Unbreakable

by Ruth Buchanan

  Ann leaned back and folded her arms. “Tell me about it. One time when we were on a trail ride, this little wiener dog came running up yipping at us, and now every time we go down that trail, Tyler’s scared of the place the wiener dog used to be.”

  Lynn laughed. Draining the last of her water through her straw, she turned to Rachel. “So? Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Rachel’s pulse spiked. There was no way they could possibly know she was internet dating. She’d just now registered! She had told no one. She could hardly admit it to herself. “About what?”

  “About your week,” Lynn said slowly.

  Ann nodded. “There’s always something.”

  What could she tell them? Not about running into Myla’s dad so many times. They would just assume she was being paranoid and slipping back into her old ways. She could discuss Lee and Sharon’s wedding plans, of course, but then they might think she was conflicted over Lee marrying Sharon—which was true, but they’d be wrong about why she was conflicted.

  It wasn’t the fact that Lee was marrying Sharon that bothered her. It was the fact that Lee was marrying anyone. But she couldn’t think of a way to say that out loud without reviving their old suspicions about the nature of her relationship with Lee.

  This would have been the perfect time to bring up Ian Smith, had he contacted her that week. But he hadn’t.

  Ann and Lynn stared at Rachel expectantly. She had to come up with something.

  “We started Act II of The Taming of the Shrew.” She lifted her coffee and took a prodigious slurp.

  “Thrilling,” Ann deadpanned.

  Lynn tilted her head to the side. “Is that the one with the short king? I always forget.”

  “No,” Rachel said. “No king.”

  “I must be thinking of Richard III—or, wait. Henry V. I know Hamlet has a king, but I can’t remember if he’s short—”

  Rachel already regretted bringing up Shakespeare with these two. “You’re thinking of King Lear.”

  “My kingdom for a horse,” Ann quoted.

  Rachel almost dropped her coffee.

  Ann arched a brow. “I know things.”

  Rachel never thought she’d be happy to witness the arrival of her chicken pita and rice-stuffed grape leaves, but the food forestalled both their messy descent into Shakespeare and their attempted foray into her personal life. Such as it was.

  Rachel would need to tell them eventually.

  For one thing, internet dating without telling someone was just irresponsible. If she suddenly went missing, how would the authorities know where to start their search if no one knew she’d been meeting strange men she’d met on the internet? Also, Lynn would kill her if she found out Rachel had been internet dating without telling her. Lynn would kill her, Ann would mock her incessantly, and it probably wouldn't work out anyway. And if it wouldn't work out, wouldn’t it be easier not to tell anyone at all so that her subsequent humiliation could be borne in privacy?

  At any rate, if she didn’t even bother to fill out her own profile, she'd never get a match.

  As soon as Rachel got home that night, she plonked herself in front of her laptop, determined not to rise until she’d at least completed a draft of her profile.

  Then she logged onto the site and felt her eyebrows skim her hairline.

  There must be more lonely men in the world than she’d thought. Without even filling out a word of her profile, she had already received two messages.

  9

  Why she would break into a nervous sweat at the thought of reading two simple messages—from men she’d asked to be paired with—was beyond her. There was no need to be nervous. These men wouldn’t even know she had read their messages.

  Wait, would they?

  Maybe they would. What if this worked like those social media sites that showed senders their messages had been read? She should have spent more time reading the orientation material.

  It was too late now. She’d already clicked the first message.

  Hey, grl. Lookin gud.

  Wait, seriously? She scrolled up and down, searching for the rest of the message. But that was it. Not even bothering to click on the man’s name to read his profile, Rachel hovered over the potential partner and clicked delete.

  Deleting this message will permanently end your dance session, the system informed her. Are you sure you want to stop the music?

  Most definitely.

  The second message was somewhat more substantial, although less than helpful when it came to gauging what sort of man he might be.

  I see you’ve joined. but you haven’t filled out your profile yet. message me when you have it done and I’ll take a look.

  “I’m not your secretary,” Rachel told him, clicking delete again. Again, the system asked her if she was sure.

  Positive.

  Her stomach cramped. This whole thing had been a mistake. Thank goodness no one knew. If she hadn’t already paid for several months of service, she would have deleted her profile right then and washed her hands of the scheme.

  But she’d already paid. It would be a shame to waste that investment. Besides, how else would she meet Resolution Four?

  Grimly, Rachel settled down to fill out her profile, determined to make the best of the situation. If nothing else, she’d have some stories to tell down the road—should she ever bring herself to divulge them to another living soul.

  ~*~

  Rachel’s favorite Saturday morning activities generally involved a long sleep, a leisurely session of housework, and buckets of coffee.

  Not today.

  Instead, because of a promise she’d made to “help out” and “be more supportive,” this Saturday morning involved none of her favorite things—except, of course, the buckets of coffee. No morning was possible without that.

  At 7:30, Rachel silenced her alarm for the last time. At 7:45, she stood before the mirror, winding her wet curls into a bun on the top of her head and foregoing makeup—who cared what she looked like, anyway? It was too early for this. By 7:50, she was in the car on her way across town to meet Sharon and Lee. As she drove, she knocked back another coffee. She thought it would at least make the morning bearable, but she was wrong.

  There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to do that.

  By their third location of the morning, Rachel no longer worried that Lee and Sharon might not find a venue. She was more worried she might strangle Sharon.

  Sharon Day. Sweet, fresh-faced, Sharon Day who loved Lee. Who made him happy. Who was sweet and kind and unassuming and seemed pathologically incapable of forming a single opinion.

  The three stood together in the center of the botanical gardens, the pride of local retired botanists. The lush scents of hibiscus, jasmine, and oleander mingled on the breeze. The morning sun, bright but not yet warm on this late-January morning, created sharp contrasts of light and shade, highlighting the rich colors and variegated greens. In the stillness, cicadas whined and bobwhites called one another from tree to tree.

  “I don’t know.” Sharon’s head swiveled and her eyes blinked. “I like it, but do I like it?”

  “I think it’s gorgeous,” Rachel said. Then she sneezed. Stupid allergies. Fishing in her bag for tissues, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Not that you’d get married out here. You’d have the ceremony in the entrance hall. That’s what they told me at the desk. But the hall overlooks the gardens—see those windows? Anyway. If you have the ceremony here, you might want to plan an afternoon wedding. Pollen counts tend to be lower later in the day.” She sneezed again, and her messy bun exploded. An avalanche of curls descended precipitously.

  She pushed the mess back just in time to behold Lee—arm slung casually around Sharon’s shoulder—tip back his head and smile toward the sky.

  He loved it. Rachel could tell. She’d noticed him eyeing the massive windows in the hall with appreciation. No doubt they left the inside as well-lit as the gardens outside. As if he could pass up lighti
ng like that. Surreptitiously checking the time on her phone, Rachel noted that a mid-morning wedding, with a lunch reception to follow, would be the best choice for this venue.

  If, that is, Sharon could bring herself to figure out if she liked it liked it.

  “I want to see inside the butterfly house too.” Sharon’s voice had gone misty. “But they only open it during tours this time of year.”

  Rachel prepared to push toward a final decision—it was why she’d been asked along, after all—when a glance at the couple silenced her completely. Lee had tipped his head sideways to rest his cheek on the top of Sharon’s head, while Sharon leaned against his chest. The light, the fragrant morning air, the softly tweeting birds, and the lovely serenity of a couple effortlessly in sync.

  It was too much. Turning on her heel, Rachel stalked up the sidewalk toward the main building in search of the bathroom. It didn’t feel rude to leave them like that, soaking in the beauty of the morning and basking in each other’s presence.

  Rachel took her time in the restroom, standing under the automated hand dryer until her fingers were bone dry. As soon as the happy couple rose from the fog and noticed she’d disappeared, Lee would text her and they’d get back on track. The fact her phone hadn’t chirped yet was a sign that she should linger. She didn’t, however, want to linger in the bathroom. She didn’t want anyone wondering just why she was spending so much time in there. She imagined a small group of elderly volunteers gathering outside the restroom door, daring one another to go in and check on her. She couldn’t have that.

  When Rachel pulled open the swinging restroom door, she noted someone waiting nearby. He faced the tall windows overlooking the gardens, his silhouette backlit in a full-body nimbus of brilliant white-gold.

  Just before he turned, she recognized him.

  10

  At the sound of the bathroom door closing, Craig Crocker swung around.

  Rachel’s stomach rolled. This had to be a dream. A terrible dream in which a perfectly normal, friendly man appeared before her in maddeningly regular intervals, tempting her to return to her Old-Rachel ways.

  And Old Rachel definitely had something to say about this. Her blood pressure spiked, and she tamped down a rising panic.

  But she couldn’t alert him of her suspicions. Moreover, she shouldn’t even have suspicions. The Resolutions said so. She should play it cool and let New Rachel handle this.

  “Hello!” She waved, slapped on a smile, and blinked a rapid-fire imitation of Sharon at her most bemused. She minced forward and extended her hand, hiding her shudder when Myla’s dad stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly before releasing. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was waiting for you,” he said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. He lifted his hands to the small of his back and rotated his hips slightly, stretching as if waiting for her had caused him to stiffen up. As if he waited outside restrooms for her every day of the year. Which—come to think of it—maybe he did.

  No time to think about that. She needed to pay attention to what her face was doing. He couldn’t suspect—what? She wasn’t even sure she was done forming her own suspicions yet. But still. He couldn’t know that she had suspicions. She folded her arms and attempted a light laugh. “Fancy running into you here. I’m just here with—”

  At that moment, the retired volunteer who had smiled at her earlier bustled up, saving Rachel from what would certainly have been a convoluted explanation. He grasped their hands and pulled them forward, croaking, “The informational talk on butterfly habitats is starting, with a tour of the butterfly house to follow. You two lovebirds won’t want to miss it.”

  Rachel tugged against the pulling hand. “Oh, no. We’re not—”

  But it was too late. They’d already rounded the corner into the foyer, and the butterfly talk was underway. The petite septuagenarian giving the talk shot Rachel a dirty look for causing a disruption, and heads turned their way.

  Torn between shame and horror, Rachel wilted into the crowd and tried to look apologetic. Where were Lee and Sharon?

  Spotting Rachel, Sharon waved her over, mouthing we’re taking the tour and giving a thumbs-up. Of course they were.

  Lee glared over the top of Sharon’s head, his eyes caught on something just over Rachel’s shoulder.

  Craig Crocker slid up behind her. “Shall we join your friends?” he whispered against her ear.

  At the gentle pressure of his hand against the small of her back, Rachel stepped forward as well. “Well, no, I didn’t really plan to—”

  “Are you joining us?” asked the tiny butterfly woman, hands on hips and eyes shooting daggers. “Because if you are, I’ll have to ask you to keep your voices down.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rachel tried to step back, but Craig Crocker’s hand did not budge. She slanted a look at him, but he merely smiled back at her, the picture of innocence.

  Was this really happening? Could she really believe that Myla’s dad had somehow followed them all over town this morning while they'd visited wedding venues, waiting for the chance to get Rachel alone so that he could—what? Flirt with her some more? It wasn’t as if he were trying to kidnap her or anything, unless kidnappers generally escorted their victims on butterfly tours before abducting them.

  Which they didn’t. Which meant she had been doing it again—blowing everything out of proportion. No doubt once the butterfly talk was over, Myla’s dad would explain how he wound up at the botanical gardens on a Saturday morning. It was a coincidence that they’d bumped into each other. Rachel would laugh at herself for overreacting, and this would become a footnote in her Resolutions Notebook.

  Wasn’t that the whole point of the resolutions? To keep from working herself into a lather before she had time to slow down and evaluate logically? Besides, even if Craig Crocker were following her—she hesitated to use the word stalking, even in her head—it seemed unlikely that anything would happen here amidst the butterflies, with Lee and Sharon and an interested crowd of septuagenarians looking on.

  “It’s fine,” Rachel said to the butterfly woman, forcing a smile. She made eye contact with Lee, willing him to stop glaring daggers at Myla’s dad. “It’s fine,” she told them. “It’s fine,” she repeated to the surrounding group. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in one of the large windows. “It’s fine.”

  The butterfly tour ended where it had started in the airy, sun-drenched foyer. As the little group dispersed, Rachel waited for Craig Crocker to make his excuses and peel away.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he shook Lee’s hand and made small talk about Myla and how she was doing at her new school. Rachel realized belatedly that with all the worrying she’d been doing, she’d forgotten to ask about Myla.

  She was a terrible person. A terrible person who was hardly listening to the update on Myla because she was too busy worrying about worrying.

  She had to get a grip.

  The four of them exited the botanical gardens together, stepping into the brightness of the parking lot. To avoid being the next person to speak, Rachel made a production of digging in her bag for her sunglasses, rooting around as if she expected to unearth the Lost City of Atlantis.

  Lee stopped abruptly at the nearest row of cars and turned on his heel, placing himself directly in Craig Crocker’s path. “So. Where are you headed next? I’ve got serious brunch plans with my two girls.” He gestured back and forth between Rachel and Sharon. Myla’s dad had to understand that this did not constitute an invitation.

  To his credit, he handled this with aplomb. He offered handshakes all around, and wished first Rachel and then the group a good morning and a good weekend. With a last friendly grin, he tilted his hips forward to stretch his back, sighed, and made his way across the parking lot.

  Sharon watched him go, her eyelids batting and her jaw at half-mast. She’d never taught Myla, but she had to recognize Craig Crocker from car line. “What a coincide
nce that he was here!” she said wonderingly.

  Lee watched narrowly, seemingly intent on making sure he actually left.

  Rachel drew in deep, shallow breaths and began to pray. If she’d ever needed the Holy Spirit to help her with discernment, it was now.

  With the promised brunch behind her, Rachel texted Ann and Lynn, calling for an emergency summit at Stu’s for that evening.

  Whatever it is, Ann texted back, can’t it wait for tomorrow? I’m tired and want to go to bed early.

  No, Rachel texted back, this is too important to wait.

  ~*~

  They put in their drink orders before diving in. “What is it?” Ann asked. “Let’s get this over with so I can go home and get some sleep.”

  Rachel glowered. “How would you feel if you had a problem and called us here to ask for help, and I showed up saying stuff like that?”

  “I don’t know. Next time I call you both here to help me sort out my life, we can find out.”

  Lynn cleared her throat. “This is hardly helpful.”

  “You’re right,” Ann said. “Staying on track will help us get this over with faster. Thanks.”

  Lynn tilted her head back and stared at Ann.

  “Sorry,” Ann said, running a hand down her face. “It’s horse show weekend.”

  Rachel folded her arms, feeling suddenly guilty. She knew horse show weekends tended to run Ann ragged. But still. She needed to remind them of the obvious. “You have to admit I’ve been doing better lately. I mean, how long has it been since I called an emergency summit?” She looked back and forth between her sister and her friend. When neither of them said anything, she smiled. “It’s been weeks.”

  Lynn smiled. “I knew the resolutions would be good for you.”

  Ann yawned. “They’ve been good for all of us.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Rachel flared.

  Ann rubbed her eyes. “I thought you had something to tell us.”

  Normally, such an open invitation would have seemed a godsend. But Ann was just trying to get this over with. Rachel felt a perverse impulse to change the subject.