by Wendy Owens
“Hey, I made your wedding dress!” I remind her.
“Trust me, I remember, it’s my favorite piece of clothing I own, but I think people might begin to wonder if I’m crazy if I wear it around the shop all day.”
“Artists are eccentric, right?”
“Very true, so maybe I could get away with it.” We both burst out laughing and take a seat on the bed.
“So what’s up?” I inquire.
“Christian told Colin to have you meet him at his studio at eight instead,” Emmie says hesitantly.
“Oh … all right,” I reply, trying not to make it sound like a big deal.
“Well?” she pushes. It is clear she isn’t going to fold easily.
“Well what?” I continue to play dumb.
“I came back from Olivia’s doctor appointment and you said nothing happened. Clearly that wasn’t true.”
“Oh, Christian, that’s nothing,” I insist.
“Nothing? You look amazing, your fiancé is in New York, and you’re supposed to meet up in a few minutes with the only guy who ever broke your heart? That’s not nothing.”
“Emmie,” I say, grasping her hands. “Really, I promise, it’s nothing. If it were something, don’t you think I would have told you?”
“No, I don’t think you would have said a word either way. That’s how you work.”
I laugh. “You do know me too well. But I swear, it’s nothing.”
“Nope, no way—that’s not going to work for me. Spill it, what’s going on?”
“Honestly,” I begin. “I have no clue. It all happened so fast. He came by the gallery this afternoon to deliver a package to me.”
“A package, huh?” she interjects with a sly grin.
“You’ve been down here with the Bennett boys too long,” I remark.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Go on, what happened next?”
“We got to talking and before I knew it, I ‘d agreed to a friends dinner. Whatever the hell that means.”
“I don’t know, sweetie, do you think it’s a good idea?” Emmie asks, her voice heavy with concern.
“No! I think it’s a terrible idea. But before I could change my mind, he was gone. And now, if I don’t show, he’ll make it into a big deal, I’m sure, and say I’m not over him,” I argue.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Over him?”
I look at her in shock. “Of course I am. How could you ask that? I love Henry.”
“I know you do,” she confirms.
“Then why do I always feel like I have to convince you of that?”
“It’s not whether you love Henry that worries me. It’s how much you loved Christian.”
“Loved. That’s in the past. I don’t love him any more,” I reply firmly.
“Okay,” she relents. “I’m sorry. If you say you’re over him, then I’m sure you are.”
I stand, straightening out my dress and quickly glance in the mirror to fix my hair, but not too much as to make it look like I care. “I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun.”
“I doubt I will,” I say and head out the door and down the wooden stairwell, my boots clicking as they hit. The gallery is closed, and I have to exit out of the rear door, which is the one they use for their residence. The wood studio was only just off to the side of that.
I push open the door that has a note with a phone number printed on it advising visitors to call for an appointment. The room is lit in soft, yellowy light. Immediately, the wood smell hits me—intoxicating. The room is set up like a showroom floor. A rustic looking dining room table and chairs are front and center, and an ornate, hand-carved rocking chair is in the far corner. I even see a pair of wooden skis hanging on the wall, and I laugh, imagining someone on skis in the desert terrain.
“I’m back here,” I hear Christian’s voice call from an open door at the back of the room.
I walk across the pine floor, noticing all of the knotting and patterns as I move. Even the floor is a work of art.
“Oh my God,” I say as I approach. “This place is amazing.”
Moving into the open doorway, I see Christian standing there in just a pair of jeans and a face-mask, wood shavings sticking to his sweaty chest. He moves in long strides, rubbing the sanding block up and down on the top of the large flat surface in front of him.
“I’m sorry—” I shriek. “I thought you said eight.” I turn around, my cheeks shifting to a fiery red.
“I did, but I got a call rushing an order, so I thought I’d work on it until you came over,” he explains.
“Shirtless?” I can’t help my snarky tone.
“I didn’t want to get sawdust all over my shirt, so I thought I’d take it off until you got here. You always took forever getting ready.”
As I turn around, he is rubbing a towel down his washboard abs. I swallow hard. His body has changed, his shoulders and arms are broader, but his waist is trimmer. I always liked his body, but now, with the cuts just below his hips, I can see his new physique has a lot to offer as well.
“Besides, you’re engaged.” I can tell he’s making fun of me.
“Shut up. Do you need a few minutes?” I ask.
“To what?”
“Get dressed.”
“You’ve seen me in a lot less than this.” He laughs. Damn him, now I am thinking about him with less—he had the most amazingly firm ass. I always loved seeing him walk from our bed to the bathroom … naked. I shake my head and tell myself to think of something else.
“Whatever. So where are we going for dinner?” I ask, trying to think quickly, careful not to look away again. I don’t want him to think for a second that his undressed state makes me feel uncomfortable. If I’m being completely honest, I also don’t mind looking a little longer.
He grabs a nearby white t-shirt, slipping it over his head, then pulls on the same flannel he had on that morning. Clearly, it is not a date.
“There’s a great little place called Roadhouse, but it’s not in walking distance, and I’m kind of in the mood to walk.”
“Seriously? What is it about this Roadhouse place? The cab driver mentioned it, too.” I laugh.
“It’s good!”
“Can a place called Roadhouse really be that good?” I joke.
Suddenly his face shifts, and he becomes very serious. Turning, he picks something up from the chair and faces me. I watch as he places a cowboy hat on top of his head and secures it firmly into place. His glare never shifts as he says, “Why yes, Ms. New York, a place called Roadhouse can be quite delicious, and I would be careful if I were you.”
A massive amount of air blows past my lips, sending saliva flying everywhere as I cackle and ask, “Why’s that? You plan to hog tie me, buck-a-roo?”
“Hey,” Christian wails, pulling his hat off to stare at it, then back at me as if he is deeply wounded by my remarks.
“I’m sorry, you just look—” I’m not quite sure of the word I am looking for, though ridiculous has popped into my mind.
“Ruggedly handsome?” he suggests, placing the hat back on top of his head. “Why yes, I think so, too. And you better be careful, because the locals here, they take their food very seriously, and if any of them hear you badmouth Roadhouse, they’re liable to run you out of town.”
“That’s it, it’s settled. No walking. You’re taking me to this Roadhouse, so I can see it for myself,” I demand, still trying to contain my laughter from seeing him in his hat.
“Fine, truck’s out back,” Christian relents.
“Wait, did you say truck?”
“Look lady, when in Rome.”
“Clearly.” I giggle again as he walks past me.
“Get the lights on your way out,” he instructs, walking over and securing the front door. I flip the switch to the back room, which surprisingly also shut off the lights to the showroom. Suddenly, I realize I am in the dark … alone with Christian.
Lunging for
the side door I had entered through, I breathe a sigh of relief as the light from the parking area bleeds into the room.
“What’s with you?” he asks as he moves toward me, furrowing his brow.
“I’ve developed a fear of the dark,” I say, trying to sound funny, but quickly realizing I sound insane.
“All right then,” he huffs, coming to a stop and looking at me. I look back at what he’s doing. Am I supposed to say something? “Well?” he asks.
“Well what?”
“Have you developed a fear of doorways, too?”
I laugh awkwardly and step outside, breathing in the fresh air. Yup, this night is going great so far. I wait as he locks the door behind me and leads the way to his truck.
“Now, just so you know, we have a ton of whitetail deer around here, so if you’re driving at night you need to be careful.”
“Thanks, Captain Safety.”
“Fine, see if I try to help you anymore,” he snaps, but I can tell we are still joking with one another.
“Besides, I’m not really planning to do any night driving around here, so I think we’re good.” I reply.
He looks back at me before opening the passenger door of the newer gray pick up truck. “Colin said you are going to be here for a couple months.”
I climb into the oversized vehicle, and to my recollection, I had never set foot into such a beast. “I’m thinking about it, but I haven’t decided yet,” I reply through the open window after he shut the door, leaving out that he is why I am reconsidering staying.
“Oh,” Christian begins before walking around and getting into the driver’s side. He turns the key and, looking over at me, adds, “That’s odd. He made it sound like a sure thing. He said Em was super excited about helping you plan the wedding.”
“She is?” I ask, surprised by the revelation. “I wasn’t sure when we talked if it was even something she wanted to do. I was afraid I was putting too much on her with the gallery and the baby.”
“Are you kidding me? Em and her best friend’s wedding. It’s all she’s been talking about since you got engaged.” There is no pain in his voice. He isn’t hurting over me marrying someone else. I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize, in fact, this is just a friendly dinner, and I have nothing to worry about.
Except for Em. I had been so hateful to her before I left, and all she was doing was trying to look out for me. I need to remember to do something extra nice for her when I get home.
“All right, so I gotta know,” I continue. “A roadie—what were you thinking?”
Christian takes a deep breath, his eyes never shifting from where his headlights hit the road.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” I quickly add, sensing his hesitation.
“No, that’s not it,” he says. “It’s just— it’s embarrassing.”
“Christian Bennett! I’ve known you since we were kids, and you’ve never gotten embarrassed about anything. Let me guess, you did it for a girl.”
He smiles, but still says nothing.
“Oh, wait, it wasn’t a girl at all, was it? I had no clue,” I say, insinuating perhaps he is more interested in boys.
“Huh?”
“It’s cool, and it actually explains a lot about why we didn’t work out,” I continue.
“What explains a lot?” he demands.
“You became a roadie because you were trying to impress a boy,” I say, keeping a straight face. “And I want you to know, I completely support you. I think it’s very brave of you to come out and be so open about it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Christian gasps, looking back and forth between the road and my face. His expression is too much for me to handle. I burst out laughing, unable to contain it any longer.
“Something isn’t right about you,” he remarks firmly, reaffixing his gaze on the highway.
“Oh, come on.” I slug him playfully in the arm. “Since when did you become so serious? If it wasn’t for a girl, then why’d you leave New York?”
“I never said it wasn’t for a girl.”
My heart sinks. I had always assumed he left for a girl, but to have him confirm that, only a few months after I left for the European modeling job, he had already moved on, stung. I realize I’m staring at him. Don’t stare. Look anywhere but at him. Change the subject. He can’t see that this hurts. Don’t let him see.
“Do you enjoy what you do now?” I ask, before forcing myself to look away.
Christian seems to be thinking about my question. “I love it. You know that I’ve always enjoyed working with my hands. I don’t have to keep regular hours, since most of my sales are through custom orders, and when I can’t sleep, I can stay up all night working if that’s what I want to do.”
“You still have trouble sleeping?” I ask, a little surprised he had continued to be plagued by the affliction. When Christian’s parents died, he was only ten years old. He had night terrors most of his childhood, which then manifested into insomnia as an adult. Originally, that was how his drinking problem started. The alcohol helped him sleep.
When he quit drinking he would sometimes be up for days. That was when we figured out sex was a huge help. I shiver as I think about the passionate nights we used to share, ending only when exhaustion would overcome us.
“It’s gotten bad again since I stopped drinking.”
“Wait, what?” The words slip from my lips, dripping with disbelief.
“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”
“No, it’s … I didn’t …” My thought trails off, and I fall silent.
He looks at me; there is a pain in his eyes. I’ve seen it before—long ago—when he had been vulnerable enough in his youth to tell me all of the things he felt might burst from his grieving heart. It is a vulnerability I have not seen in his adulthood.
“You didn’t know,” he says more as a statement than a question. “I stopped when Olivia was born.”
“She’s ten months old.”
“I know. I’m her uncle.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just, well, Em and Colin never mentioned you stopped drinking again.”
“I’m sure they were waiting to see if it stuck.”
“Ten months is a long time. I’d say it stuck.”
“That’s how I actually discovered I could do this woodworking. I’d just moved here, determined to stop drinking, and prove myself to Colin and Em so they would be all right with me being a part of Olivia’s life. I hadn’t slept in two days, and the crazy was starting to set in. I picked up a hunk of wood in the back of the gallery, and I carved. I had no idea what I was making. I just kept going.”
“So did it help you sleep?”
Christian nodded. “It did. My shoulders were sore, and I was starving, but my body gave into the fatigue, and then I slept. I got up the next day and started all over again. I worked all day. By the end of the week I had a set of hand-carved skis.”
“Wait, are those the ones on your wall?” I laugh, remembering the oddity.
“I had no clue what I was making when I started. They just kind of took shape eventually. I hang them there to remind me to always move forward, never back.”
The hair on my arms stands up. “Wow.”
“It’s just what I do, no big deal,” he adds modestly, turning the wheel, pulling into a gravel parking lot. I resist the urge to lean over and hug him.
Leaning to one side and peering out the window, the now famous Roadhouse comes into view. An unassuming building with rust-colored exterior walls and a tin roof sits surrounded by parked cars. There is a deck area with picnic benches and tables that are over-flowing with locals.
“This place is hopping,” I comment.
“You’re going to love their portabella burger with sweet potato fries.”
“No, this is Texas. I thought everything was bigger in Texas. What happened to a huge beef patty?”
“Oh no, you’re right, everything is bigger in Texas. They’ve got
the biggest damn portabellas you’ve ever seen.”
I start laughing. As Christian gets out of the truck, a warmth falls over me. That is it, the friend I’d been missing. Not that Henry isn’t my friend, as well. Christian just knows me in a way nobody else can. No matter how many stories I tell Henry about my mom and our past, Christian saw it. He lived it with me. He was there through all the issues of my youth. I suppose most of my problems were actually my mother’s problems, or related to the vile men she would bring home. Christian never tried to fix it—the same as I couldn’t fix his parents dying. All we could do was simply be there, together. I never thought I could have that friend back, but hope is growing in me that it might be possible.
My door creaks open, and I beam a smile at him.
“What’s that goofy look for?” he quickly asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know—just having a good time.”
“Now now, Paige, you’re a promised woman, so don’t go getting a crush on me.”
“In your dreams.” I hop out of the truck.
“How’d you know?” Christian laughs.
“Know what?”
“That you’re running through my dreams every night,” he says, cracking the widest grin.
“Yeah, and I’m the one who’s not right in the head,” I reply, slugging him in the arm again.
“The punching thing,” Christian moans. “Why couldn’t that have been the one thing you grew out of?”
“Oh,” I answer thoughtfully. “I did. I just like punching you. Now can we please go eat? I’m starving.”
“You got it.” He leads the way to open the large glass door.
Once we are seated at our modest table and the food is ordered, Christian looks at me, and suddenly the tables are turned, he begins asking me the questions.
“So Henry, he seems like a … a nice guy.”
“Don’t start,” I warn, tilting my head and flashing a smile.
“What? I’m serious. He seems … nice.”
“It’s the way you say it, and you know it,” I argue.
He snickers. “All right, I’m just playing. He was your date at Em and Colin’s wedding, wasn’t he?”
“I didn’t think you noticed I was there.”
“Why would you say that?”