I don’t know if I can keep doing this.
Clover eventually comes out, but she’s quiet as she packs her things. She’s angry with me, but I’m not sure what to say to her. I feel like I’ve sacrificed a lot for her since we got together, and she keeps pushing. She wants to take me farther and farther out of my comfort zone. Where does it end?
More importantly, where is this going? How much longer before she decides the stars are telling her to move on, and she does?
We spend most of the three-hour drive home in silence. I can’t stop thinking about our conversation last night. Maybe I’m rushing, to be thinking about marriage. It’s only been six months. But I spent two years with Jennifer, and for most of that time, I knew I’d never marry her. I don’t want to do that again. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
I’m at a point in my life where I want a relationship with at least the potential to be forever. I bought that damn three-bedroom house for a reason: I want to fill it. I want a wife—and, at some point, kids. That’s always been what I want, and nothing has ever changed that. Jennifer didn’t change it, and Clover hasn’t either.
Can I see myself having that life with Clover?
She’s not the type of woman I ever saw coming. If I’d met her some other way—through friends, or at a bar, or at someone else’s party—I don’t know what I would have done. Her smile is infectious, and I would have been entranced. But would I have pursued her? Would I have sought out a relationship with someone so wild and free?
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. I honestly don’t know.
“You can just drop me off at home,” she says when we turn into town. It’s the most she’s spoken to me during the entire drive.
“All right.”
“You don’t get to be mad at me,” she says. “I get to be mad. You’re the one who’s being a dick.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. “How am I the one being a dick?”
“You’re acting like I must be fucking radioactive or something,” she says. “Oh no, you had your dick inside me without a coat on. It’s the end of the world.”
“It’s not about that,” I say.
“Then what is it about?” she asks. “Why have we been sitting in silence for three damn hours?”
“I overslept and missed a meeting, and you act like it doesn’t matter,” I say. “It’s my own fault; I’m not blaming you. I’m the dumbass who kept doing shots. But it’s easy for you to be flippant about it. You don’t understand the pressure I’m under.”
“Right, how can silly little Clover possibly understand?” she says. “She’s just a barista.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You might as well have.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?” she asks.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out what’s really on my mind. “Can you see yourself getting married? Ever?”
“What?” she asks. “Where did that come from?”
“Last night, you said you don’t think you believe in marriage,” I say. “Is that how you really feel?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Mostly I’m trying to keep my head above water. Why are we talking about this?”
I grip the steering wheel. Shit, this conversation is a disaster already. I shouldn’t be saying this. “Because I dated Jennifer for a long time, knowing it wasn’t going anywhere. And I don’t want to do that again.”
She looks at me, open-mouthed. “What am I supposed to say to that? That I’ll marry you someday? That I’ll be a good little doctor’s wife? Son of a bitch, I…” She covers her mouth and looks away. When she speaks again, her voice is breaking, like she’s fighting back tears. “I’m not her, Cody. I’m not that girl.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I have to know. “That it would be a no? You can’t even consider the possibility of a future with me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know what your problem is? You can’t stick with anything because you’re scared. You’re so afraid everyone is going to leave, you do the leaving first.”
“Oh, like you know me so well? You know all about me, don’t you?”
“What the fuck do you need? Does your horoscope have to tell you first? Do you need to see a fucking sign in the stars? I can’t keep doing this if you’re just going to take off one day because you think it’s time to move on. That’s not me. I’m not built that way. I want a life, Clover. I want a future. And I want it here, not moving around like a fucking gypsy.”
Tears run down her cheeks. Damn it, I don’t want to make her cry.
“If you can’t handle me the way I am, I don’t know what we’re even doing,” she says.
Hearing her say that is a punch in the gut. She is going to leave. I’ve done the math before, I know she’s never stayed in one place longer than a year. So that means I have what, another six months before she takes off? At the most?
“I don’t know what we’re doing either,” I say.
I turn onto her street, but I don’t want to stop. If she gets out, I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.
And I wonder if maybe that’s for the best.
I pull up to her house and she flies out of the car. In seconds, she’s inside.
I back out of her driveway and leave.
When I get home, I drop my stuff by the front door, head for the kitchen, and pour myself a drink. I sit on the couch and lean my head back, closing my eyes.
Fuck.
Did I really just end things with her?
I think I did.
I spend the next couple of weeks in a haze. I keep expecting Cody to call me, but he doesn’t. Granted, I don’t call him either. I’m not sure if I’m avoiding him because I want him to be the one to make the first move, or if I don’t want to talk to him.
Either way, I know I said the wrong thing.
I knew I would. As soon as the subject of marriage came up when we were sitting in that bar, I knew. I tried to be casual about it, but inside my heart was racing. Why was he asking me about marriage?
I couldn’t get the image of that family picture on his mantle out of my mind—the one where I don’t belong. My limbs felt jittery and I had to put my drink down so I wouldn’t spill. I deflected pretty well, and getting drunk is usually a good way to avoid being too serious. But I saw it in his eyes. I saw the damage I did when I said I didn’t believe in marriage.
My parents didn’t believe in marriage, and I can’t deny their values are a part of me. But I’ve spent my entire adult life figuring out what I believe, who I am. I’ve had to. I crossed some arbitrary date on the calendar and they decided they were done with me, left me on my own. I’ve been looking for my place in the world ever since, and deep down, I’m terrified I’ll never find it.
Actually, that isn’t true. I’m terrified I will find my place, and I won’t be able to keep it.
My shift at the café is almost over and my feet are killing me. After a short post-lunch rush, all is quiet, and I have a chance to catch up on the closing list. I’m grateful I don’t have to work at the Mark tonight. I love working there, and Gabriel has taught me so much, but working two jobs is wearing on me.
When I’m there, though, I forget how much my feet hurt and lose myself in cooking. I’ve learned so many new things, and Gabriel gives me lots of opportunities to experiment with new foods and flavors. He’s happy with my progress, and already said he’ll have me working full-time by spring. Just a few more months, and I can focus on one job.
Will I still be here in the spring?
The itch to move on is so strong. I pour over my horoscope every morning, wondering if it’s going to tell me it’s time. Will there be a line about new beginnings? About changing scenery? Maybe something about geography—mountains or deserts, somewhere that isn’t the ocean. I convince myself ten times a day that I feel the tingle, that fate is trying to tell me something.
&nbs
p; I’m starting to wonder if I’m lying to myself.
I grab my purse from under the counter and check my phone, wondering if today will be the day Cody calls me. I shouldn’t be disappointed when I find I have no messages. It’s a weekday and he’s at the clinic. He rarely called during the day when we were together. He goes to work and shuts out the rest of the world.
He’s probably not even thinking about me. In a way, I envy his ability to focus like that. I think about him all day long, wondering what he’s doing, whether I should call him. Whether there’s anything I can say to make this right.
Hunter comes in and I duck into the kitchen. Natalie’s out front, so I wait, peeking through the doorway so he won’t see me. I don’t want to talk to him, especially here. Just seeing him reminds me of Cody, and my tummy rolls over.
I don’t know what Cody told his family about me. I assume they all know we broke up. They talk about everything. Maureen probably knew ten minutes after Cody dropped me off at my place.
I haven’t heard from any of them either—but why would I? I’m just the ex-girlfriend who’ll fade from their memory. Someday, Cody will find the right woman. He’ll marry her, and bring her home to his house. His family will stop saying my name.
I need to get out of here—but I have a few more things to do before I can leave, so I bustle around the kitchen, cleaning up. I grab a tray of clean mugs and glance through the doorway again. Hunter takes his coffee to go and leaves out the front door. I sigh with relief and turn to put the mugs away. My foot slips, I lose my grip on the tray, and the entire thing crashes to the floor.
Natalie comes running, and I stare at the broken ceramic.
“Clover, are you okay?”
I put a hand to my forehead. Of course I dropped the mugs. I screw things up. It’s what I do.
“I’m not hurt,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
She helps me clean up the mess. My hands shake the whole time. Natalie assures me several more times that she’s not upset about the mugs. I try to act like it’s not a big deal, but I’m fighting back tears and I don’t want to lose it in front of her. As soon as I can make a graceful exit, I leave out the back and head home.
I know what I have to do the moment I walk in the front door.
I was crazy to think I could have this life. Of course I’m going to mess it up. I always do. Cody left me, like I knew he would.
I’m not the kind of woman he needs. I’m a walking disaster. I act on every whim that comes into my head, without thinking things through. I’m terrible at being a grown up. I forget to pay my bills, and I can pack everything I own into a two-door car.
Cody is mature. He’s serious. He wants a grown-up life. I never could have given that to him, and I was kidding myself to believe I could.
I’ll have to call Gabriel and thank him for the opportunity. But I should get out before I mess things up there, too. I’ll break something, or burn the food in the middle of a busy service, or dump soup on the wait staff. It’s inevitable. He’ll realize I’m not cut out for the job, and that will be it. It will be over.
I pack what I can into some bags and toss them in my car. There’s more inside, but I can’t deal with it. My landlord can have it, or toss it, or give it away. I’ll call her when I get to wherever I’m going. I should be able to pay for next month, so she’ll have time to find a new tenant. She’ll be fine.
I drive through town, my heart beating hard. I’m breathing too fast, and it’s making me dizzy. I have no idea where I’m going. I didn’t bother to figure it out. I should have a destination, but I can’t think clearly.
I’ll just drive until I can’t drive anymore. Then I’ll sleep and drive again. I don’t even care which direction. Maybe I’ll head south. There are miles and miles of freeway if I go south. I can put as much distance between me and this town as I need. I can keep going until the world changes, and I’m not the girl no one would ever want to keep.
I’m falling asleep when I finally pull into a cheap hotel off the freeway. I have no idea where I am, only that if I keep driving I’m going to kill myself—and maybe someone else.
The room is musty, but I don’t have the energy to care. I fall into bed, still dressed, and go to sleep.
***
Lies are harder to deny in the morning.
When I’m tired and scared, it’s easy to believe the story I tell myself. That fate is guiding me. That I had no choice but to go. That I can’t stay even if I want to.
In the morning, in the full light of day, with a surprisingly decent night’s sleep behind me, I have to face the truth: I don’t want to leave Jetty Beach.
I’ve followed what I thought were signs, leading me from place to place. But I can find a sign in anything. I can find a reason to move in the wind, in the sky, in a painting in a restaurant. Do I really believe those things have been speaking to me? Or do I just want to believe, so I don’t have to take responsibility for my life?
That thought hurts like a punch in the nose.
I get back in my car and sit in the parking lot, watching the cars speed by on the freeway—one set of lanes going north, the other south. I could keep driving south. I’ve never been to California. Maybe it’s time.
I shake my head. Maybe it’s time I start making my own choices.
I love my new job, and I don’t want to leave it. I might drop something. I might mess up. But I’m also pretty good at what I do and I have a boss who believes in me. Going back is a risk. Something might change, and I might get fired. Gabriel might discover I’m not the right fit and ask me to leave. Or he could hire me full-time and keep teaching me, and it could be the best job I’ve ever had.
If I don’t go back and take the risk, I’ll never know.
I think about Cody and my chest hurts. I said the one thing I knew would push him away. But it wasn’t because I can’t see myself marrying him someday. It was because I can see it. I can see it all: the church, the white dress, the framed photo on our dining room wall. It’s what I want more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. But I’m afraid.
Afraid he’ll be another person who leaves me behind.
My own parents didn’t want me. Why would he?
I don’t want to cry again, but the tears come anyway. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of waiting for signs. I’m sick of taking stupid risks that don’t mean anything, and being afraid to take the risks that really matter.
I drive out of the parking lot and get on the freeway. Northbound. I know what I’m going to do. I don’t call him—he’s at work already, so he won’t answer if I do. But I’ll be there when he gets home. Maybe he’ll still reject me. I have to steel myself for that. But if I don’t try, I’ll never know. And if I don’t know, I’ll live with the regret for the rest of my life.
I don’t want to live that way anymore.
I have a break between patients, so I eat a sandwich at my desk and check over Lyle Brown’s test results. The last time I saw him, I was able to rule out a number of things. I decided to look past the obvious and I checked him for several autoimmune diseases. Surprisingly, many of his symptoms lined up with polymyalgia rheumatica, a condition that causes pain and limited mobility in the neck, shoulders, and sometimes hips. It wasn’t something I expected to see in a man his age. Lyle’s only in his forties, and it typically doesn’t present in men younger than sixty—and it’s more common in women.
But something told me to pursue it, so I ordered an MRI. What I found was inflammation consistent with polymyalgia rheumatica. His blood work pointed to the same. He came in for another appointment, and I decided to trust my instincts. My gut was telling me this was right, even if he didn’t fit the profile completely. I started him on a low-dose corticosteriod two weeks ago, and had him come back for blood work. His test results indicate a sharp reduction in inflammation, which is a great sign. I’m anxious to see how he’s feeling.
As soon as I come into the exam room,
I can tell the treatment is making a difference. Lyle sits up straighter, and he’s not flexing his hands. His wife sits next to him, her hand on his arm.
I shake hands with both of them. “Lyle, how are you feeling?”
“So much better, Dr. J.,” he says. “It took a few days, but the pain is almost gone.”
His wife beams at me. “Thank you so much. It’s so wonderful to have him feeling better.”
I take a seat on my stool and run through his test results one more time. “Your blood work looks great. The signs of inflammation are down, and that’s exactly what we were looking for. We’re going to keep you on the same dose for another two weeks, and then we’ll need to gradually reduce it. This will take months, so be prepared for that. We can’t reduce your dosage too quickly, or we risk a relapse. But there are side effects—we talked about those at your last appointment. Ideally, a few months from now we’ll be able to back you off the steroid completely and only use it again if your symptoms start to return.”
“Sounds good, Dr. J.”
“So in the meantime, keep working on getting your strength back. And, Mrs. Brown, make sure he’s eating well. Inflammation in the body has a lot to do with what we put in it, so his symptoms are less likely to come back if he follows an anti-inflammatory diet. I’ll send you more information about that when I get to my office so you’ll know what foods to avoid.”
Mrs. Brown nods. “Of course. We’ll do whatever we have to do.”
“Good,” I say. “I’d like to see you in about sixty days for some follow-up blood work, just to be sure. You can schedule that with Maria or at the front desk.”
I stand and Lyle holds out his hand. He shakes with a firm grip. “Thank you again. I can’t tell you what it means to me that you didn’t give up on me.”
“You bet, Lyle,” I say. “I’m only sorry I didn’t get to the bottom of it sooner. What you’re dealing with isn’t common, so it took some digging to figure it out.”
Must Be Fate: (Cody and Clover) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 3) Page 14