You could not be a single mother and go all out to give your kid goodness and love and have pride.
Mom had taught me that too.
And my mom had had no one. There wasn’t anybody to help out when she did overtime or was scheduled for a late shift or had to work a weekend.
And she’d still given us nothing but goodness, love and beauty.
So I knew how to give it to my son.
No matter what it cost me.
“So, is Toby coming?” Deanna asked as I folded one of Brooks’s onesies.
“He hasn’t texted, but probably,” I answered.
“Mm,” she hummed over the phone.
Uh-oh.
Okay, we couldn’t do this.
The only other person who was out there, open and honest, and didn’t have a problem sharing what was on her mind more than me was Deanna.
And, of course, Margot.
Iz mulled things over, then she shared.
I could be that way too.
But mostly I was out there.
Not about Toby.
And even though I hoped I was good at hiding my feelings for Toby from Toby, women sniffed that kind of shit out faster than snot.
But it went without saying I wasn’t in the mood, nor ever would be in the mood, to discuss my one-sided feelings about Toby with anybody, not even a chick as awesome as Deanna.
“Anyway, I’m folding laundry,” I said to my phone that was lying on top of the dryer, on speaker. “Then I have to get down to making some cards for Macy.”
This was new, and it was awesome, seeing as I’d made a birthday card for a co-worker, she’d thought it was the shit, and she was tight with Macy of Macy’s Flower Shop. Macy had been at her house, seen the card, asked about it, then she’d come right up to me at my register at the grocery store to ask if I’d do some notecards for her flower deliveries and also told me she’d stock some special occasion greeting cards to sell in her store.
I did not tell her I used scraps and bits and castoffs I found at yard sales, garage sales and in craft store bargain bins.
Mom had taught me to make cards like Mom had taught me and Izzy how to do everything.
On the cheap.
I took to it immediately. It was my thing. I was good at it. It was an outlet for me, the only creative one I had. I could spend hours making cards with the bits and pieces I had, and it’d feel like minutes.
Macy marked that stuff up huge, as a luxury add-on for her deliveries and had the cards displayed in her store, and it shocked the crap out of me they sold like hotcakes.
It was only a little extra and it wasn’t like it paid the water bill. But it had filled the tank of the car. Twice.
But since I made way more money selling them to Macy then it cost me in materials, and I didn’t care about the time it took because I had no TV and that’s what I did when Brooklyn was asleep, I’d take it.
“I should get some of your cards. I’ve got some birthdays coming up. And it might put Charlie’s mother in a good mood if I sent her a special Christmas card,” Deanna replied. “But if I do that, I gotta do it for my momma too. And my sister. So I’ll order up three special Christmas cards and send you an email about the birthday ones.”
This was probably an act of pity couched vaguely in kindness.
I didn’t care.
I’d maybe make twenty or thirty dollars.
Another tank of gas.
And I’d take that too.
“I’ll get on them tonight,” I told her, matching some of Brooklyn’s socks.
“Right then. But before I let you go, with Christmas around the corner, and this going on now for months, it’s high time we had a chat about what you’re gonna be doing about Toby.”
I stopped matching socks.
There it was.
Deanna was open and out there and totally did not beat around the bush.
Hell.
“You know that storm is gonna blow, baby girl,” she told me confusingly. “Might as well have it blow soon, before the holidays, so we can all have a good one without that hanging over our heads.”
Now I was staring at my son’s socks not seeing them.
The storm was gonna blow?
What storm?
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You two just gotta get together. Johnny won’t like it, but he’ll deal. And if it doesn’t work out, we’re all adults, including you and Toby, we’ll all deal.”
Now I was holding on to the edge of the dryer and staring at my son’s socks, not seeing them.
“What are you talking about?” I repeated in a whisper.
Deanna was quiet a second before she replied, “What do you mean, what am I talking about?”
“I mean, what are you talking about?” I reiterated with some significant stress on the significant words.
Deanna was quiet for a lot longer than a second before she queried, “You know he’s into you, right?”
No, he was not.
That was what I knew.
“He’s just a good guy,” I replied. “Both the Gamble men are good guys.”
“You’re right about that,” Deanna agreed. “Though one is a good guy who’s gonna marry Izzy and one’s a good guy who’s into you.”
“Deanna, he’s not,” I disagreed.
“Addie, he is. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve noticed I’ve been adopted as like . . . a member of the family.”
“A member of the family whose pants Toby Gamble wants to get his hands down.”
Oh my God.
I wished.
No, no, no.
I could not wish that.
Shit!
“That’s just not true.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said quietly.
“His brother is marrying my sister,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, and I get that might give both of you pause before starting something. But you’re good people, he’s good people, and—”
I cut her off. “I see you think differently, Deanna, but that wall is up. Toby put it up. Honestly, when I met him, outside that meeting being exceedingly humiliating, I was absolutely not in a place I was gonna take up with another guy, that other guy being the mess that might come of him being my sister’s boyfriend’s brother or not. But since then, it’s been friends only. Little sister stuff. Hang. Have a laugh. Do family things together. Get the hell gone the minute anyone else isn’t around.”
“Yeah, that’s because he wants to get his hands down your pants and he’s not real big on what Johnny would think if he did, so he’s removing himself from the temptation.”
Oh my God.
I wished.
But for once, Deanna had something wrong.
It was actually a shock. She was a wise woman, intuitive, observant.
But this one she had not read right.
“No,” I retorted. “Because I overheard him talking to his friend Bryce on the phone, and when Bryce mentioned me, he’d said yes, he thought I was hot. He’d then shared he was never gonna go there, not just because I was Johnny’s woman’s sister but because I was baggage. He avoided baggage, especially since he was probably not going to hang around Matlock. He then went on to say he liked me. I was awesome. And did Bryce want Toby to fix me up with him. Bryce apparently was feeling him out because about half an hour later, Toby asked if I was in for him fixing me up with his buddy Bryce.”
This had happened.
And now, with it out, unable to keep it firm where it should be in the back of my head, I had to think about it.
Think about how earth-shattering that had been.
Think about how I’d been right that first time I met Toby. The first time I’d seen that top-to-toe perfection. That thick black hair slicked back from a widow’s peak. His long black beard. His tall, lean body with its broad shoulders and narrow hips and loose-limbed grace. The compassion in his crow-black eyes as he stared down at me after
I’d endured yet another blow from the man I’d foolishly selected to be my husband.
The blow that everyone got to watch land and crush me.
Including Toby.
But now it was out, I had to think about how I knew a man who looked like that, who could share such feeling just with his gaze, who could talk so gently with that low, rich voice, would never be for someone like me.
Sweet, shy, cute Izzy—she scored Johnny Gamble.
Wild child Addie—I scored a jackass like Perry.
It did not help in the coming weeks I’d learn Tobias Gamble was the sharp edge to Johnathon Gamble’s enduring anvil.
And damn, but that was totally my thing.
Yes, in those weeks I’d learned Toby wore his faded jeans loose on his hips, his tees were kickass and clung tight to his shoulders and pecs and slack at his flat abs and trim waist, and that rocked.
I’d further learned when he worked on cars at the garage he half-owned, he played hardcore metal and he did it loud.
I’d also learned he had wanderlust. He’d taken his forestry degree and put it to work as a logger and a park ranger and he had his pilot’s license.
I’d learned he laughed easy.
I’d learned how he looked at Dave with complete respect, Johnny with open affection, and Margot with unhidden adoration. How he teased Iz like he’d known her for years and folded her into their family without a pause.
And last, I’d learned he had a singular talent of putting up with me because I was part of the Izzy Package, and from what Deanna was saying, clearly hiding he was doing it.
Though he really dug my kid.
So that was something.
“He called you baggage?” Deanna asked incredulously.
“He didn’t use that word, but he did tell Bryce I had heavy shit I was dealing with,” I told her.
“That’s a lot different than calling you baggage, Addie.”
“Well, Bryce obviously asked him if he was going there and he’d said I had heavy shit, and while I was sorting it out, I didn’t need to get hooked up with a wanderer who might not stick around. I needed something steady, so he wasn’t interested.”
“And again, that’s a lot different than saying you were baggage and he avoided baggage,” Deanna kept to her theme.
“Maybe to a woman who’s been married for years to the love of her life, Deanna, but out here in the world of the single woman . . . no, the single mom, what he said translated means he’s not interested . . . at all.”
“I’m not sure—” she began.
“Do you think a Gamble man wouldn’t go for what he wanted no matter what?” I asked.
Deanna didn’t have a response to that.
This was because we both knew a Gamble man went for what he wanted no matter what.
Hell, Iz had Johnny’s ginormous rock on her finger, was living with him and he’d had stables especially built for her horses at his property, and they hadn’t even been seeing each other for a year.
Yeah.
A Gamble man went after what he wanted, locked it down, and then . . . onward.
“Listen, I’m not saying anything against Toby,” I spoke into her silence. “I get it. He’s not into me. That’s understandable. I am baggage. And Deanna, you have to remember, I watched this kind of thing happen with my mom over and over again. After my dad, she looked for love. She had an open and hopeful heart. She wanted that for herself. She wanted stability for her girls. And she got knocked down again and again by guys who wanted in her pants but wanted nothing to do with some other man’s kids. At least Toby’s honest about it. That genuinely says good things about him. Really good. And I appreciate it.”
This was a total lie.
I did not appreciate it.
I was attracted to Toby Gamble.
I wanted to taste his mouth and other parts of him.
I wanted to feel his skin and see what his body looked like under those tees and jeans.
I wanted to fuck him. I wanted that to be wild and intense and so enthralling, the world ceased to exist, all of it, except what we were doing to each other and how it was making us feel.
I wanted to sleep beside him.
I wanted to wake up next to him.
I wanted to feel his arms around me. Not like they were that terrible afternoon when I’d sobbed into his neck and he’d carried me to Izzy’s bed or that other, far more terrible afternoon when my baby had been stolen from me.
I just wanted him to hold me.
I wanted Brooklyn to grow up with a man like Toby Gamble. Not just as his somewhat uncle who would lift him high and make him fly or let him crawl all over him when we were at a diner eating burgers just because me and my son were there, and he was a decent guy who liked kids. But as a guy who was always there, eventually showing my boy the way in matters his mother could not.
I wasn’t in love with him.
But I knew if he gave me even the barest hint he’d even think of going there with me, I’d take that fall.
And when I did, if it didn’t work, I also knew it would annihilate me.
Perry had been about me finding my father. As much as I wanted to deny that truth, looking back, I could not.
When I’d met him—with the edge he’d convinced me he’d had, the rock ’n’ roll dreamer who could murder a guitar riff and rasp out a thumping song—the rebel in me was convinced I could walk in my mother’s footsteps but do it right.
I’d learned like I always learned.
You couldn’t tell me dick.
I had to fuck up and then I’d know.
And never do it again.
Now, I had a son.
And he was everything.
I couldn’t take those risks anymore. Especially not the ones involving my heart.
I couldn’t learn lessons the hard way.
Because Brooks would be forced to take those knocks with me.
And that could not happen.
So Toby Gamble built his wall.
And I was gonna stay on my side.
For Brooklyn.
And for Izzy.
Also for Johnny.
For me.
And last, for Toby.
“I’m not sure you’re reading this sitch right, baby girl,” Deanna said gently.
“I am,” I replied firmly. I went back to matching socks and assured, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Is the man beautiful? Yeah. Is he a good guy? Totally. In a dream world would I think about going there? For sure. But I don’t live in a dream world, honey. I live in the real world. Always have. The only time I strayed off that path was when I took a shot with Perry. And I can’t say that was a total loss, because I have Brooks. So in the end, it’s all good.”
At least that was true.
From what the utility bills I’d opened that night told me, and what that would mean to my bank balance and my ability to buy my son Christmas presents, and, say . . . food, many wouldn’t think that was the case.
But the life I’d lived, I knew it was.
“Okay, Addie,” Deanna murmured.
“So I’ll see you and Charlie around five on Sunday?” I asked.
“Sure thing, babe,” she assured. “And, well, sorry if I upset you about the Toby thing.”
“You didn’t upset me. It’s cool. It just isn’t what you think.”
“Right,” she muttered doubtfully.
Hmm.
“You take care,” she went on.
“You too. Love you. Later.”
“Love you back. And later.”
We disconnected. I put all that firmly in the back of my mind. Then I finished folding and I left the clothes across the top of the washer and dryer to add the ones from the next load when it was dry. I’d put them away in the morning, or maybe the next evening. Brooklyn wasn’t a light sleeper, but as much as I loved my baby boy, I got tons done when he was down, and I didn’t need to be waking him up by opening and closing drawers in his room.
I took the baby monit
or with me when Dapper Dan and I went to Izzy’s upstairs office, which I’d converted into my card-making room after she moved out, and I moved Brooks out of the office where he’d been staying into the guestroom and me into the master.
I was hand painting some pine needles across the top of a card from which I was going to tack some ornaments for Deanna’s Christmas cards, or if she didn’t like them, for Macy’s shop when my phone vibrated.
The screen said Talon Calling.
That meant Toby.
I called him Talon as a joke.
I also called him Talon because it used to make him laugh, and he had a nice laugh. Now he’d heard it so much he just smiled, and he had an amazing smile, all white teeth in that thick coal beard.
I looked to the door, which was closed, then to the baby monitor, which was on, then I took the call.
“Yo, Talon.”
There was that smile of his in his voice when he replied, “Yo, Lollipop.”
Right.
After opening the mental Toby can of worms, that was killer.
He knew how he got Talon and I kept at it because, first, I liked his smile, and second, his father could actually have named him Talon, and Tobe was the kind of guy who could pull that name off, and last because it reminded me how we met, where we were, and helped me put myself in my place.
I had no idea why he called me Lollipop.
I just knew it was cute and it felt good when he called me that, sweet and sugary and all things that were so not me but could make me think he thought of me that way (when he surely didn’t), and I loved it.
I called him Talon all the time.
He called me Lollipop all the time.
Maybe I should quit calling him Talon so he’d stop calling me Lollipop.
“You phoned,” I prompted. “Did you do that just to listen to me breathing?”
I heard his chuckle.
I loved his chuckle.
Shit.
“Nope. You got lights for the outside?” he asked.
“What?” I asked back.
“Christmas lights,” he explained. “For the outside of your house.”
I stopped with my little brush dipped in green paint suspended over the cardstock.
“Uh . . . no,” I answered.
“I’ll get ’em,” he declared. “White or colored?”
Oh boy.
“Tobe—”
The Slow Burn ~ Kristen Ashley Page 5