by BK Rivers
Me: You cannot cancel the landscape company.
A heartbeat later, the ellipsis flashes on my iPhone, letting me know he’s typing a response. When it doesn’t come and the ellipsis keep flashing, I almost give up and call him. He must be writing a novel, a simple okay doesn’t take this long to type.
Ace: Why not?
Me: I’m from Phoenix, remember?
Ace: So?
I grumble to myself as I type my response.
Me: I have no idea how to work a lawnmower. I’ll pay for the maintenance, just don’t cancel it. Let me know who I need to pay.
Ace: OK.
With that taken care of, I step inside the house, close the door, and let out a happy sigh. This place is mine, I get to live here! I would roll around on the carpet if there was any just because I could. No more pot smoking neighbors, no more sharing a wall and having to listen to a bed thumping against it in the middle of the night. It’s mine!
Jordan and Vic show up forty-five minutes later and begin bringing boxes into the house. They drop off a box, I bring it to the room I want it in, and we repeat the process until they start bringing in the furniture. I direct them to the master bedroom and where to set up my bed and dresser. They bring my old couch and drop it off in the living room and then bring in my small table and chairs. When the U-Haul is finally empty, I look up the nearest dealer and follow behind the guys in my car as we drive across Warner to drop off the truck.
On the way back to the house, we stop off and grab a couple pizzas to eat. Even though I’m hurt by Jordan wanting me out of his house, I’m grateful for his and Vic’s helping me to unpack.
Standing in the kitchen and devouring the pizza, I finally decide to find out what Jordan’s issue is with me.
“Was it really that bad having me as a temporary roommate?” I ask with a laugh, trying hard to keep eye contact with him. Vic glances at me and then to Jordan with his hand partially raised to his mouth. Suddenly I feel about an inch tall, thinking my best friend and her husband talk about me to Vic and Jemma.
“Reggie and I just needed our space,” Jordan says in between bites of pizza. “It’s nothing personal.”
Nothing personal? This just got personal. “Did I do something to piss Reggie off? Ever since I came up in July for your wedding, things have been off between her and me. It’s never been like this before.”
Jordan shrugs, shoves another bite into his mouth. “As far as I know, the two of you are fine,” he says when he finishes chewing. “You should talk to Reggie if you think something’s wrong.” Typical guy answer not making me feel any better.
After the pizza is devoured, Vic and Jordan take off and I collapse on my couch. Actually, first, I lean over the back of the couch, stretch out my arms, and pretty much hug the comfy thing. I love my couch. And I love this house, and can’t believe I get to live here. The brick fireplace makes a great focal point in the living room, and if the television sits on the secondhand dresser used for storage, it will complete the space. TV and a fireplace, you can’t get better than that.
I spend the rest of the day unpacking boxes and putting my things away. The downstairs feels cozy and fresh with my furnishings—not that I have a lot of stuff—but it looks like me and makes me happy. By the time my stomach growls, demanding food, I’m done for the day and have numerous flattened boxes scattered around the house. Grabbing a pad of paper from a drawer in the kitchen, I begin to make a list of questions I have for Ace about the house as well as a grocery and shopping list. According to the maps app on my phone, the nearest Wal-Mart is about five miles away. I should be able to purchase everything I need there, including dinner.
I shove my phone in my purse, pull the keys out, and head out the front door, locking it before walking to my car. Once inside, my phone alerts me to a text.
Ace: How did moving go? Need any help?
Me: All done. Heading to the store to grab a few things to make some dinner. I’m starving.
It’s after seven and truly I have no desire to cook, but I don’t want to drive around aimlessly looking for a place to eat. Besides, I’ll need food for breakfast.
Me: I have some questions about the house, when would be a good time to talk?
Ace: You want to meet up for dinner?
Me: Um, now? Sure. Where?
Ace texts me the name of a burger joint a couple miles from the house and I whisper up a prayer of thanks. A burger sounds perfect right now. Thank goodness for GPS because the streets in Warner are like a squiggly maze and make no sense whatsoever. Back home in Phoenix, the main roads are all straight, forming a grid pattern, and make navigating the massive city a breeze. Warner is less than half the size of Phoenix and I could easily find myself lost.
The restaurant is not much more than a small brick and glass building with an old-fashioned drive-thru in the back and a few small tables inside. I spot Ace sitting at a table near the door, offer up a smile, and tuck my hair behind my ear. He looks good in dark jeans, a faded blue v-neck t-shirt, and a pair of navy Converse shoes. He strides toward me and I find myself staring at the way the t-shirt stretches across his chest and hugs his biceps, which tease me with the hint of his tattoo. If he looks this good with clothes on, he must be a vision nude.
My cheeks heat as he approaches, tugging on his ear and ducking his head like he’s unsure what he’s doing here.
“Hi,” he says, stopping right in front of me. Citrus and rosemary invade my senses and wrap around me like a warm blanket.
“Hi, yourself.” Neither one of us moves, our eyes are locked on one another and our ragged breaths meet for a secret kiss in between us. Ace breaks eye contact only to dip his gaze to my lips, which part on their own. His hand rises near my cheek but then as if he remembers something, he steps backward, drops his hand, and turns his gaze to the food counter.
“Let’s get dinner, yeah?” He steps around me and practically runs to order his dinner.
Chapter 10
Ace
I almost kissed her. Standing in front of her, watching her chest rise and fall in sync with mine, was almost too much. Hell, it was too much. Another five seconds of standing so close to her and my lips would have found hers, and I think a part of me would have enjoyed it. And then I would have hated myself. Kind of like I hate myself right now sitting across from her at this small square table having no other place to look than right at her. Underneath the table, the tips of our shoes keep bumping into each other and we both continue to apologize after each touch.
When our food finally arrives, we focus on the fries and burgers, avoiding awkward conversation and pointed stares. Funny things happen when you concentrate on eating and don’t speak in between bites of food. For instance, my burger quickly disappears, as do Stacey’s fries. Three quarters of the way finished with her burger, Stacey wraps it in the white parchment paper and pushes it away. I finish my fries, pile my garbage into the paper basket, and sit once again staring at the girl in front of me. She picks up her soda, wraps her lips around the clear straw, and sucks up the beverage. Her eyes find mine and dip back to her cup before she places it back on the table.
“I have a lot of boxes,” she says out of the blue. Her fingertips rest on the edge of the table as though she’s hanging off the edge for dear life. Do I make her nervous? She glances up at me, her cheeks flush, and then her right hand moves from the table to the parchment paper that has sprung open from around the burger. “Is there a place I can take them and throw them away? And when is garbage day?”
She’s asking about…I shake my head, clearing the laugh trying to break free. “Tuesdays are garbage day,” I say, finding a smile on my lips. “And I’m sure you could dump the boxes in one of those large bins behind Wal-Mart or a grocery store.”
“Right, that’s what I was thinking.” Her shoulders slump as she relaxes in the chair, though I’m not sure how anyone could really feel comfortable on the hard plastic seat with the metal spindles poking into your back. “Well, t
hanks for meeting me for dinner. I should probably find Wal-Mart so I can put some food in that fridge of yours.”
My entire body tenses up at the mention of my fridge. It’s stupid, I know, but when Marley and I moved in, there wasn’t a square inch of the house we didn’t christen. Which included the doors of the fridge—more than once I had her pressed against the stainless steel surface while kissing her or nibbling on her ear. Not one room in that house was left untouched by us, which is possibly one reason I can’t go inside. Of course the real reason is the worst of them all, and I shudder at the memory. Some days I wish I could forget them, every single freaking memory of my wife. I wonder if it would be easier then.
But then I would be erasing the happy memories of her and I, and that might be even worse than reliving the bad.
“Good luck at the store, and if you need anything, just call or text.” My offer sounds genuine, but in truth, there is not much she could say or do that would make me set foot inside that house.
Twenty minutes later, I step through the front door of Ethan’s home to find him sitting on the couch with an Xbox controller in his hand and a game of Halo Reach blowing up the sound system. I pull two beers from the fridge, walk into the living room, and grab another controller before sitting on the couch. Ethan snatches a beer from my hand and restarts the game so I can join in.
There is something mind-numbing about video games. Sure, you get drawn into the beauty of the actual art in the game, but after a while you’re wholly immersed in the objectives. Killing aliens, finding new guns and ammo, along with taking control of the base becomes your life. And before you know it, it’s after midnight and both of us have to be at work early.
“You got home late,” Ethan says, turning off Halo Reach and flipping on the cable. He scrolls through the guide and settles on sports highlights. This is the other thing playing video games does: removes any and all conversation about impromptu dinners with the girl who briefly turned your world upside down in July and is now renting the house in which your wife died. His statement is meant to draw out what I did on my way home. But I really don’t know if I’m comfortable talking to him about dinner with Stacey.
“I had dinner with Stacey.” Apparently, my mouth is controlled by something other than my brain.
Ethan’s eyes nearly pop out of his head as a smile begins to take shape. “As in Stacey, Stacey? The chick you went out with twice this summer? The Stacey who is currently living in your house?”
“Nothing gets past you, does it?” I shrug my shoulders and roll my eyes in annoyance. I seriously don’t want to have this conversation with my brother-in-law.
“So, this date…how’d it go?” He leans back on the couch, resting his arms on top of the pillows.
“It wasn’t a date,” I grumble, then grab my empty beer from the coffee table, stand, and take it to the trash in the kitchen.
“Okay. How did the not-a-date go?” Ethan laughs, obviously taking great pleasure in my discomfort. Why did I decide living with him was a good idea?
“Listen, I’m glad you find this so funny. But I really don’t want to talk to you about it. It’s weird, and I don’t think talking about some chick with my dead wife’s brother is a great idea.”
That shut him up. I never joke about Marley’s death, let alone speak so bluntly about her. I’m irritated to the point of becoming angry, but for what reason? I’m the idiot who asked her to meet me for dinner and then almost kissed her. For the briefest moment, I got lost in the way her jaw curves, meeting her graceful neck, how her skin looks so soft and smooth. I found myself wanting to feel the warmth of her lips on mine, to know if they are as pillowy soft as they look.
But then I caught myself moving in to touch her cheek and stopped before it was too late. Before I did something that would fill me with guilt and regret. I have enough remorse swirling around inside me, I don’t have room for any other feelings.
“All I’m saying is it’s been five years, bro. It’s time to move on,” Ethan says. Shame burns through me at his words because, yes, on the rare occasion I do think about it. I’ve wondered what moving on would feel like and how it would affect Ethan and his parents. Being faithful to Marley’s memory hasn’t been hard, especially when you don’t give yourself the opportunity to stray.
“I’m honoring my marriage to your sister,” I argue from the kitchen. I’m standing over the sink, my hands gripping the counter with my head bent low.
“You’re honoring your marriage to a ghost,” Ethan says, suddenly standing behind me. “Marley wouldn’t want you to be miserable.”
“I’m not miserable.” I turn around and fold my arms across my chest. He doesn’t know how I feel. How it feels to be unable to save your own wife.
“Just think about it, okay? No one would think any less of you if you were to start dating again.” Ethan claps a hand on my shoulder before walking away. His bedroom door closes and I stand in the kitchen trying to determine if what he said has any merit. By the twisting in my gut and the sudden change in the tempo of my heartbeat, I’d say Ethan doesn’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
For the next hour, I spend my time in the basement lifting weights and running on the elliptical. I’m dog-tired, but unable to control the racing thoughts streaming through my head. Flashes of Marley and me making love in the living room or in the shower haunt me. How her body felt pressed up against mine, her soft settling against my hard. What we had was amazing and terrifying all at the same time. When we were good, we were great. But when it was bad…it was explosive. And I had no freaking clue how to deal with that. And by the time we started to figure it out…it was too late.
It’s been five Goddamn years and it still stings like a hot knife when I think about her. It cuts so deep that some days I wonder how she could handle the pain of what she had done.
Collapsing against the handles of the elliptical, I let the tears slide down my cheeks. I hate these tears and I hate her for leaving me. And worst of all…I hate myself for hating her.
Chapter 11
Stacey
I really love working at Julia’s bookstore. I love the scent of paper and new books and making the shelves look pretty after someone has come in the store and browsed. It doesn’t even bother me when a customer has taken a book off the shelf and set it down someplace else. It’s kind of like a scavenger hunt where the books are the prize—and who doesn’t like book prizes?
Okay, maybe I’m being a little dramatic. I do really love working here and Julia is an amazing boss. She reminds me a bit of my mom, which makes me a tiny bit homesick. But I’m good. Warner is good. I just wish it were great. Like here it is Friday night and I have no plans to go out or to do anything fun this weekend. If I were back in Phoenix, I’d be calling up Jade and Bianca and we’d be going out to the clubs tonight. A little drinking, a little dancing, and a whole lot of flirting. It would be the perfect end to a great workweek.
But nope. Other than Julia, I don’t know anyone here. And Reggie doesn’t count because she lives an hour away and is no longer single. I’m beginning to think it really sucks being the single friend.
After I tidy up the non-fiction books, I wander over to where Julia is going through new inventory and pricing the little trinkets and gifts. She’s about my mom’s age, maybe she has a daughter.
“Do you have any kids?” I ask, standing in front of Julia.
She glances up from underneath her glasses, smiles kindly, and returns to her task. “I do,” she says, placing a price tag on a small figurine. “Grady is seventeen, Chris is twenty-one, and Alisha is twenty-six.”
“Do you think Alisha would ever want to hang out with me? I don’t have many friends yet and would love to meet some new people.” I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping Julia thinks we’d get along. Yes…I still cross my fingers at twenty-seven. Julia’s fingers still over another figurine and then she shrugs.
“Alisha and I don’t talk a whole lot right now. But I could give
you her number if you wanted to call her.” Julia’s shoulders sag as she places the price tag on the trinket. I feel like I should ask her more, but the small amount of moisture around her eyes indicates the subject may be too fresh to pry. So instead, I offer to help price the new inventory and then get to work setting up displays.
Julia heads out for lunch, leaving me in control of the store. Times where I’m alone are nice, because as much as I like her, I don’t have to watch everything I do. If I want to break out into a mini dance session because an awesome song comes on the radio, then I do it. If she’s here, I make sure to keep myself in check.
So when a song I love comes on and the store is empty, I don’t hesitate to jump around and shake my stuff, letting my hair fly around me. Halfway through the song, someone clears their throat behind me and I freeze with my hands over my head and my hips cocked to one side.
“You get paid to dance like that?”
My eyes clamp shut as I cringe and slowly turn around. Ace is standing near the door wearing his uniform, looking damn tasty. I haven’t seen him dressed in his police gear yet, and I start to wonder when I developed a thing for a guy in uniform.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he says, smiling one of his rare real smiles. Those are my favorite. The ones he gives that can hardly be counted as a smile and don’t reach his eyes are painful. They’re filled with hurt and sadness, making his pale blue eyes the saddest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen.
But right now, they don’t look anywhere close to sad. In fact, if I had to guess, I’d say they hold a hint of humor with a side of hunger. As though he was enjoying watching me dance. When we danced at Reggie’s wedding in July, he surprised me with how well he moved. Actually, he blew me away. His moves were precise, steady, and sure, and made me feel desired. Ace’s hands on me were warm and held me tight to his chest, and by the end of the night, I would have gladly invited him back to my place.