did seeing me at a table with another man rattle him to the point of having to leave? Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe he didn’t like the band...it was too crowded...his friend suggested they check out another bar...or, more likely, he thought it would be too awkward with me here.
Delaney and Sean are talking easily, comfortably—a good thing, because I can excuse myself to go use my phone and not feel like I’m being rude to my new agent for the second time.
I push back my chair and sling the strap of purse over my shoulder as Laney looks up in surprise. “I’ll be back in a few. Just need to use the bathroom.” Not exactly a lie; I’m going to head over there to the dark little hallway outside the restrooms for some privacy. I’m feeling brave enough—or maybe it’s desperate enough—to call Jack.
Approaching the restrooms, I weave past a stocky, thirty-something pseudo-cowboy in a Stetson. He’s weaving a bit himself, grinning at me like I’m a calf he wants to rope. I flash him what I hope is a friendly, non-flirty smile before stepping into the hallway and am just about to take my phone out of my purse when I feel a hand close around my wrist. It is not a gentle hand. And it belongs to the pseudo-cowboy.
“Hey, little lady...where you off to?”
Little lady? Who even says that? “The bathroom,” I say coolly, trying to slide my hand out of his grip and hoping he won’t actually notice.
He notices. His fingers squeeze tighter, and now he’s backing me up into the end of the hallway, toward the men’s bathroom. I can smell the beer on his breath, wafting over me. I don’t want to struggle and let him know I’m scared, but I can’t just let him push me around like this. Fear creeps up my throat like bile, and I swallow, determined to stay calm—telling myself that I’m in a public place, that he won’t be able to do anything.
“It just so happens that I’m going to the bathroom, too,” he chuckles. “Why don’t we go in together?” Now he has both my wrists, pushing them behind my back so that my arms are bent uncomfortably. He puts his mouth to my ear and drops his voice. “I can lock the door so we can have some privacy. What do you say? Just you and me.”
This is getting a bit too real. I am just about to introduce my knee to his genitals when suddenly, it’s like he’s ripped away from me. His arms wave wildly, comically, as he struggles to keep his balance and then plops down on the scuffed floor with an astonished oomph.
It’s Jack. Towering over the pseudo-cowboy, his face darkened with anger. The man scrambles to his feet, his boots slipping on the tile, holding up his hands and grinning nervously. “Hey, buddy...no harm done here...just trying to have a little fun. Wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
Jack grabs him by the shirt, shoves him against the wall. He’s easily a foot taller. “Hey, buddy... I suggest you get the fuck out of here before I decide to have a little fun with you. Only in this case, hurt would be involved.”
Pseudo-cowboy looks terrified—to the point I’m almost feeling sorry for him. Almost. Jack steps back, and the guy stumbles out of the hallway and back toward the bar.
“Fucking moron,” Jack mutters. Immediately, he turns his attention to me, his anger replaced by concern. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I rub my wrists which still hurt a bit and shift my purse strap higher on my shoulder. “I’m glad you showed up.” I soak in the feel of his intense blue eyes, a rush of longing cascading through me. My God, just to look at him again, the strength in his handsome face making me feel weak in the knees...
“I’m glad, too.”
“Jack...I don’t even know if you were thinking this, but the man at the table with me...I wanted to explain—”
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Madeline.” The muscles in his face seem to tighten with a sort of resignation. The intensity in his eyes cools and fades, until it feels like we are just two people who knew each other a long time ago.
He called me Madeline instead of Callaway.
Any hope that I had flutters and then stills, like a leaf in a dying breeze.
I try to hold his eyes with mine just one more time before I manage a smile, whisper okay and return to my table where Laney is sitting alone.
“Girlfriend! Everything okay? I was thinking I might need to send a search party looking for you.”
“Everything’s okay. I just saw Jack, who apparently doesn’t want to see me.”
“Ohh. Ugh. I’m sorry, Mads.”
There’s a pit growing in my stomach. I want to fill it up with alcohol. Maybe lots of alcohol. “Where’s Sean?”
“At the bar, talking to a girl he used to date. She called him over, but I think he’d rather be sitting here with you.”
I shake my head. “He’s so nice, but number one, no office romances, and number two, I’m not interested.”
“And number three, you’re in love with your carpenter.”
Her words pelt me like hail. My mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.
“When are you going to tell him, Maddie?”
I don’t know how to respond, what to think. All I can do is feel: the burning in my eyes, the aching of my heart. The hopelessness.
“Just think about it, Mads. It might be what you need to do.” Laney gets up, tightens her ponytail and bends down to give me a quick hug. “I’m going to hunt down our waitress and see about getting us a pitcher of margaritas. Be right back—love you lots.”
“Love you lots, too.”
There’s a vibration from my purse hanging on the chair. My phone. A text. Rekindled hope, bubbling up inside me as I fight to tamp it down with cold reality.
Madeline, I know you’ve been resistant so far, but please say you’ll meet with me. All I’m asking is just for one meeting.
My Christ. I want to scream, cry, throw my empty glass, tip over the table. Paul apparently still doesn’t get the concept of ex-husband. When will this fucking stop?
Probably, when I meet with him.
All right, Paul. I’ll give you what you fucking want. A meeting, nothing more. I may not be able to change things with Jack, but I can with Paul. I need to at least feel like I have part of my life under control.
I punch out a reply text with savage thumbs. Will you promise to leave me alone if I say I’ll meet with you?
Yes. I promise.
I take a deep breath. Better to get this over with sooner than later. Tomorrow night, 5:30. My house.
Okay. Thank you. See you then.
I put my phone away as Laney’s words slip back into my mind.
And number three, you’re in love with your carpenter.
Damn you, Laney, for even thinking that.
Damn you for speaking the truth.
Chapter 33 ~ Jack
October 16
I guess I’ll blame Owen for my current fucked-up state of mind. He’s the one who asked me to go with him to New Moon while Dayna was out with her sister, and if we hadn’t gone there, I never would have run into Callaway. The thing is, I was also happy as hell to see her, after almost three weeks. At least, until I realized she had a guy at her table that seemed into her. Not that I can blame him. Jesus, she looked gorgeous with her hair kind of half-up/half down, big hoop earrings, white blouse and jeans. Jeans that fit her ass perfectly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and that turned out to be a good thing after that drunk idiot followed her to the bathroom. After I got rid of him, I had all I could do not to back her up against the wall and show her how much I’d missed her. Luckily, I came to my senses.
Owen further fucked things up by being too goddamned observant. He was watching me watch Callaway sitting with that dude and called me on it. “Deck...are you jealous?” And then he kept shaking his head, looking all pleased with himself and telling me buddy, you got it bad.
The fucker. I tried to brush it off, but his comments were shaking me up, enough that when I got back to my place, I tossed and turned all night, even after jacking off. I couldn’t even escape with that, because the only woman I imagined was Callaway.
So I rolled over and pulled open my nightstand drawer, where some pathetic fuck stashed a photo of a girl he can’t seem to shake. Moved it from the coffee table so he could feel like she was with him when he slept. Pitiful. Inside my chest there was this feeling of something twisting, and I actually was stressed out that my father’s cardiac genes were making their debut. I stared at her picture and discovered that a person could feel both calmed and wrecked at the same time. Looked at every millimeter of that photo, including the stack of rocks. What was it she’d called it? Cairn. It came to me that she’d told me I should research it, and I still hadn’t.
So I did. What the hell else am I going to do at 2 a.m.?
Cairn: a human-made pile or stack of stones (knew that much). A small breed of terrier with short legs and a shaggy coat. Pretty sure that was Toto. The word “cairn” is Gaelic for “heap of stones.” Apparently, Norse sailors used them before there were lighthouses to help them navigate through the Norwegian fjords. Some people use them as a way to say “I was here,” and they might have spiritual significance. A cairn is a pile of rocks, sometimes set along paths by hikers. They don’t name the trail or point in any direction; they mark the path.
And then I get into some other explanations that kind of hit me—make me think too much, and I wonder if Callaway even knows this info. Maybe that’s why she had me look it up. I don’t know, but the jabs to my chest kicked into high gear, and it was a while before I could settle myself back down.
I’m somehow able to grab a little bit of sleep before morning and the chest pains subside, but the cairn info and the woman who told me to find it stayed with me, all the way through the final touches on the closet renovation I did today in Blue Hill. So much so that at 5:00, after a quick stop at the grocery store to grab a bouquet of wildflowers, I end up on Newbury Neck Road, pulling into her driveway and wondering what the fuck I’m doing.
Seriously. What. The fuck.